by Elise Faber
“She’ll be perfect if she can finish crumbling that cheese,” Belle said, patting my arm. “And you’ll”—she tugged Damon back to the tortilla maker—“be perfect if you get going on the dough.”
“And I’ll be perfect”—Diego reached for one of the forks that was in the shredded pork Belle had rescued from my incompetent hands—“at eating this delicious—ow!”
Belle had smacked the fork out of Diego’s hand.
“You’ll be perfect at washing up and then getting the table set.”
The disappointment on Diego’s face would have fit right in with the rom-com I’d just finished filming, but Belle had no sympathy. She shooed him off. “Nice try. But I’m guessing by the smell of oil and sawdust on your clothes, you’ve been out with the crew all day.”
“They were building a new robot today.”
“Oh! What kind of robot?” I’d heard about how Diego had worked his way up from a tech to a senior engineer at the company he was working at. Something about artificial intelligence and drones and food deliveries. Apparently, they were contracted to build them for some big company based out of San Francisco.
Diego grinned, coming over to wash his hands at the sink next to me. “A flying robot.”
“That’s so cool!” I exclaimed.
“Well, I think it’s pretty cool I got to meet you,” Diego said. “Damon doesn’t exactly bring a lot of girls home. Especially famous ones.”
“I’m not so famous,” I said.
“She’s lying,” Damon interjected. “Or at least minimizing. Paparazzi are all over her in L.A.” A beat. “But lucky for me, that meant I got to keep her mostly to myself instead of going out.”
“It just meant you were able to bribe me with delicious carbs in order to spin your web of love around me.”
“Love?” he asked, extracting a perfect tortilla from the press. His mom barely let him lift the plate before she’d snagged it and placed it in the pan on the stove to start cooking it. “Or lies?”
“Either.” I grinned, finished with the cheese and moved to the sink to wash. “Both.”
Damon snagged my waist as I moved across the kitchen, intending to help his dad set the table. “Relax, love.”
I spun in the circle of his arms, hand coming up to rub the pleasant ache in my chest, not just from him showing me unbridled affection in front of his family, but also because . . . of his family. They were wonderful.
“This . . . I am relaxed, baby. I—I’ve never been in a place like this, been so comfortable or welcomed. It’s like”—my voice dropped to a whisper—“I’m part of it. Like because they made you, you wonderful man, that they know exactly how to get under my armor and—”
I broke off, blinking back real tears this time.
“I understand,” he whispered. “You know I do.”
“Thanks for letting me come.”
He grinned. “Thanks for not dumping me when I was an ass.”
“Thanks for loving me.”
“Thanks for loving me back.”
His lips came down onto mine and he kissed me. I forgot about his parents and the hot stove, I forgot about the evil tortilla maker and the shredded pork and the crumbled cheese. I got lost in the feel of Damon, in the taste of his mouth, in his spicy smell, in the way his body felt pressed to mine.
I forgot about everything.
Except what was most important.
Damon.
But because I’d forgotten about everything, I didn’t realize my cell wasn’t in my pocket, that it was in his car when my agent tried to reach me.
Then Maggie.
Neither Damon nor I knew that my world was imploding around me.
Seventeen
Damon
My cell rang from its place on the nightstand.
Groaning and feeling like I’d just fallen asleep, I saw it was just after three in the morning.
And my sister Colleen was calling.
Even though she lived on the East Coast, it was only six there, and my sister was not a morning person.
“Hello?” I answered, heart in my throat.
“Damon,” she said quickly. “Mom—uh—mentioned you were dating Eden Larsen. Is that right?”
Okay, not the conversational starting point I’d expected. I sat up, slipping out of bed and into the hall so as to not wake Eden. What, did she want premiere tickets or perhaps a hookup on some new fashion trend? Colleen did have an obsession with fancy heels. “We’re dating,” I confirmed cautiously.
“Right.” Her voice was troubled. “Well, I just . . . I guess I wanted to see if she was okay.”
My heart had been in my throat. Now it dropped somewhere in the direction of the floor. “What are you saying, Collie?”
“Just . . . with the stories in the news and—”
Forget the floor.
My heart was sinking into the fucking foundation.
“What stories?”
“The ones about her . . . um . . . child marriage.”
“Please, tell me this is one of your jokes.”
Silence.
“Collie.” Yes, I was begging.
And my sister knew it. “Damon, you know I wouldn’t use something like this as a joke. It’s . . . they’re everywhere.”
“Oh God,” I said. “Fuck. Where’s everywhere? What networks are the stories on?”
“All the morning shows,” she said. “But I saw it on Facebook when I woke up this morning. It’s . . . I know I shouldn't be on my phone first thing, but I was and it’s there and . . . in the Times, too, Damon.” Her voice was gentle. “It’s the front-page story everywhere.”
I’d dropped to my knees, not having realized it until Eden was in front of me, crouching down, eyes wide and face concerned. “What’s the matter?”
“I have to go, Collie,” I said into the phone.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Tell her I’m so sorry this is happening.”
“I will,” I forced out between numb lips and hung up.
“Damon?” Eden placed her palm on my cheek. “What’s the matter?”
She was comforting me. Eden’s life had imploded, and she was comforting me. Of course, she didn’t know her life had imploded because—
Fuck.
I jumped up, took her hand. “Come back into my room,” I said. “We need to get your publicist on the phone, first thing.”
“Damon?” she asked again, concern clouding her eyes.
“Now, baby.” Shit. How could I tell her this? “There are some news stories.”
Eden laughed, that concern disappearing. “News stories? Is that all? Baby, there are always stories online and on the gossip shows about me. Trust me, this isn’t something to be concerned about.”
I kept tugging her hand until she was back in the bedroom, sitting on the edge of the queen-sized bed my parents had put in after they’d relegated my sports trophies and swimsuit posters to boxes in the garage. Only when she was sitting did I crouch in front of her, my hands on her knees. “Sweetheart,” I said. “I need your phone.”
“You’re scaring me.”
“I know. I’m sorry, but Eden, we need to call your publicist. Right now.”
She nodded, cheeks gone pale, moisture clouding the green of her eyes. “It should be in my purse?” She snagged it, emptying the contents onto the bed. But no phone. “Or maybe my bag?”
But when I’d emptied that, it wasn’t there either.
“When did you last have it?”
“Damon, you need to tell me what’s going on.”
“Phone first, baby,” I said. “Then—” I shook my head. “Did you have it at dinner?”
Her brows drew together. “No, I didn’t. I don’t think I had it all afternoon.” She stared at her hands for a few seconds. “I don’t think I’ve used it since the car ride.”
I nodded, jumped to my feet and grabbed my keys. “I’ll go get it.”
“Okay.”
Taking the stairs two at a time, I ra
n down the hall and out the front door. Less than two minutes later, I’d found it in the cup holder and brought it straight back upstairs.
But I’d been too slow.
I heard the voice of the news reporter as I hit the top of the stairs . . .
“Shocking news today as early reports of Eden Larsen’s child marriage appears to be true. According to state records, she was wed at thirteen to a Tim Williams, who was twenty-seven years her senior. The controversy of this has been unparalleled, especially as Ms. Larsen has not yet issued a statement. I have an expert on the state-by-state laws of under-aged marriage on the line, let’s go to her now . . .”
“Shit,” I said, bursting into the room.
Eden was already on her feet, yanking a sweatshirt from her bag and slipping it over her head.
“Baby—”
“I trusted you,” she said, pain turning her features severe. “I confided in you, and you told someone.”
“I didn’t—”
Her hands worked in rapid succession, shoving items back into her purse, her feet into her shoes, and all the while the TV blared on in the background.
“I—”
“No.” The word was sharper than I’d ever heard from her and edged with the same panic as the scene in her bedroom all those weeks before.
“Honey, I didn’t tell anyone. I would never—”
She swept a hand toward the TV. “Then how do they know?” she screamed.
I heard a thump from down the hall, the sounds of footsteps coming toward us, along with concerned voices. My parents appeared behind me in the doorframe. “Is everything—?”
The sob that emerged from Eden’s throat was like that of a wounded animal.
And it wounded me.
She grabbed her purse, left her bag, and then ran by me.
“Damon?” my mom asked.
“It’s—” I shook my head, not able to reassure my mom that it was going to be okay, not when the thing that pained Eden the most was out in the world for all to see and gawk at and comment on. Not when it would spurn the next cycle of news, be exploited for days and days on end by experts and—
“Honey.” My mom put her hand on my arm. “What can I do?”
My throat burned. “Nothing, Mom,” I said. “No one can do anything.”
I hustled back down the stairs, through the front door, across the yard to the car.
Where Eden was standing, her hands on the roof of it, her purse at her feet.
My feet crunched across the gravel.
She spun, her despair evident even in the moonlight.
“I’ll drive you wherever you need to go, baby. But I’m not leaving you.”
Her face crumpled.
Her legs collapsed.
And her knees hit the gravel hard before I had a chance to move.
Some hero.
I couldn’t even protect the woman I loved from skinned knees.
But then I was there next to her, tentatively reaching for her hand, scared she was going to push me away, terrified we’d be right back in that panic from her bedroom.
Instead, the moment I touched her, she spun and crawled into my lap, knocking me to my ass. She burrowed against my chest, sobs puffing against my throat and tears soaking through the fabric of my shirt. The gravel hurt, but not as much as the agony of Eden’s tears as I held her tight.
I don’t know how long she cried or how long I sat there holding her as she wept, but eventually I heard the soft footsteps of someone approaching.
My mom was there, a blanket in hand. She wrapped it around Eden as gently as one would swaddle a newborn . . . and I knew she’d seen the story blaring on the TV in my room.
She touched my shoulder, scooped up Eden’s purse, and then disappeared into the house.
“I’m sorry, Damon,” Eden whispered, slipping her arms around my waist, eyes wet when she glanced up at me. “I shouldn’t have said that. I know you didn’t tell anyone.”
I wiped my thumbs across her cheeks, trying to dry her tears, but they kept coming, continued dripping out of the corners of her eyes. “It’s okay, love.”
“It’s not.”
“Shh, now. We’ll figure it out later.”
“Together?” More tears. “You won’t leave?”
“No, baby. I’m here.”
She nodded, burrowing back against my chest. “I’m so sorry.”
“Shh,” I murmured. “It’s going to be okay.” We didn’t talk further or call her publicist. We didn’t do anything but sit there, with our arms around each other as the moon moved across the sky and the sun began to rise.
Eighteen
Eden
“Come on, now,” Belle said. “Just a couple of bites of toast.”
Obliging her, I picked up the toast and brought it to my lips, but I might as well have been trying to eat cardboard.
I chewed and chewed and chewed, but couldn’t swallow it down.
Gagging, I spit it into a napkin.
“It’s okay, baby,” she murmured. “Forget about the toast.” Her hand rubbed the space between my shoulder blades lightly. A motherly touch, one I didn’t even realize I hadn’t ever had.
The church had been my family.
Then I’d lost it.
I’d lost everything and retreated and closed down and . . .
Now I was sitting in Belle’s kitchen surrounded by people who cared for me, one who’d been patient for years, two who’d accepted me because I made their son happy. I shook my head firmly, trying to dislodge the fog out that had settled in my brain when I’d heard the story.
This kitchen. This place. These people.
They could be my family.
No, they were my family.
If I let them.
That, more than anything else, snapped me out of my head. I could come back to this kitchen, I could learn how to make decent tortillas, I could perfect that French toast recipe, and figure out how to properly shred pork . . . if I let them in.
My cell was on the table in front of me, turned to silent because of the sheer volume of calls and texts. Including several dozen from Maggie.
Who I needed to call first thing.
But I kept seeing the reporter’s face from that show, the near-smirk as he’d reported on what was probably the biggest story of his life, triumph and pleasure all wrapped up with my past.
There would be more like that. More triumph, more crowing, more analyzing every titillating face.
Breaking down what had gone wrong, what I’d done wrong.
And it would be horrible.
My eyes welled with tears again, but I blinked them back. I couldn’t keep sitting here, crying and sobbing over toast, not doing anything, keeping people who were trying to show they cared about me at a distance.
Because if I did that, I discounted everything else, including the fact that I’d survived.
I’d been a young and impressionable girl and . . . I’d been hurt by the people who should have looked out for me.
That was the story.
And I needed to get it out there.
“Can you hand me my phone?” I asked Damon. He and Diego were sitting across from me, concern on their faces.
“Sweetheart?”
I’d earned that concern, but I was going to ease it.
“I’ll be okay now.” I put out my hand.
“You need more time—”
“I’m going to be okay, baby,” I said. “I can do this. With you, all of you, I can figure this out.”
Diego’s face was soft, and he patted Damon on the shoulder. “Hand her the phone, son.”
Damon shook his head. “I should protect her.”
My heart pulsed with pain, with hope, with love, and any remaining armor I’d been clinging to disappeared.
It clanged against that tile floor and for the first time in more than a decade, I felt as though I were able to take a deep breath. Without pain, without straining, with nothing but a simple inhale and exhale.<
br />
I could do this.
I had to do this.
Because I wanted my happy future, and I wanted it with Damon.
And his family.
He handed me the cell. I called Maggie, then my agent, then the studio, and the next few days were a blurred flurry of events.
Only when everything calmed and the dust had settled, I couldn’t believe who was at the center of it.
The cameras found us on the second day, descending on Diego and Belle’s driveway like black-lensed locusts, reporters knocking on the door, shouting my name.
Diego had called off work, Belle was holed up in the kitchen cooking, and I was trying to figure out what to do. Or rather my team was, since the story only seemed to grow larger.
The media had gone to my hometown and found out about the pregnancy, since it was still apparently local gossip.
The judge’s name who’d signed off on the marriage had been released along with photos of a young me from the hospital, arm casted, bruises blooming on my side, a fat lip.
That had been after I’d lost the baby.
But before I’d lost Tim . . . or been freed from him anyway. Which was probably not a charitable thing to be thinking about someone who passed away, but I didn’t have enough charity in me to wish him anything but the end he’d met.
My phone rang. I set down the tortilla dough I was rolling—because at least I’d gotten better at the first part of the exercise—and glanced down at the screen. It was a number I didn’t recognize, and I’d learned enough over the last forty-eight hours to immediately reject any caller I didn’t know.
It began ringing again. Just like it had for that entire morning. Just like it had since my number had somehow gotten out the previous evening.
Damon noticed, snagging it from the counter next to me and powering it off.
“I—”
He shook his head, shoved it in his pocket.
“Maggie might need to get ahold of me.”
“She has my number, remember?”
“Yeah.” I nodded, going to work on the next ball, hating that Damon was involved.
He pushed the dough away, leaned back against the counter next to me. “What’s this?”
I shook my head. “Nothing. It’s—”
