“Just breathe,” she murmurs. “And remember how fucking fabulous you are. With or without Grayson Douchebag Dunn.”
I smile faintly as the doors swing open and we step inside. My mouth gapes — if I thought the outside of the mansion was impressive, it’s nothing compared to the interior.
“Holy shit,” I hear Harper mutter. “That Hastings fortune is no joke.”
“Apparently,” I murmur, staring from the crystal chandelier hanging from the twenty-foot ceiling above us to the grand staircase leading to the top floor. We’re engulfed by the crowd as soon as we step through the doors — people hugging us hello, calling greetings from the makeshift bar on the other side of the room. I see cater-waiters weaving through the mob, trays full of gourmet appetizers held aloft.
I don’t see Grayson or Wyatt anywhere. Which is fine, because I have no idea what I’ll say to either of them, when our paths inevitably cross. A waiter walks by with a tray of champagne flutes — I grab one, making Harper’s eyebrows lift.
“Relax,” I mutter, taking a tiny sip. “I’m pacing myself.”
“Good,” a steady male voice says from behind me. “Because I’ve already scraped you off the bottom of a bathtub once in the past twenty-four hours. Not looking to repeat that experience anytime soon.”
I turn to face him, feeling a bolt of embarrassed electricity shoot through me when our eyes meet. He looks fantastic in dress pants and a fitted white button down, his hair slightly tidier than usual, pulled back in a bun with a black leather strap.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, after a moment of silence. “You have no idea how embarrassed I am that you saw me like that… I’m mortified.”
“Don’t be.” Wyatt shrugs. “We’ve all been there. I understand.”
I suddenly recall a different conversation with him, back on set in Hawaii.
Someday, you’ll get your heart broken, and you’ll understand.
I’m not wishing it on you. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.
I just know it’ll happen at some point. It happens to us all, eventually.
“Hey,” he murmurs, taking a step closer. His eyebrows draw together. “You okay?”
“Fine. I’m fine.” I blink to clear the haze from my thoughts. “I just… I feel like I owe you. I do owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“But it’s not just yesterday.” I swallow. “Hiring Masters… making sure I wasn’t alone…” I stare at him, wondering how I got lucky enough to have someone in my life who takes care of me, even when I don’t deserve it. “You’re always looking out for me, Hastings. Why is that?”
He shrugs. “Maybe I have a savior complex.”
“Your shrink tell you that?”
“No, I figured that one out on my own.”
I sigh as my eyes move from the massive chandelier over our heads, to the colorful art canvases on every wall, to the massive mahogany staircase bannisters that look like a dream to slide down.
“This place is amazing, Wyatt. Seriously… it’s like a castle, or something. I can’t believe you live here.”
He grins. “You haven’t even seen the best part.”
“Are you going to show me voluntarily, or are you going to make me beg?”
“I wouldn’t mind a little begging.”
“Hastings.”
“Oh, all right. Come on.”
He grabs my hand and leads me away from the party, through a series of dark rooms, and out a set of sliding doors. We walk down an incredible terraced back yard, passing a pool, hot tub, and full tennis court, before we reach a landscaped pond. In the middle of it, a tiny white gazebo sits, connected to the shore by a thin walkway.
“Wow,” I breathe.
He leads me out onto a wooden path, over the water, holding me steady so I don’t trip over the long train of my dress. When we reach the gazebo, he releases my hand. We sit down a foot apart on the padded bench, looking out over the hills, and I feel my heart pounding twice its normal speed in the silence.
“It’s beautiful.” My voice is no more than a whisper.
I feel Wyatt looking at me. “And yet, not the most beautiful thing I’ve seen tonight.”
My cheeks heat at his words. I meet his eyes and find them dancing with humor.
“Are you flirting with me, Mr. Hastings?”
“Of course not. You’re far too young for me.”
“Right. I forgot. You’re… what did you say, the first day we met? Old enough to be my cool uncle ?”
He groans. “I did not say that.”
“You did,” I insist. “I remember distinctly, because I’ve never had an uncle, let alone a cool one.” I pause. “Let alone a cool, hot one.”
“Now who’s flirting, Miss Firestone?”
I grin and lean back, sipping my champagne with my eyes on the blanket of stars sprawled out over the LA haze. “Why did you bring me down here, Wyatt?” I ask softly.
He leans back, shoulder brushing mine. “I come here when I feel like things in my life don’t make any sense. When everything’s a mess, and I start to think nothing’s ever going to be right again.” He takes a slow sip of the scotch in his hand. “The world feels so small from up here, spread out under all these stars. Somehow, the idea that we’re just one speck of dust in the great expanse of that universe over our heads makes everything seem more manageable.” He sips again. “In the sum total of human existence, I’m just one person. There will come a time when no one remembers me, when everything that made up my life is gone and whatever problem I’m having that seems so monumental will cease to exist, even in memory. Obliterated by time.”
“And that makes you feel better ?” I ask dryly.
He laughs. “Somehow, yes. Because it reminds me that life is what you make it. There will always be shadows and darkness, if that’s what you gravitate toward.”
“But you stay in the sunshine,” I murmur, recalling a conversation we had, what seems like a lifetime ago.
“Exactly. Every day, you have a choice about how you’re going to live your life.” His voice drops lower. “Choose sunshine, baby. Always choose sunshine. You look so much prettier with light in your eyes.”
We sip the rest of our drinks in silence as I stare out at the distant horizon. I’m not sure whether it’s his words, working their magic over me, or simply the comfort I always seem to feel in his presence, but by the time our glasses are empty and we make our way back into the party, I feel more myself than I have in days.
Tonight, I’m choosing sunshine.
* * *
G rayson never shows up to the wrap party.
His absence grates on my raw nerves as the hours pass and things begin to wind down. I try to put him out of my mind.
Stay in the sunshine.
I finish my second glass of champagne while cornered by three crew members animatedly discussing the different mechanics behind the plane crash scene. I swap glasses with a passing waiter at the first opportunity, watching from the corner of my eye as a distracted Harper flirts shamelessly with Masters across the room.
The third glass goes down easy as Sloan gives a long-winded, watery-eyed speech about his deep delight in working on this film, and how proud he is of the art we came together to create.
By the time I finish my fourth glass, the party has mostly emptied out. Harper, buzzed and happy, pulls me into the bathroom with her. Her cheeks are flushed with the effects of alcohol and infatuation.
“He is so cute!”
“Who, Masters?”
“Kent,” she murmurs dreamily. “But I’ll let him be my master any day.”
“Harper!” I giggle.
“What? I’m single now.” She shrugs. “Truth be told, Greg and his teenie-weenie-peenie were not fulfilling my needs the past few months. But I have a feeling Kent is packing heat. And I’m not just talking about the gun in his holster.”
“Go,” I push her toward the door. “For god’s sake, go. Get some. Call me after.�
�
“I don’t think he’ll leave with me — he said he’s still on duty .”
“I’ll have Wyatt talk to him.” I shrug. “Seriously, the party is almost over anyway. I’ll be fine for one night without Masters hovering.”
She giggles and throws her arms around me. “You’re the best.”
“Not even close, but I’m glad you think so.” I pat her on the back. “Now, go! Enjoy your night. If he won’t leave, drag him down to the gazebo in the backyard. No one will bother you, out there.”
“Genius!” she exclaims, heading off to find him.
I walk slowly back to the main room, startled to find everyone is gone when I get there. Harper must’ve found Masters, because he’s nowhere in sight. There’s no sign of Sloan or Wyatt. The bartender is packing up. Even the cater waiters are putting on their jackets and trickling out the door. I ask one of them if they’ve seen Wyatt, and she points vaguely at the staircase before heading out.
I slowly ascend the stairs of the empty house, careful not to trip on the train of my dress. I’m tired and somewhat buzzed from the champagne, but I still want to say goodbye to Wyatt before calling myself a car service. The lights upstairs are off, but I see a sliver of yellow spilling out beneath the crack of a door at the end of the hallway. I head toward it like the bugs I once watched flying toward the zapper-machine, not thinking about the potential repercussions of my actions. Not thinking about much of anything, except getting to Wyatt and feeling that warm, safe sensation I get whenever I’m sharing his space, breathing his air, feeling his arms wrapped around me.
He said to stay in the sunshine. He doesn’t seem to realize he carries more light inside him than any distant star in the sky over our heads.
My hand finds the knob in the darkness. I turn it and the door swings inward easily.
He’s sitting on the edge of his bed, a half-empty tumbler of scotch in his hand. His hair is unbound, falling around his face like a gleaming curtain of gold. His shirt is unbuttoned, exposing his broad chest in the dim light.
“Katharine?” he whispers, looking up when I step into the bedroom. “What are you doing here?”
The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds like a bullet sliding into the chamber of a loaded gun. His eyes are hazy but so, so blue. Blue like the sky, blue like the Hawaiian waves.
He takes a sip of his scotch and rises to his feet, setting the empty glass on his bedside table. I’ve never seen him drunk before. It’s a mesmerizing sight — solid, steadfast Wyatt Hastings, out of control for once.
“You should go,” he says, not looking at me. His hands are braced against the wall. I can see the muscles beneath his shirt, bunched up with tension. Before I can stop myself, I’m across the room and my hands are reaching out, tracing the powerful planes with trembling fingers.
He goes rigid when he feels my hands on him.
“Katharine.” His voice is rough. “Go. You have to go.”
“Why?” I ask, still touching him.
He groans. “Baby, you can’t touch me like that—”
I let my hands fall away. He turns his head to look at me, eyes at half-mast. They’re stripped of all guards. I can see the desire in their depths, at war with logic and common sense and all the practical reasons that me being in his bedroom is a terrible idea.
“Baby, baby, baby,” I whisper, reaching for the strap on my shoulder. “Always baby .” I flick the strap; his eyes watch it fall and I see a muscle jump in his cheek. “I’m not a baby, Wyatt. I’m not a little girl.” I flick the other strap and in one soundless instant, the dress falls to the floor. I feel the fabric pool around my high heels, but I never shift my eyes from his.
I watch them dilate as they move over my body, bare except for a white lace bra and matching thong. His nostrils flare. His hands tense violently against the wall and I get the sense he’s a hairsbreadth away from completely losing control.
“Wyatt,” I whisper, chest rising and falling rapidly. I reach for my bra clasp, flick it open, and let it fall to the ground. “I don’t want to be a baby in your eyes tonight.”
He pushes off the wall with a growl and grabs me. I see the savage expression on his face and think he looks like a Viking about to lay waste to a village.
I am that village, I realize as his lips come down on mine, hot and hard and nothing like I ever imagined they’d be, in the rare moments I allowed myself to envision this ever happening between us. He’s going to wreck me.
And he does.
He practically throws me onto the bed, coming down on top of me an instant later and settling between my legs. I push off his shirt as his lips devour my neck, as his hands roam over my skin.
“God, Katharine,” he groans as I reach down to stroke him. “You’re killing me.”
I grin against his mouth as I slide his belt buckle open. “Don’t die yet,” I murmur, pulling it from its loops. “We’re just getting started.”
A growl rattles from his throat.
His hands move roughly — I hear a ripping sound and then my lace underwear is simply gone, torn to pieces like tissue paper. I’ve never seen him like this — so savage. So intense.
His hands are rough as they move over my bare skin, igniting something inside me I’ve never felt before.
Never, in all my time knowing him, did I think there would be such passion with Wyatt. Friendship, yes. Even attraction. But the raw, brutal, reckless way he’s making me feel… Not in my wildest dreams did I ever consider it would be like this between us.
When he’s finally naked, braced over me with lust in his eyes and his hair falling down around his face like a sheet of gold, I wrap my legs around his waist and slide my arms around his back. He’s looking at me with such a mix of heat and tenderness and sheer, heart-stopping need , it’s hard to breathe.
I feel him poised at my entrance, waiting for permission to ruin me.
“Wyatt,” I breathe.
He pushes inside me, eyes never shifting from mine, and the whole world explodes into sunshine and starlight and something else, something I’m not quite ready to put words to, yet.
* * *
I wake the next morning , naked and tangled up in sheets that smell like Wyatt. He’s not sleeping beside me. A glance around reveals he’s not anywhere in the room.
Flashes of the night before play out in my head like a movie.
Wyatt’s hands on my breasts as I squirmed on the mattress beneath his delicious weight.
Wyatt’s mouth between my legs as my fingers fisted in his thick, gorgeous hair.
Wyatt’s grin in the darkness as I bowed like a branch beneath his touch.
Wyatt’s eyes burning into mine as he pushed into me with long, relentless thrusts.
Wyatt’s name on my lips as I orgasmed again and again and again, until I thought I might die from the sheer bliss of it all .
I feel my heart beating too fast inside my chest. My emotions are more tangled than a spider’s web.
I can’t believe I did this.
I can’t believe how good it was.
I have no idea what it means.
I have no idea what he thinks it means.
Sitting up, I clutch the sheets to my chest. It’s hard to fathom Wyatt leaving me alone in his bed, after what happened between us.
Maybe he regrets it , I think, horrified at the prospect. Maybe he hates me for coming here last night… for basically seducing him….
I don’t let myself look too closely at the feelings stirring inside my chest as I contemplate a world in which Wyatt Hastings hates me. I don’t let myself wonder what this means — for me, for Wyatt, for Grayson, for the movie.
Throwing off the sheet, I rise and use the massive bathroom through the door on the left. I use a tissue to wipe the residual mascara from beneath my eyes, and brush my teeth with a dollop of minty white paste on the end of my finger, feeling slightly more in control as I walk back into the bedroom.
Still no Wyatt.
&
nbsp; He can’t even face you.
Leave. Now.
Before you make it worse.
Fearing the worst, I steady my shoulders, walk over to my discarded dress, and pull it on. My bra is nowhere to be found, and I’m in no rush to stick around. Not if he doesn’t want me here.
I fish my cellphone from the depths of my small beaded purse and, in a hushed voice, call for a car service to pick me up. Clutching my high heels in one hand, I head for the door and slip into the hallway, trying to make as little noise as possible.
Just when I thought I couldn’t make more of a mess out of my life…
I’m almost to the front door, almost to freedom, when I’m intercepted.
“You’re leaving.”
His voice is flat. Totally devoid of feeling.
I turn and see he’s got a tray in his hands, a steaming stack of pancakes and two mimosas balanced on it.
“Wyatt—”
“So, that’s what this was.” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “Just a one night stand you sneak out on in the morning, without even saying goodbye.”
“No, Wyatt, that’s not—”
“Just a convenient fuck, to help you get over Dunn. Is that it?”
“Wyatt, no! No, it wasn’t like that—”
“What am I to you? Your fucking consolation prize?”
“No ! No.”
“Fuck, Katharine!” His curse rings out as he hurls the tray against the wall. I jump as the glasses shatter into a million pieces. Pancakes fly into the air, syrup puddles against the tile like spilled blood. He’s breathing hard, completely out of control. His eyes are wild, but his voice is icy calm. “You know, I knew you were fucked up, but this is a whole new level.”
I gasp. “I… I’m sorry, Wyatt, I…”
His eyes narrow into unrecognizable slits. “You might not love me, but I thought we were at least friends. Thought there was basic respect between us. That you cared enough to exhibit common fucking courtesy. But this…” He’s staring at me like he’s never seen me before in his life. “This is unforgivable.”
I feel the fragile hope that bloomed inside me in his arms last night burst into flame and burn to ash. I stare at this man, who has protected me at every turn — from this industry, from my mother, from Grayson, from the paparazzi, and even from my own self-destructive tendencies — and see that I have done nothing but hurt him, have brought him nothing but pain.
The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1) Page 29
