“Will I …” Be brave. “Will I see you again?”
Tate’s eyes widen. “Are you kidding?”
I slap at his arm. “Seriously, don’t screw with me.”
“C’mere.” He wraps warm arms around me and pulls me to his chest, kissing the top of my head. “Just you try and get rid of me now.”
My heart swells. I can’t believe he feels this way, too. Now that I’ve let him hold me, I don't know that I ever want to stop feeling safe in his arms.
“Tate?”
We spring apart faster than a livewire. I glance around him. Janie walks into the clearing, her hands on her hips. Her belly is even more prominent than usual in her tight exercise pants.
“What’s all …” Her voice trails off as her gaze flicks from Tate to me then back again.
“It’s not what you think.” Tate smiles his usual cock-sure smile, stepping toward his sister. “I couldn't sleep last night, so I borrowed the projector from the local bar and watched some movies. Madison here just stumbled upon me on her morning walk.”
I nod, swallowing down the slight sting at being just a dirty little secret. “He fell asleep.” Not entirely a lie.
Just mostly one.
“Right.” Janie frowns. Her scrutinising eyes look at my maxi dress, and I gulp then try to act confident, as if I wear things like this on my morning walks all the time. “Anyway, Tate, we have some things to run through. Your shoot schedule has been mixed up due to yesterday’s scene stuff-ups, so we have a redo.”
“I’ll see you guys later.” I wave, and Janie smiles and waves back. Tate steps toward me, then stops, his lips pressed together.
“See ya,” he finally says. He turns so his back is to his sister, and mouths call me.
As I walk back to the resort, the stupidest of all stupid grins is plastered across my face.
Call me.
He wants me to call him.
And so I do just that.
Chapter Thirty
Tate
The next week is a blur. Sneaking Madison in through the service elevator. Sex. Shoots. Sex. Talking. Sex. Hanging out.
Each day I see more and more of Madison. And when I don't see her, I’m thinking about her. Her incredible body. Her laugh. Her smile … that smile that gets me every time.
“Tate! Come back to me, buddy.”
“Sorry.” I turn my attention to the computer screen and the two watchful sets of eyes studying me. “What’d you say?”
Bill sighs. “We were just talking about your endorsements. I’m finding it hard to get solid interest until the movie’s release, but in the short-term, I have a coffee company who might be interested? The ads would run O/S only, so you wouldn't need to worry too much about your branding here. Same MO as Global Films, though; they’re a Christian mob, so you gotta keep that nose clean.”
“It’s squeaky.” I smile. “Why can’t you find me something with less strings attached, though? Why does it have to be such a moral thing?”
Marty sighs. “Kid, you’re not bad enough for the bad asses, and the good guy slots with no strings attached go to the Brad Pitts and Ryan Reynolds of the world. Wait till Tropical Love becomes a box-office hit. Then, the world will be your oyster.”
“Got it.”
My phone vibrates against the coffee table, and I grab it, hoping it’s Madison again.
It’s not.
It’s the man I hate the most.
Change of plans. Need cash in two weeks.
I clench my fists and tap out a reply.
We had a deal. One months’ time.
“Tate?” Marty asks, and I plaster a fake smile on my face.
“Probably texting that hot girlfriend of his. When you gonna make an honest woman outta her, boy?” Bill asks.
“Soon,” I hedge, glancing down at my phone again. A sick feeling settles in my stomach. “Look, so this coffee thing, lock it in. And I can shoot next week, if the ash cloud lifts and I can get off this island. Can they advance the cash?”
“Well, you’re keen as a—bean!” Bill pauses expectantly, waiting for me to laugh at his joke.
Marty shakes his head. “I’m surrounded by comedians.”
I don't hear them anymore. Instead, my brain is focused on how I can make sure I have the cash. I can’t let this story get out. I need to do the coffee shoot, get paid, and get Danny the money before he changes his mind.
I make the rules. I need the cash in two weeks, or those pictures go to the press.
And when the time comes, I’ll come after her kid.
***
Madison
It’s been seven days of bliss. I still think about Mike—of course I do. I’ve called the hospital to check on his condition (stable), but every time they offer to put me through, I hang up. My heart still aches a little, for all I’ve lost and for what he’s going through, but for the majority I’ve blocked all thought of home and am living in paradise—literally—and sleeping with a man who is kind, funny, caring, and sexy as all get-out.
Not only that, but I’m changing. Little things—and not just my flexibility, thank you, yoga. I don’t cry as much. I question everything. I don’t have a plan.
And the weirdest part?
I kind of like it.
“So when are you coming back?” Courtney asks.
I shrug as I look out at the gorgeous ocean. Will I ever get tired of this view? Sometimes it feels as if all I’ve done since I arrived on this island is look at it.
Well, that and have copious amounts of sex with a movie star.
“I don't know. I guess when the volcanic ash thing blows over,” I muse.
“Wait, who is this woman and what has she done with my best friend?”
I laugh. “What do you mean?”
“The Madison Winters I know would have been itching to get back. She’d be devastated she was going to miss the Publisher’s Australia awards, and hanging out to try win back her ex. This relaxed woman who just referred to a massive disaster as a ‘volcanic ash thing’—by the way, you’re totally under-panicked on this one—is not someone I know.”
I smile. My cheeks hurt as I do. I’ve been smiling a lot lately. “I guess I’m different now.”
And I like it.
“Well, good. It’s amazing what regular orgasms can do for the soul.”
“Ha! Very funny.” I pause. “Hey, Courts?”
“Mmm?”
“How was Mike?” Asking the question doesn't hurt like I thought it would. I care about him—of course I do. But the love I thought I had has started to crack.
“He’s getting better. He had some internal bleeding. Fractured ribs. But he’s going to be okay.” It’s Courtney’s turn to be silent for a moment, and then she continues. “He asked when you were coming back. Said he really wants to see you.”
My stomach twists. It’s yet another reason I don't want to return.
A series of short, light taps rattle through the phone, and I picture her at her desk in the busy Lola office, tapping away in response to one email or another. “Have you decided what you’re going to do about the Tate and Mikaela story yet?”
It’s the one thing I have thought about and fore-planned. “Yes.” I nod, even though she can't see me. “I had to submit it to Chloe today, actually. And I couldn’t do it. I wrote the story for Lola of their relationship—it’s what’s right.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Courtney clucks. “Okay, maybe you’ve been abducted by aliens. You know this story would make your career, right? They’d probably offer you the position of editor at large. Hell, they’d change the mag name from Lola to Madison.”
I laugh and pick up the candle. The wax has melted into a turbulent pattern reminiscent of the fiercer ocean on Tate’s side of the island. “It’s just not important to me right now.”
“Okay, well when you get back, we need a big debrief, lady,” Courtney says.
We say our goodbyes soon after, and I get ready for another date with Tate. It’s my
turn to pick the activity, and this time I have something special planned for him—or at least, I hope he’ll enjoy it, anyway.
As I put everything I need in my purse, a message chimes through my phone.
Got your revised retreat piece. Still needs a lot of work. Don’t make me bill you for this stay, Winters. I want gold. Yoko
Pressure breathes down my neck like an angry tiger. The retreat piece. Whether the Ta-kaela article is big enough to save my career. The reality of facing Mike when I get home.
I hope like hell I have the strength to push through it all.
***
“I’ve ordered the seafood platter, some cheese, and a bottle of the white you like, the one with the ship on the bottle. Is that cool?”
I shake my head. “Can you get any more perfect?”
Once, saying something like that would have filled me with trepidation. A sentence that gives away so much of yourself—is it worth it?
But now, it feels good to let those words leave my lips. I’m falling hard for this man—and when he does things like order my favourite foods and wines, it’s hard not to.
“I try.” Tate kisses my forehead. “How was your day?”
“Good.” I frown. “Well, not amazing. My article on the retreat got rejected again. She wants a more personal account.”
“So give her one.” Tate shrugs, his broad shoulders straining against the white shirt.
“Saying what? I feel really Zen, probably a combination of increased flexibility and too many orgasms?”
“Pfft,” Tate scoffs. “There’s no such thing.”
“I’ll sort something out. And I finished the piece on you and Mikaela today, sent it in to my editor. I’ll shoot a second version across to Janie, too, in case she wants to try get it republished anywhere else.”
“Hmm …” Tate smiles, but his eyes aren’t here in the room with me. They’re fixed on the horizon, the purple line where the crimson of sunset hits the indigo ocean.
“What’s up?”
“Me?” Tate turns to look at me. “Nothing. There are just some things I have to take care of that are turning out to become a little more stressful than I’d hoped.” He stands, stretching his arms above his head. “Do you want a whiskey? I feel like a whiskey.”
I push to my feet and follow him into the kitchenette. “What’s going on?”
He opens the fridge, avoiding my gaze. “Nothing, babe. Just work stuff.”
“Don’t ‘just work stuff’ me. Tell me what’s going on.”
He spins to face me, his face a mask of fury. “It’s none of your business.”
It’s the first time he’s shut me down since we met. It’s been a fortnight now that we’ve been seeing each other, one week since our movie night on the beach, and this isn’t the man I know. He would never do that.
A fire burns within me as I think over his words. None of my business? In a calm, measured voice, I speak. “I’m fine with not knowing your business. You have secrets; I get that! But don't give me this attitude. Don’t bring your secrets here, flaunt them in front of my face and then lock them away.”
“You don't know anything about me.”
It’s a simple sentence. Six little words.
And I hate that they’re true.
His words hurt me, even though they shouldn't. Even though I know this is what it is—two weeks on a beautiful island together, then nothing. Then it’s over. I turn and brace my hands against the marble island bench. Outside, the palm trees sway in the breeze, the sunset is postcard-perfect and somewhere, a band plays relaxed cover music.
Typical. Sometimes, paradise sucks.
A tumbler of whiskey slides across the counter toward me, and even though I hate the stuff, I pick it up and knock it back, slamming it back down.
“Hey.” Warm hands caress my shoulders, hot breath in my ear. “Relax.”
I shrug him off, my voice raised. “Don’t you dare tell me to relax right now.”
“What’s your problem?” he asks, his tone matching mine.
“You! I can’t relax when you’re acting all uptight and screaming in my ear.”
“I’m trying to say I’m sorry,” he yells, and I spin to face him.
“So say it!” I spit.
“No!” he roars. “I mean yes! I’m sorry!”
Our gazes lock, and tension thickens the air between us.
And then?
He laughs.
A deep, real belly laugh. “I’m sorry,” he says in between his mirth, and it seems to be infectious because I find myself giggling too.
“What are we even fighting about?” he asks, his arms on either side of my body caging me in. Just like that, the tension erected between us melts like a scoop of ice cream on a hot car bonnet.
“I’m sorry, too.” I smile. “I know we’re still figuring this thing out. I just got pissed off. Don’t shut me out.”
His knuckle sits under my chin, lifting it up so I stare deep into those crystal eyes. “Hey. I’m sorry. I’m going to try harder to let you in.” His voice is soft, gentle. “And I love it when you get pissed off.”
Love.
He loves it when I—
Knock it off, idiot.
I push at his shoulders and slink out from his embrace. Heat floods my cheeks. “It's a silly thing for me to have gotten upset about, anyway. Honestly, whatever it is, I don't want to know.”
He gives me a look, and I manage a laugh.
“Okay, so maybe I do. What’s up?”
He pauses, then licks his lower lip. “Something’s going on in my work life that affects my personal one. And I can’t decide what to do.”
His words are cryptic. “Just worry about you, Tate. What does your gut say?”
He shrugs. “Ride the wave? Do what I have to so I can protect the ones I love?”
I smile and rest my arms over his shoulders, my hands interlocking behind his head. If there’s one thing I’ve learnt from Tate, it’s how to ride waves. “Ride the wave then, babe.” I run one hand through his hair. “Ride the wave all the way into shore.”
He narrows his gaze. “And if I fall off?”
I shrug. “Get back on and try again.” I walk over to my bag and rifle through it. “While we’re on the subject of all things Tate, I made you something.”
Tate tilts his head. “You made me something?”
I take the paper bag and fold it behind my back. “Yeah. You don't think I have the fine motor skills to be crafty?”
“That’s not what I—”
“I don't have the fine motor skills to be crafty. But I’m very good with a credit card, shopping and a little bit of Internet research.”
“I’m intrigued.” Tate picks up his tumbler of amber liquid and saunters over to the couch, sinking his body down into it.
“Here.” I thrust the bag toward him.
He takes it and rattles it close to his ear. “Nope.” He shakes his head. “Doesn't sound like lingerie.”
“That wouldn't be a present for you.”
“Trust me.” Desire flames across his face. “It’d be a present for me.”
“Oh.” My lips press together. Maybe I should have got a new set of sexy underwear after all.
Tate grins and unfolds the top of the bag, then pulls the woven fabric book out from inside, a handmade gem I found one of the locals selling down at the beach. A gentle V mars his forehead as he opens the front page.
And then?
A smile.
A huge, megawatt, this-is-why-they-pay-him-the-big-bucks smile.
“Madison …” He turns to the second page spread. On it, I’ve pasted a photo of him and Janie taken some five years ago—or at least, that’s when she uploaded it to Facebook. Janie’s giving him a noogie; he’s batting her away.
He turns the page to a new shot. This is Tate by himself, staring out to the ocean. It’s one of the images we took for the photo shoot that I decided was too much for the piece. It shows a man focused on a dream.
A man who won’t let anything slow him down.
As he turns the page, his face morphs from joy to sorrow to contemplative. It’s a photo album of all things Tate. All twenty-five images were collected from Janie’s Facebook and a collection of media archives my job allows me access to. And finally, on the last page—
“My parents.”
I nod.
“How did you …?”
“That was the one the press used to reference them when they reported on the accident.” I swallow, studying the wedding picture in front of him. This had seemed like a good idea. A man who has no strong sense of family—something like this will help keep it all safe for him. Right?
Retrieving this photo hadn’t been too difficult. The crash had been reported on by many news outlets in the States, so I’d simply spoken to someone in our New York office and asked them to email me a copy.
Tate traces a finger over the black-and-white photo, pausing on his mother’s face, her smile. For a moment he sits in silence, and I hover awkwardly like a too-eager child, waiting for a reaction.
“He asked her to marry him every day for a year.”
“He did?”
Tate looks up. His eyes are glassy. “He did.” He gestures to the seat next to him and I sit.
“Why didn't she say yes?”
Half his lips rise in a grin. “The first time, it was because he’d never met her before.”
I laugh. “That was the first thing he said?”
“Yeah. He said he laid eyes on her, and he just knew.” He pauses, looking back at the photo again and smiling. “I still remember him saying that to me. ‘When you know, you’ll know’.”
I take his hand and lace his fingers through my own, giving them a gentle squeeze. “Sounds like wise words.”
“Yeah. He was a pretty wise old man. That was one of his creeds.” He pauses. “That and look before you leap.”
“Look before you leap?”
“Yeah.” Tate gives a gentle laugh. “He once jumped a fence, but didn't see the electric wire on top.”
Fame (Not Like The Movies #1) Page 21
