by Lila Monroe
Ryder nods resolutely. “I will,” he promises, looking so sincere, I have to sigh. Sure, he’s young and dumb and rich, but he’s kind of like a golden retriever puppy—with hot-guy privilege.
“Go on back to the house,” I tell Ryder. “I know Selena would love it if you helped pick a wedding song.”
His lip curls. “Do I have to?”
I give him a look.
“Right. Selena. What she wants. Will do!”
He jogs off, and I continue on my own quest for the night—which hopefully won’t involve listening to The Black Eyed Peas’ entire back catalog. I’m running late by the time I finally arrive, breathless, at the gazebo.
“Wes?” I call softly, and he steps out of the shadows, looking relieved.
“There you are,” he says. “I wondered if maybe you got cold feet.”
“Just waylaid,” I reassure him. Then I look around and my jaw drops. “Oh, wow.”
He’s set up a beautiful picnic under the light-strung pergola, complete with wine and cheese and a vintage quilt for us to sit on. “You did all this yourself?”
“I mean, Brooke helped with the food,” he admits with a grin. “I’m not much of a baker.”
“Don’t be so modest,” I laugh. “I distinctly remember you coming home drunk one night in New York and making some magic with a tube of Pillsbury.”
“That’s true,” he grins. “And you should see what I can do with a package of crescent rolls.”
“Make pigs in a blanket?” I guess.
“Exactly.”
I laugh, taking a seat and getting comfy as Wes pulls all kinds of delicious snacks out of the basket. A hot guy, plus amazing food? This is my kind of dream date.
I fill him in on Ryder’s performance as we dig into the spread of homemade fried chicken and buttery biscuits so soft, I could weep. “I’ll say one thing for that guy,” Wes says, “he’s definitely in the right line of work.” He pulls the bottle of wine out of the cooler, motioning at my glass. “More?”
“Sure,” I say with a smile. “That’s my favorite Sauvignon Blanc, actually.”
“I remember,” Wes says. Then, off my surprised expression: “I figured you wouldn’t lie about that when we were together.”
“I’m surprised you remembered.”
“I remember a lot of things about you,” he replies, his voice turning more serious. He pauses. “Don’t you feel like we lost so much time?” he asks, meeting my gaze. “Like, if I hadn’t been such an idiot and taken off like that, we could have spent the last few years . . .”
I shake my head. “It doesn’t work like that,” I say wryly. “Not to sound like a cheesy motivational coach but . . . Everything that happened is what got us here, you know? I mean, just remember what we were actually like last time around,” I add, giving him a pointed look. “You were busy being a casual playboy type, and me . . . Well, I wasn’t secure enough in my own skin to even tell you what movies I liked! If we hadn’t grown up and figured out our own crap, I don’t think any of this would be happening right now.”
Wes’s gaze turns hotter. “And what is happening right now?”
I pause, my stomach skipping over again with anticipation and nerves. Just being with him, I feel happier. Freer. Sexier. I don’t know what to call it, exactly. But I haven’t felt anything like it in a long time.
“I don’t know,” I say finally. “But I’d like to find out.”
Wes smiles. “I would, too.”
Eventually, we pack up the picnic and head back to his cottage. We don’t really talk, just walk hand in hand, with the night murmurs from the crickets audible over the breeze. My heartbeat is pounding as my anticipation grows. Everything about tonight has been perfect, and I can’t help the emotions fluttering in my chest. This is something real now, something special, and I can tell that Wes feels the same.
When we reach his place, he doesn’t even turn the lights on, just closes the door behind us and gently pushes me back against the wall. His skin is pale in the moonlight, and everything feels hushed and intense. He takes his time undressing me: slowly untying the bow at the nape of my neck so my dress falls in a heavy pool of fabric around my feet, then unhooking my bra and tugging my panties down my legs until I’m completely naked in front of him. “You’re beautiful,” he says, his voice thick with an aching desire. “You’ve always been so, so beautiful.”
I blush, ducking my head even as the skin all over my body prickles with delicious anticipation. “This feels . . . unfair,” I tell him, plucking at his shirt, but Wes just smiles.
“What if I promise to make it worth your while?” he asks.
I trail my fingers along my collarbone, pretend to be thinking about it. “How worth my while, exactly?”
Wes grins.
He lays me down on my stomach and kisses his way up my body: from the backs of my calves to the dips behind my knees, over my tailbone and up each individual bump in my spine. It’s simultaneously so relaxing and so arousing that by the time he gets to the nape of my neck, sucking lightly at the skin beneath my hairline, I don’t know whether to yank his jeans and boxers off or melt into the mattress and pass out.
Then he flips me over in one smooth motion, and I’ve never thought less about sleep in my entire life.
We work together to pull his clothes off, his shirt making a whispering sound as it hits the floor. Wes lets out a quiet groan as I graze my nails over his back, teasing him until he finally reaches for a condom and settles between my thighs. I close my eyes as he sinks deep inside me, gasping at the perfect feel of him, right there where I need him the most.
It doesn’t take me long to come apart, the rhythm of his thrusts and the thickness of his cock and the weight of his body on top of me, the feeling of him covering me everywhere at once. Back when we were together, I remember trying to keep quiet during sex, to be a lady, not to take up too much space, but this time—
This time, I let it all out. Gasping, moaning, urging him on—right there—until I can’t hold back anymore. I shatter, calling out his name, clutching him as he thrusts again, and again, and then finally comes into me with a ragged groan.
“Katie . . .”
We lie there together, sweat cooling on our bodies and the faint cry of an owl just audible through the open window.
“So,” he murmurs finally, and I can feel the curve of his smile against my temple. “Worth your while, or . . . ?”
I laugh, feeling invincible.
“Definitely worth it,” I agree. And it is. Because I’m falling in love with this guy all over again, and this time, it’s for real. Not infatuated, not worried or insecure. Just us.
And it feels great.
17
Wes
The next couple of days pass by in a blur, wedding prep shifting into high gear as my phone rings endlessly with breathless calls from the studio about the big day. Tripp is thrilled about the wedding; it’s everything he wants for publicity for the movie, and he’s even talked Ryder and Selena into walking down the aisle to “My Heart Will Go On”—the Katy Perry remix they’re using as the theme to the movie.
It’s all white noise to me, because I’ve got bigger—and sexier—things on my mind. Katie and I are taking advantage of every opportunity to sneak off into darkened corners and be alone. We make a game of it, the two of us meeting up to fool around in the pantry, the media room—and once, memorably, in the pool just before sunrise. I can’t get enough of her: her scent, her hair, the spray of tiny, sand-colored freckles between her shoulder blades. I’ve never felt like this before. It’s not just that I like her—that I more than like her, potentially. It’s that I like myself when I’m with her.
I’m exactly the guy I always wanted to be. She just brings it out of me, makes everything feel simple.
Feel true.
A couple of days before the wedding, the studio throws a massive party for Selena and Ryder, an “intimate” two-hundred-person affair at a swanky restaurant in Ojai
with an enormous patio and the most extravagant raw bar I’ve ever laid eyes on. The smell of tropical flowers hangs faintly in the air. The evening sky is a clear, velvety blue, a handful of pinprick stars just visible high above the chattering crowd of A-listers in their expensive suits and cocktail dresses, but I’m only looking for one woman.
Help: I’m stuck discussing bikini waxers with Selena’s BFFs! she texts me as I fight my way through the crush at the bar.
What’s the verdict?
Apparently, Australians are the new Russians.
I grin. I’ll get you another drink, I promise, and I’ve just ordered when Tripp comes up behind me and slings a beefy arm around my shoulders, squeezing hard enough that I wince.
“This one’s on me,” he says grandly, nodding at our drinks. I’m not sure if he’s kidding or not—it’s an open bar—but before I can say anything, he continues. “I’ll be honest, kiddo. I didn’t think you were going to pull it off. Frankly, I was all ready to humiliate you in front of your friends and colleagues and send you tottering off to the unemployment office without two dimes to rub together. And believe you me, I wouldn’t have given it a second thought!” He laughs merrily, clinks his glass against mine. “But thanks to you, we’ll be able to ride this gravy train all the way to Oscar season.”
I blink. “I don’t really think I did that much,” I say finally. I’m glad to have my job, obviously, and relieved not to be—how did he put it?—“tottering off to unemployment,” but the truth is, Tripp is at least the seventh person to say something to me since I walked in the door. I’m not exactly comfortable with the idea of everyone treating me like some puppetmaster who tricked Ryder and Selena into getting married specifically so that a bunch of middle-aged fat cats could make millions of dollars. “They made their own choice. I’m just happy they’re happy, you know?”
Tripp rolls his eyes, like I’m being too modest. “Take the win, would you?” he asks, thumping me between the shoulder blades. “We’ll remember this when it comes time for bonuses.”
“Uh,” I say. “Thanks.” As vaguely squeamish as the whole thing makes me, I can’t deny the fact that I could use the help with my law school debt. Hell, maybe I could even put a down payment on a house of my own—nothing crazy, just something with a yard and little bit of privacy, the kind of place where I could settle down and start a family.
I startle at the thought of it. Is that what I want, even? To settle down and start a family?
Holy crap, I think I might want to settle down and start a family.
I push the thought out of my head and say my goodbyes to Tripp. I spy Jackson out on the patio and head in his direction. When I reach him, he’s actually got a smile on his face for the first time in a year. “Is it actually possible that this whole thing isn’t actually going to crash and burn?” he asks, greeting me happily.
I raise my eyebrows. “This being the movie, you mean? Or this being the marriage?”
“Either,” Jackson says cheerfully. It’s possible he’s already a little drunk. “Or both!”
“Either or both,” I echo with a grin. “I mean, I’m as surprised as you are. But it’s definitely looking like we might get out with our junk intact.”
“To our junk,” Jackson says, raising his beer bottle and clinking it against my glass before looking over my shoulder and smirking. “And to your lady over there.”
I turn around and follow his gaze. Katie is standing at the other end of the patio chatting with Selena, a glass of wine in her hand. She looks luminous in an emerald green dress, her hair loose around her shoulders. Damn. Still, even though I kind of want to take out an ad in Variety announcing just how deep I’m in it—even though I’m thinking about freakin’ real estate, imagining kids with her laugh and her brains and her eyelashes—so far neither one of us has told anyone what’s going on.
“We’re friends, that’s all,” I manage, and Jackson makes a big show of rolling his eyes.
“Uh-huh,” he says, downing the rest of his beer in one long gulp. “Whatever you say.” Then his head snaps around. “Damn, is that Gosling?” He sets his empty bottle on the tray of a nearby server and offers me a goodbye salute. “Catch you later, bro.”
Once he’s gone, I manage to catch Katie’s eye across the patio, watching as she lays a hand on Selena’s arm and murmurs something before weaving through the crowd. “Oh, hey,” she says with a grin. “Come here often?”
“Oh, you know,” I tell her, passing her a fresh drink. “I like to watch the gossip pages, try and figure out which parties are most likely to have the most free shrimp.” Then I lower my voice. “Any chance I can convince you to ditch this little soiree and meet me somewhere a little more private?”
Katie gives an innocent smile, looking for all the world like a person who didn’t yank my pants off in the horse stable at the ranch not six hours ago. “Nice try,” she says, though I can tell she’s secretly considering it. Sure enough: “What did you have in mind?”
I’m about to tell her in exquisite detail when someone clinks a knife against a glass, and we all find our seats at the banquet tables. Selena stands up. “I just wanted to take a minute to say thank you to the studio for throwing us such an incredible party,” she says, beaming. “And to all of you for coming. Ryder and I feel so incredibly lucky to have you all here with us tonight.”
The speeches go on as the salads are served, with a couple of Selena’s old costars giving giggly toasts and Ryder reciting what I’m pretty sure are the lyrics to “Hey There Delilah.” Even Tripp gets up and says a few words. I drop a hand on Katie’s knee under the table as he’s talking, squeezing once before drawing delicate circles with one finger. But if I’m looking for a reaction, I don’t get one; Katie just gives me a cheeky smile and reaches for her wine glass, cool as a cucumber.
Well, OK, then. Challenge accepted.
I slide my palm from her knee to her lower thigh, then higher, careful to act like Tripp’s speech—which is well into minute seven by now—is the most fascinating thing I’ve ever heard. Katie’s doing an admirable job of keeping her face neutral, I have to admit, but finally she puts a hand on my wrist. “You need to stop,” she murmurs, quiet enough so only I can hear her.
I raise my eyebrows, wicked. “Not into it?”
“Too into it,” she says, swallowing hard. Her cheeks are flushed pink in the moonlight, and I know it’s not just from the wine. “Another second and everybody in this restaurant is going to know exactly what you’re up to.”
Part of me wants to call her bluff, to push her over the edge and watch her try to keep quiet, but in the end, I only trail my hand back down her thigh and squeeze her knee one more time. “Later,” I promise, then I push my chair back and head to the men’s room to splash some water on my face. She’s not the only one who’s worked up.
I’ve barely gotten in the door and over to the sink when I hear a loud, telltale moan coming from one of the stalls. I freeze for half a second where I’m standing, then immediately turn on my heels—far be it from me to interrupt some groomsman’s big night. I’ve almost made it to the door when all at once the stall bursts open and Ryder stumbles through it, zipping up his dress pants as he goes.
Only it’s not Selena who tumbles out after him.
It’s Suzie.
I freeze while Suzie ducks past me and slips back out into the restaurant. Ryder shoots me a shit-eating grin. “Hey, dude,” he says, heading for the sink. At least he has the decency to wash his hands.
“What the fuck?” I ask, furious. “What do you think you’re doing?”
He shakes his head, still smiling. “Relax, bro. We’re all good.”
“Relax?” I shake my head, sputtering. “It’s your engagement party, Ryder. There are two hundred people out there, including your fiancée. You’re supposed to be getting married in three days!”
“And that’s exactly what I’m going to do,” Ryder says casually. “Don’t worry about it.” His eyes narrow, ju
st the slightest bit. “You’ll get paid.”
“Are you serious?” My heart is pounding. “I don’t care if I get paid, Ryder. You can’t just—”
“I can, actually,” he says, winking at me with the confidence of a guy who thinks he’s entitled to whatever he wants, whenever he wants it, regardless of who else gets hurt. “Take it easy, bro.”
“I’m not your bro,” I snap. “And you need to tell Selena, or I’m going to.”
Ryder’s face twists in an ugly scowl. “I don’t think you will, actually,” he drawls. “You think I don’t realize what you’ve been doing, trying to keep us together? The studio’s shitting bricks about that movie, and they sent you to keep us playing nice. Well, congrats, you got what you wanted.”
“I didn’t want this.” I glare at him.
“Tough shit.” He shrugs. “Are you really going to be the one to bring all this crashing down? Look, I love Selena. But life is too short, you feel me? And I’m going to go ahead and bet that you don’t want to be the one who’s responsible for breaking the hearts of all those people out there.” He shrugs, good-natured. “Don’t miss out on the raw bar, yeah? More shrimp than you’ve ever seen.”
And with that, he brushes past me and saunters back out into the dining room, leaving me speechless—and screwed.
What the fuck am I going to do?
18
Katie
The next week is a brightly colored blur of wedding prep: dress fittings and appetizer tastings and emergency calls with the florist, plus a day trip into LA for deep-tissue massages, seaweed hair masks, and a vampire facial. “I’m sorry, a what now?” I ask, thinking for sure I heard wrong.
“We take the blood, spin the platelets, then inject it back into the face,” the tech explains pleasantly. She’s incredibly pale, with long jet-black hair and the kind of deep red lips that make me wonder if injecting it back into the face isn’t all she’s doing with the blood of unsuspecting Hollywood starlets.
