Tempt Me (Jamie & Ryan: Stark International Novella #3.71)

by J. Kenner

  Escape my thoughts. My fears.

  Escape the fact that I hurt Ryan.

  Escape the little bubble of anger that rises up every time I think about how he’s laying this all on me. He’s not even giving me time. I told him about the bombshell my parents dropped—and he knows how much the thought of marriage has always freaked me out—and even so he’s demanding a decision right now. This very second. He’s not even willing to just hang with the status quo for just a little bit longer.

  But even that’s not really what has me knotted up inside. Do I want more time? Sure. Do I wish that Ryan had cuddled me close instead of pushing me away? Absolutely. Am I totally annoyed with him because of that? Hell, yeah.

  Mostly, though, I’m mad at myself.

  And that’s why I’ve been sleeping. So that I can escape that horrible, insecure part of me that refuses to say yes when I so desperately want to. Because I do want to. I want the happily ever after. I want it with Ryan.

  But I don’t know how to get there. How to get past this icy, debilitating fear. I want to—oh, dear god, I want to—but haven’t got a clue how to push through, and every time I try, the cloying fear of failure and pain and loss pushes me back down all over again. I know it’s stupid. I know it makes no sense. And know I should just be able to buck up and push past, and yet I can’t.

  I. Just. Can’t.

  And so I’d slept. I’d slid away into dreamland. Into a place where I didn’t have to think or feel or do.

  I’d run away—from Ryan, from myself.

  And I hate myself for it.

  Before I’d fallen into oblivion, I’d called Nikki. She hadn’t answered, and I hadn’t left a message. Now I check my phone, just in case she’s called me back.

  Or in case Ryan has called.

  But there are no messages, and so I push myself upright in the bed, swing my feet off the side, and then just bend over and breathe.

  I’m sitting like that—trying to decide whether I should get up to eat, go take a shower, or just fall back asleep in bed.

  I’m still debating when my phone rings and I snatch it up, not even bothering to look at the screen. “Nikki?”

  “Um, no. It’s Moira.”

  “Oh.” I cringe because until now I hadn’t thought about how bitchy it was for me to just walk out. “Listen, I’m really sorry I bailed on you. I didn’t—”

  “It’s okay,” she says. “Really. I just—oh, hell, I just wanted to call and say that I don’t know what exactly happened between you and Ryan, but you guys are great together, so I really hope you can fix it.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “I—I hope so, too.” That’s probably the truest thing I’ve ever said, even though I don’t know if we’ll ever manage. Because fixing it means fixing me. And I don’t know how to do that.

  “And, well, I hope you’re still coming to Mom’s birthday dinner. I don’t think Ryan’s said anything to her about well, there being trouble between you guys. And I know she’d really love to see you, and—”

  “I don’t know, Moira,” I say. “I just—”

  She cuts me off with, “If you haven’t talked to him since Chicago, you should.”

  “I haven’t,” I admit. “I’ve been—well, honestly, mostly I’ve been sleeping. Oh, Christ, Moira,” I continue, because I’m full up and it’s all just beating against me, and I have to get it out and tell someone. “I’m scared. And I don’t know what to do. And I love him, but—”

  “Then come,” she says gently. “Come be part of the family.”

  “I’ll think about it,” I promise. And I will. I’ll think about how awkward it will be. And I’ll think about how much I want Ryan, a man who’s given me an ultimatum that I can’t meet. And I think that dinner will be torture, and how the hell can I do that to myself?

  So I’ll think about it...but I know damn well I won’t go.

  I’m still thinking about it Thursday morning as I sit in make-up before my morning slot at the anchor desk. And I’m still thinking about it after we go off the air and my producer tells me I look distracted.

  “I’ve caught a bug,” I lie. “It’ll pass.”

  She frowns. “Look, just take Friday off. You’re already off this weekend, anyway.”

  “You’re sure?”

  She nods. “Nothing personal, Jamie, but you look like hell. Go get some rest and come back next week healthy, okay?”

  “Thanks,” I say, not feeling the slightest bit guilty that I’m getting out of work by claiming I’m sick. I am, after all. I’m love sick...

  I’m in my car heading home when Nikki calls me. “I saw that you’d called, but you didn’t leave a message,” she says after I’ve connected the call through the car’s speaker system. “At first I thought maybe you accidentally called me, but I know you, James. And you haven’t called or texted since I saw you on Sunday.”

  “Um, so?”

  “So we haven’t gone that long without talking to each other since high school. Something’s wrong. Something you don’t want to tell me. So tell.”

  I grimace. “Best friends can be a pain in the ass.”

  “You’re welcome,” she says, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I laugh.

  I tell her to hold on while I get on the freeway, and then I tell her everything. Not just because she asked—and not just because I know she won’t stop bugging me until I do—but because I have to talk it out with somebody.

  “I can’t go to Mrs. Hunter’s birthday dinner,” I say after I’m done laying it all out. “It’s not fair to Ryan. And, well, I think it’ll hurt too much to see him and then walk away again.”

  “Maybe that means you shouldn’t walk away,” she says gently.

  “I’m not walking,” I say stubbornly. “He’s pushing.”

  She doesn’t say anything. But that’s okay. I speak fluent silence. So I understand exactly what she’s saying.

  Hell, I even know she’s right.

  I sigh. “It’s just that I—”

  I cut myself off. Just that I what? Don’t really love him? That’s not true at all. That I’m terrified? That’s closer to the truth, but still not all of it. Because terrified of what? That he doesn’t really love me?

  No, I’m certain he does.

  That he’ll change his mind and stop pushing on the marriage front?

  I frown, but that’s not it either. It’s close, though, because the one thing I am sure of is that my parents’ separation is fueling this dark hole inside my gut. But knowing the cause doesn’t mean I know the solution.

  I tap the brake and exit the freeway, then tell Nikki that I have to go.

  “Okay,” she says. “But call me if you need to.”

  I assure her I will. Frankly, I hope that I do need to call her. At least that might mean that I need help moving forward. Right now, all I’m doing is floundering. And I can manage that all on my own.

  When I get home, I glance at my phone to check any texts that came in while I was talking to Nikki. There’s only one, and it’s from Moira with the time and place of her mother’s birthday dinner. She says she can’t wait to see you, Moira has added, and I frown at those words, wondering if Mrs. Hunter really said that, or if Moira is doing her own brand of manipulation.

  If it’s really Mrs. Hunter—whom I adore—I hate to disappoint her. But at the same time, it’s Ryan who I want to hear from. Ryan who I want telling me to come to the dinner.

  I don’t understand how two people who are so close can now be so far apart, and I can’t deny that I’m afraid. Because what had started with the vibe of a fight now has the putrid scent of forever.

  And forever’s not a place I can go without Ryan at my side.

  * * * *

  Vault is a new Culver City restaurant that is the latest dining hotspot. The chef is supposedly a genius, and the building itself is fun because it used to be an old bank, and many of the bank-type fixtures still remain.

  For example, customers can actually reserve t
he old vault and have a private dinner inside the room, now decorated with art that sports a monetary theme.

  That’s the room that the hostess leads me to when I ask for the Hunter party, and as I stand by the safe-style door and look at the huge steel cylinders that form the now-defunct locking mechanism, I can’t help but think that if I go into that room, there will be no way out.

  I wonder if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

  My nerves are jangling, and I’m actually considering turning around and leaving when Ryan looks up from where he’s standing by his mother. His eyes land on me, and I freeze—I just literally freeze in place. I try to read his expression, but there’s nothing on his face. Not joy, not anger, not irritation, not indifference. It’s as if I’m nothing, and my heart squeezes painfully at the realization that this is how it could be. That I could actually end up being nothing to this man.

  Could I? Even if I walked away, could I ever truly not be a part of him? Because I know damn well that he will always be a part of me.

  I’m still staring—my heart twisting at his nonchalance—when his lips curve into a slow smile and I see a spark of something I think is relief in his eyes.

  His lips move, and I smile at the simple, silent greeting as he mouths a single word—Hi.

  It’s a truce, and I accept it gratefully. I enter the room, expecting him to come to me, but it’s Moira who is at my side first, though Ryan joins a moment later and pulls my chair out for me.

  It’s just the four of us—me, Ryan, Moira, and Mrs. Hunter—so the meal is intimate. And though Ryan sits next to me, he never touches me during the meal. I’m not sure if Mrs. Hunter notices. Or at least I’m not sure until Ryan excuses himself for the men’s room.

  “Now then,” she says, peering at me. “What’s going on with you and my son? Are you two okay?”

  Moira props her elbows on the table and leans forward.

  And with both of them looking so earnestly at me, I can’t fight the tears that spring immediately to my eyes. “Honestly, Mrs. Hunter, I don’t know.”

  “Angela,” she says. “Haven’t I told you to call me Angela?”

  “Angela,” I say gratefully, and a sweet warmth fills me simply from the thought that I’m part of this family, even if only for a moment.

  “I won’t ask why—he’ll be back soon. But I will say that he loves you. Whatever else is going on between you, if you love him too, then you’ll get back where you need to be. Trust me.”

  “Thanks.” I catch Moira’s eyes, and see that she’s nodding, too. “Thanks to both of you.”

  Ryan steps back into the vault. “What are you thanking them for?”

  “For letting me be here tonight,” I say. “Thank you, too.”

  For just a second, I think he’s going to not respond at all. Then he says, very softly, “Tonight, this is right where you belong.”

  I cling to those words, and for the rest of the meal and dessert, the conversation flows easier. And when Ryan’s hand brushes mine as we both reach for the fudge sauce at the same time, I feel a shock of awareness cut through me. But when his eyes meet mine, all I feel is loss. Because tonight I’m going home alone, even though what I want is to be in Ryan’s arms.

  I know I could make that happen right now—all I have to do is say that I want to marry him. But when I let my thoughts linger on those simple words, my chest tightens, and suddenly I’m having a hard time breathing.

  “Jamie?” Ryan’s hand is on my shoulder. “Are you okay?”

  I nod, wishing he wasn’t touching me because it’s so damn distracting—and at the same time wishing he’d never let go. “I’m fine,” I lie. “My wine went down wrong.”

  I manage to keep a smile on my face for the short duration of the meal after that, then I stand and make my excuses, telling them I’m sure they want some family time alone.

  I step out of the vault, and as I pause to make sure my phone is in my purse, Ryan joins me. “I’m glad you came,” he says, taking my arm and pulling me aside. It’s not an embrace, but I wish it were. I want him to hold me. To let me use his strength to get past this muck in my head.

  I want to tell him as much, but somehow I can’t find the words. Instead, I say, “I’m glad I came, too. Angela’s great. Your whole family is,” I add, thinking of Moira.

  “I adore all of the women in my life,” he says. “I’d do anything for them.” He’s looking at me as he says it, and my heart flutters in my chest. But I’m not sure if he’s including me in that group, or if the hint of meaning I hear in his voice is nothing more than my imagination.

  I shake my head as I frown, trying to clear my thoughts.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine,” I say, though it’s not true. Our rhythm is off, and it’s scaring me. We’ve always been in sync, even before we were dating. And now—well, now it almost feels like he’s deliberately keeping me off balance.

  I want to get back to normal, and I don’t know the path, and my lack of confidence is frustrating me.

  “Are you heading home?” Ryan asks.

  I shake my head. “Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t decided. You?”

  “Moira and I are taking Mom back to the hotel.”

  I wait for him to invite me along, and when he doesn’t, I say, “It’ll be nice for you guys to have time to chat in the car. But she usually crashes early, doesn’t she?”

  “Usually. Why?”

  “Oh. Um.” I lick my lips. “Because I was wondering if you wanted to meet me somewhere. We could get a drink. We could talk.”

  “Talk,” he repeats. He meets my eyes, and I see the question in them—have I changed my mind? Am I going to say yes?

  I glance down at the floor.

  “Talk,” he repeats. “No, I’m sorry. I can’t do that.”

  I look up, frustrated. “But, Ryan, I just—”

  “I have plans. I’m going to Westerfield’s.”

  “Oh.” Westerfield’s is one of the hottest clubs in town. It’s also a Stark property, which means when Ryan goes he gets the full VIP treatment. Something that never fails to snag the attention of the female patrons. Most of whom are usually drunk. And wearing outfits that are barely big enough to keep a Barbie doll modest.

  “Oh,” I repeat.

  I wait for him to suggest I join him there, but all he says is, “It really was great that you came.” Then the bastard leans in and kisses my cheek. He kisses my fucking cheek.

  And all that muck in my head starts churning, and all the anger and frustration I’m feeling toward myself comes spewing out—and, naturally, Ryan gets the brunt of my wrath.

  “You’re going clubbing?” I snap, pulling back to look at his face. “You’re bussing my cheek? I thought I was the woman you loved? I thought you wanted to marry me. I hesitate for five seconds and suddenly you’re over me?”

  We’re standing half-in and half-out of the vault. Inside that private room, Moira and Angela are trying very hard to pretend they aren’t listening. In the main area, no one’s pretending at all. They’re gaping and enjoying the show.

  “You are the woman I love, and I do want to marry you. But you’ve made it clear you don’t want that. This is the world where we aren’t together, Jamie. Did you think you could have it both ways?”

  A ball of red rage bubbles inside me, and instead of spilling out of my mouth in a string of curses, it comes out in my hand—and I slap the shit out of him. “It’s been two days. Two days. And I love you, you bastard. Think about that while you’re playing these goddamn games.”

  And with that, I turn away from him, hike my purse strap more firmly on my shoulder, and storm out of the restaurant, a string of curses running like mutilated pearls through my head.

  Goddamn him. Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn him.

  And while I’m at it, goddamn me. Because maybe he is playing games. But maybe he’s not.

  Maybe this is all on me. Maybe I’m the one playing the game, and he’s just changed the rules around
to suit him.

  I’m crying as I head home, but home isn’t where I want to be. I pace. I drink. I pace some more.

  But the wine doesn’t taste good, and the back and forth motion across my floor isn’t doing a damn thing for my temper.

  Finally, I sit down at my kitchen table, press speed dial on my phone, and listen to the ringing at the other end of the line.

  He answers on the third ring. “Jamie?”

  I draw in a breath and realize tears are streaming down my face. “Daddy?”

  “Oh, baby. I’m sorry—I should have called you, but I’ve been in such a state.”

  “A state,” I repeat, my voice heavy with sarcasm. “What state are you in? Mom’s in Hawaii.”

  He sighs. Loudly.

  “Dammit, Daddy. What happened? Are you—I mean, are you having an affair?”

  “No,” he says, and I sag with relief. “Nothing really happened until your mother and I officially split.”

  Oh god.

  “You’re telling me there really is someone else?”

  “Jamie, sweetie, I know this is hard—”

  “Hard? You guys love each other. You practically worship each other. You—” I close my eyes and my mouth and try to regroup. “What the hell happened?”

  “I don’t know,” he says, and though I don’t like the answer, I think it’s honest. There’s a note of quiet resilience in his voice. As if he’s come to terms with something unpleasant that he doesn’t understand, but knows just simply is. “I think it’s been happening for a long time. I think...well, I think somewhere along the way we took each other for granted. We assumed we knew the score, and we just stopped talking.”

  “But...” I trail off because I don’t know what to say. I was expecting him to dodge my questions. Instead, he’s given me honesty.

  “So is this a forever thing? Do you think you’ll get back together? Do you still love her?”

  There’s a pause, and then he says gently, “We’ll just have to see, won’t we? Wouldn’t be worth living this life if I knew exactly where it was going, now would it?”

  I blink and spill more fat tears down my cheeks. “That’s what you used to say when I was a little girl.”