by Lila Monroe
“There you are!” she says, looking relieved to see me. She’s changed into an ethereal white sundress, feet bare and her hair long and loose down her back. “I was so worried when we lost you and Wes out on the trail!”
Brooke looks up and eyes me curiously, a barely perceptible quirk of her brows making it clear she’s starting to understand my sudden and enthusiastic interest in meal prep. I think of our conversation at the coffee shop yesterday: I married him, she said, the diamond winking knowingly on her finger.
“Yeah, we got a little turned around,” I admit to Selena, leaving out the spooked horse and the half-naked river-bathing and how I barely kept myself from climbing Wes like a giant Sequoia before turning around and running for the hills like a total weirdo. “How did it go for you guys?”
“Oh, it was fine until Ryder got a bee in his bonnet about me and Ed Sheeran,” she says, waving her hand with a sigh. “I don’t know what he’s so worked up about. I mean, who hasn’t Ed written a song about, am I right?” She pops a cherry tomato into her mouth. “We should all go out tonight,” she announces.
“We?” I echo, tensing at the idea of another double date.
“You, me, and Brooke!” Selena says, sounding excited. I exhale in relief, but she pauses, like suddenly she’s not sure if we’d be into the idea: “I mean, if you guys want to. It would be fun, don’t you think? A real girls’ night?”
Brooke and I look at each other for a moment. “I mean, green juice goes pretty well with tequila,” she points out reasonably.
I grin. “Then I’m in!”
10
Katie
The three of us round up Suzie, Selena’s publicist, and head into town in search of guacamole and dancing. Brooke knows just the spot, and we wind up at a hole-in-the-wall cantina, with brightly painted walls and three-dollar tacos and frozen margaritas on tap.
In other words, heaven.
“God, I need this,” I admit. Has it only been three days since I left New York? It feels like a lifetime ago.
“Don’t worry, we’ve got you.” Selena gives me a wink and then marches up to the bar, a vision in a slinky black minidress that’s definitely more LA than Ojai. She orders a round of palomas and returns a few minutes later with the cocktails—plus a round of tequila shots for good measure. “Voila!”
I laugh, already sprinkling salt on the side of my hand. “So when you said, ‘Let’s have a girls’ night,’ you meant, ‘Let’s have a girls’ night.’ ”
“Go big or go home,” Selena says cheerfully, holding her shot glass up for a toast before knocking it back in one swallow.
I follow suit. The more time I spend with this woman, the more I like her. She’s not at all the spoiled princess I figured, just sitting around waiting for someone else to serve her. But here she is, balancing glasses like a pro. “You know, I was a waitress at Applebee’s in high school,” she announces. “Back before I started acting.”
“What? No way.” I grin.
“I was!” she insists. “I can still list all the different combinations of fried foods you can get in an appetizer tower, if you want.”
I laugh. “I’ll take your word for it. But speaking of fried foods . . .”
“Ooh.” Selena lets out a sigh of pure longing. “I can’t. Can I?” She looks around the table for our approval.
Brooke snorts. “You’re not going to hear me say no to carbs.”
“But think of the calories!” Suzie protests, looking horrified.
“You can order the salad,” I reassure her, flagging down the waitress. We put in an order of extra-spicy guacamole, which comes with a heaping pile of the thinnest, most perfectly crispy chips I’ve ever tasted. “OK, this definitely beats the burrito place on my corner back in Brooklyn,” I admit, crunching happily.
“We’ll make a West Coaster of you yet,” Brooke promises.
Suzie sits back in the booth, taking a noisy slurp of her paloma. “I like your dress,” she says to Selena. “That’s not the one Rihanna wore best, is it?”
“Oh. No,” Selena says, her smile wavering. “I retired that one.”
“Smart move,” Suzie says with a saccharine smile. “I thought you looked amazing, for the record. Even if most of America thought it was a mess.”
I blink. Is it just me, or was that some serious shade? I thought she and Selena were friends. But when I look over, Suzie is just smiling sweetly. “Oh my God, I love this song!” she squeals suddenly. “Who wants to dance?”
Brooke slams back the rest of her drink. “Let’s do it!”
We head out onto the dark, crowded dance floor. It feels good to get out of my head for a little while, just swinging my hips and shaking my hair to the beat. I try to dance off my troubles, forget about Wes waiting back at the ranch, refusing to stay in my past where he belongs.
Who needs messy ex drama? Not me! I’m doing just fine with Jose, the girls, and some more of those delicious chips . . .
Eventually the band takes a break and I head over to the bar to grab the next round. The cute bartender passes my drinks over, but shakes his head when I try to pay. “These are on me,” he says with a smoldering smile.
I pause. He’s probably recognized Selena and wants to try to hit me up for her number. “You don’t have to do that.”
“No problem,” he insists, “but would you mind doing me a favor and just standing here and talking to me for a minute?” He nods across the bar, where a group of middle-aged women are looking at him like he’s a choice cut of meat.
Which, to be fair, he is.
“Your fan club?” I ask, amused.
He winces. “They come in every week and call themselves the Cougar Coven. I think they’re plotting to use me as part of a ritual sacrifice.”
I laugh. “I mean, they’re plotting to do something with you, all right.” I smile. “I’m Katie, by the way.”
“Mark.” He sticks a hand out and we shake. “Just act like we’re buddies, will you? Safety in numbers, that kind of thing.”
I look back at the Cougar Coven, one of whom is definitely licking her red-painted lips at him. “Sure thing.”
Mark is easy to talk to, and we chat about what brought me out here. “I’m a relationship coach,” I explain, leaving out the part where I’m here to help the quick and tidy breakup of America’s most Instagrammable couple.
Mark whistles. “Uh-oh, does that mean my usual lines won’t work on you?”
I smirk. “Depends on the line.”
“Maybe you could stop by after closing, and I’ll try a few out?” Mark asks—shooting me a smoldering smile that makes it clear his pickup lines won’t be all he’s trying.
I pause. Sure, he’s fun, and hot as all hell, but the truth is, I’m not even tempted to take him up on his invitation. The only guy I can think about—the only one I want to be dancing and laughing and sharing tequila cocktails with is . . .
Ugh.
Wes.
There’s something between us, that’s for sure. And even though I know it’s a bad idea, I can’t help but want more.
So, while maybe the smart thing to do here would be flirt a little more with Mark and maybe kiss my ex right out of my mind, I just . . . can’t.
“Katie?”
I hear Brooke calling my name from across the room, giving me the perfect out. “Good luck with the cougars,” I say, leaving the bartender with a smile.
When I get back to the table, Brooke looks relieved. “I think it’s time to go,” she says, jerking her head towards Selena, whose face is red and splotchy with tears. “I just . . . love him!” she’s wailing, drunk as hell. “I can’t help it. He’s my soulmate!”
Whoops.
I grab a stack of paper napkins and quickly hand them to Selena. The table is littered with shot glasses—way more than there were a few minutes ago. “How much has she been drinking?”
“Too much,” Brooke sighs. “The line for the ladies’ room was epic, and by the time I got back . . .”
Selena blows her nose so loudly I cringe. “I just love him so much,” she wails.
I turn to Suzie. “Where were you?” I ask, wondering why the only actual publicist in our midst seems so unconcerned about the PR nightmare unfolding before our eyes.
“What was I supposed to do?” she asks with a shrug. “Wrestle her away from the bottle?”
Well, yes.
Selena is still blubbering, the napkins turning into a wet, mascara-stained ball in her clammy grip. “What am I going to do-hoo-hoooooo?” she asks, losing the end of the sentence in a sob. People are openly staring now, and I see one guy pulling a smartphone out of his pocket.
Uh-oh. We’re about ten seconds away from some major tabloid headlines—and they won’t be pretty.
“Well, the first step is definitely getting the hell out of here,” I declare, yanking some cash out of my purse and all but throwing it on the table as I hustle Selena toward the door. “Suzie, can you call us an Uber?”
“Wait, we’re going?” she asks, looking surprised. “I don’t see why we all have to leave just because Selena got sloppy.”
“She’s not sloppy,” I snap, pulling my own phone out of my pocket. “She’s upset.”
In the end, Suzie stays behind while Brooke and I load Selena into the back of a cab. Luckily, the driver very kindly pretends not to notice the superstar having a teary breakdown in his backseat, and soon, we’re back safely at the ranch—away from prying public eyes.
“Come on, babe,” Brooke says, helping me get Selena upstairs. “You’ll feel better in the morning.”
“Just as long as you hydrate,” I add.
Selena is stumbling drunk, but somehow, we manage to get her into her pajamas and tucked into her massive bed without too much incident. “I’m sorry,” she slurs as I set a glass of water and three extra-strength ibuprofen on the bedside table. “I’m a mess.”
“You’re not a mess,” I promise, pushing her hair back off her face like my mom did for me when I drank too many hard lemonades at my friend Kara’s house the night after junior prom. “You’re human, that’s all. And you’re hurting.”
I feel for her, I really do. Breakups are bad enough without all the attention and pressure that comes with being in the spotlight like she is. At least when Wes dumped me, the only person who witnessed me wallowing was April. Nobody was paying cash money for a picture of me unwashed in my pajamas, weeping into my bowl of Cap’n Crunch.
“I just wish I didn’t feel this way,” Selena hiccups.
“I know. It’ll be better in the morning.”
Brooke and I eventually leave her snoring away and head back downstairs. “Poor thing,” I sigh, letting out a yawn. “Who’d want to be famous?”
“Not me,” Brooke agrees. “I’m heading out now, you’ve got it here?”
I nod. “I have big plans, just me and a pint of rocky road.”
She laughs. “Lucky for you, I just restocked. Go crazy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I grin.
Brooke heads home, and I slip off my heels, padding barefoot into the kitchen. I open the massive freezer and—
“Jackpot!” I whoop, taking in the spread of high-end, luxe gelato. Brooke wasn’t lying, this place is stocked!
And I’m . . . maybe a little buzzed. I find a Top 40 Classics station on the radio, then happily rifle through the drawers until I find a serving spoon, hopping up on the counter so I can enjoy some me-time.
Well, me and the Backstreet Boys. “Because I definitely want it that waaaayy . . .” I warble, off key. I can’t help but let out a little moan of pleasure as I swallow the first giant bite. Damn, that’s good. And as for the second bite, and the third—
“Don’t let me interrupt.”
I turn. Wes is leaning in the doorway, watching me with an amused look on his face.
Make no mistake: back when we were dating, I would be seriously embarrassed to be caught stuffing my face and singing along with cheesy pop songs like this. Tonight, though, I couldn’t care less.
“Grab a spoon,” I say, waggling the carton in his direction. “But if you’re an N*SYNC guy, I don’t want to hear it.”
Wes grins. “I didn’t think you liked ice cream,” he says, moving closer.
“What?” I look at him like he’s lost his mind. “Who doesn’t like ice cream?”
“You don’t,” he says evenly, digging his spoon into the carton before handing it back. “At least, that’s what you told me back when we were dating. Remember, that gelato place opened up around the corner from my apartment? But you never wanted to go, said it gave you brain freeze.”
“Oh, I was full of crap,” I tell him cheerfully. And clearly, I’m still a little more buzzed than I thought, because I continue. “I was full of crap about a lot of things when we were dating, to be honest.”
“Oh yeah?” Wes asks, sounding interested. He holds his hand out for the ice cream and I pass it over. “Like what?”
I consider for a moment. “Being interested in football,” I say, ticking the list off on my fingers. “Thinking the tree in Rockefeller Center was a corny tourist trap and not super wonderful. Magically waking up with a full and un-smudged face of makeup.” I smirk. “I mean, truly, how did you not notice I was slipping out of bed at five a.m., spending twenty minutes on my face and hair, and creeping back into bed?”
“Because I’m an idiot, apparently,” Wes laughs. Then his laughter fades. “But why do all that stuff?” he asks, looking at me quizzically. “I don’t understand.”
I shrug—and now I am embarrassed, just a little. “Because I wanted you to like me,” I admit, feeling foolish. “Because you were this cool, hot guy who could have dated anyone, and I didn’t want to risk driving you away. I know, it’s stupid.” I shrug, taking another spoonful of ice cream. “But I guess I wasn’t confident enough in myself to just be honest about who I actually was. And how awesome the Backstreet Boys are,” I add with a grin.
“Well, that part is debatable,” Wes says with a smirk. “But the rest of it? I wish you had just been yourself.”
I snort. “Sure.”
“I mean it,” he says. “Back then, I never really felt like we connected. You seemed . . . I don’t know, closed off. Like you weren’t really with me, even when we were together. I’ve been trying to figure out why you’re so different now. Where was this confident, sexy, awesome person when we were dating? But I guess now I have my answer.”
Confident . . . sexy . . . what now?
I blink at him, stunned, as Wes continues. “It’s been the best part of this ridiculous job, getting to know the new you. But I guess it’s the old you, really.” He shakes his head, looking confused. “Anyway, I like her. You. A lot.”
I gulp.
Oh, this is getting dangerous. Because he can’t mean all of this.
Can he?
“I should get to bed,” I manage. I slide down off of the counter so fast, my feet don’t get the memo. I stumble, nearly losing my balance, but Wes is there to steady me.
His hands around my waist.
His eyes, temptingly blue.
His mouth . . .
No! Don’t look directly at his lips! I try to tell myself, but they’re right there: soft-looking and tantalizingly close . . .
“Why do you keep doing that?” he asks softly.
“Almost injuring myself?” I gulp, flushing all over my body. He’s still holding me.
He’s still holding me!
Wes shakes his head. “No. Running away.”
“I’m not—” I blurt, about to protest, but then I realize he’s right. I’ve been trying my hardest to avoid this guy since the moment I arrived, because . . .
Why was that again? Oh, yeah. He’s infuriating and can’t be trusted. And if I let my guard down, even for a second, I’m going to do something I regret.
Like kissing him.
It’s instinct. Impulse. At least that’s what I tell myself when suddenly, I lunge up and pre
ss my mouth against his. I didn’t plan for this, I shouldn’t be doing it . . .
But damn, does it feel good.
Wes’s body is hot against me, and suddenly, we’ve gone from zero to burning up. He pushes me back against the countertop, his mouth teasing my lips open, his tongue sliding deep into my mouth. I moan, reaching up to bring him nearer and tangle my hands in his hair.
Wow, does he have great hair.
And a great mouth, and great hands . . . which are currently sliding tighter around me, sending shivers all through my body and making me pant for more.
Did it ever feel this sexy the last time around? I wonder through the haze of lust. It’s like déjà vu, but hotter, brighter. Familiar and brand new, all at the same time. It’s like he knows exactly the right way to kiss me . . . touch me . . .
Break my heart.
I suddenly lurch back. Holy crap, what am I doing?!
This is Wes, who’s doing everything he can to undermine the biggest professional opportunity of my entire career.
This is Wes, who left me a husk of a lovelorn wreck.
“Wait. Stop,” I blurt, pulling away. I feel dizzy, like I downed another tequila shot when I wasn’t paying attention.
“Katie—”
“I’m sorry. This was . . . I have no idea what this was!” I gulp, backing away from him. “I . . .. have to go!”
I turn and escape out the back door, bolting away from him until I’m halfway across the property and safely inside my guesthouse.
I lock the door and shove the safety bolt over, too. Not because I’m scared of anything lurking outside. No, I’m the one who can’t be trusted right now, not when my entire body is hot and buzzing, and I want him so badly I could scream.
I head straight for the bathroom and turn on the shower. Ice cold.
It’s going to be a looong night.
Alone.
11
Katie
