by Tracy Ewens
“Clay,” she said as they walked through a door that suffered tremendously in comparison to the opulence of the front entrance.
“Hmm?”
“Is this the part where you tie me to a chair and hook those sticky things onto my head? Because I’ll save you the trouble. What do you want to know? I’m an open book.”
The edges his mouth faltered slightly and Meg thought she might see a smile, but he was back to composed by the time they stepped through the steel elevator doors.
“This is nuts.”
“It is,” Clay said, running a white card across a raised square in the elevator and pushing the button for the twenty-second floor.
“It is almost one o’clock in the morning.”
“We received a Google alert with a photo of the two of you kissing at a falafel shop.”
“A Google alert?”
He nodded. His neck was easily the size of a small tree trunk.
“Shortly after that, three sets of photographers showed up in the lobby. Most women think this is sexy or intriguing, but it’s honestly for your own safety. Those people are relentless. I’m glad you get that it’s nuts. Makes my job easier.”
When the door to what Meg assumed was a hotel room opened and she saw West, shirt now open at the collar and shoes off, “most women” was still swimming in her brain. Did he stage this performance often?
Meg rested her shoulder against the wall of the entryway. Christ, being around West made her dizzy, and she had to wonder if he brought some of it on himself. One minute he was looking at her as if she were the only person on the planet and the next, his security guy handled her like some groupie being shuffled about for a quickie and an autograph. Surely there had been other women and the world knew about all of them. By the time he finished talking with Clay and closed the door, she wanted to leave.
West paused for a moment, checked the lock, and turned to her, exhaustion all over his face. “I am truly sorry about that. It is usually easier to get up here, but I guess tonight things were a little crazy.”
“It’s the Google alert,” Meg said, torn between wanting to touch the side of his face and running for the street.
“Clay has a big mouth.” He guided her gently through the entryway of the room, as if he sensed she was ready to bolt.
Not a room, her mind buzzed as she took in the deep navy-and-gold-accented space that was easily the size of two of her apartments. She noticed doors to other rooms too.
“I’ll get napkins. Do you want a beer or water?”
Meg stopped in the middle of the room, jolting him to a stop next to her. Their falafel bags sat on the shiny wood table with the curly legs next to not one, but two full-size couches. She wondered if that’s how she looked compared to the polish of this world she’d been thrust into—like a crumpled take-out bag.
“What’s wrong?”
She shook his arm off her elbow. She’d never liked being led around, and it seemed he was doing that more and more. “Could I get a minute to take all of this in? I understand that you have to keep moving, but you need to give the rest of us time to catch up.”
He said nothing.
“This is an incredible place you have here.”
“Thanks. It’s the Tony Bennett Suite.”
“Very funny.”
He raised his brow.
“You’re serious?”
He nodded, disappeared around the corner, and returned with two beers and two bottles of water.
“I left my heart in San Francisco. That Tony Bennett?”
He put the drinks on the table and touched his nose to indicate she was correct. Meg sat on the couch and heard her mother’s voice in her head inquiring about a coaster for those drinks on the nice wood. She absolutely did not have time for her mother’s thoughts. Meg had enough of her own.
West hit a button on the wall and the white blinds beneath the gold swaths of fabric framing them began to move. When a 180-degree view of San Francisco appeared in front of her, Meg gasped like a little girl and ran to the window, remembering not to touch the glass. Someone has to clean that, young lady, her mother’s voice chimed in again. Yeah, thanks Mom. You can leave now.
She turned to find West sitting on the couch, opening the little containers of yogurt sauce.
“Have you caught up yet? I’m starving,” he said, glancing up as if they were sitting at one of the cracked linoleum tables back at the Falafel House.
Most women clung to the bells and whistles of West’s world like catnip. Meg, on the other hand, seemed like she might run, so he kept moving things forward. He popped open their bottles of beer and tried to pretend he was a regular guy hoping an incredible woman would agree to wake up in his arms.
All he wanted to do was eat falafel sandwiches and fall asleep on this couch. He honestly was up for any plan so long as it didn’t include her walking out that door.
Meg sat back down next to him and he handed her a paper plate. Their eyes held and concern was right there in the beautiful curves of her face, but she said nothing. Simply unwrapped her sandwich, took a big bite, and closed her eyes in pleasure. West could get used to that expression too.
“So a couple of things,” she said, washing down her food with a swig of water instead of beer.
“Only two?”
“Well, two pressing things. When we were coming up in the elevator, Clay mentioned ‘most of the women.’ Without going into disgusting detail, how many notches are on that bedpost?”
“I’ve never understood that phrase. Is that a Wild West thing? Why am I putting notches on my bedpost? And with what? My pocket knife?”
She held his gaze and kept chewing. She wanted an answer. Right. Start simple.
“I am male.”
“Yes, you are.” She took another bite.
“And single.”
“Another truth, good, you are on a roll.”
“I have slept with some women, and the people who help me navigate my life have seen a few come and go.”
Meg nodded and set her plate on the table. West thought she might get up and walk right out, but she reached over and grabbed another napkin.
“Why are you eating with me? Why did you show me street art and the stairs? Why are you always pushing me into your car?”
“Wow, that’s a lot of questions for one breath. Let’s see, I am on a break from filming and I enjoy food. That is why I eat with you. We went on the art drive as an alternative to walking down the street in broad daylight and I thought you would appreciate it. The stairs, because I wanted to share something private with you. I push you into my car, actually there’s no pushing, but I do that because I want to be near you. All. The. Time.” Those last three words trickled out with hesitation. He couldn’t read her expression or where she was leading with her questions.
One of those must have been the right answer. Meg took the plate from him, set it on the coffee table, and climbed onto his lap. Her hands were on his shoulders as if being this close to him helped her judge his sincerity.
“Are you going back to Los Angeles? You said you were.”
“I have to be on the set by September eighteenth, and then it will be three to four months of filming. I will be back here full-time. I need to buy a house.”
She said nothing and appeared to be weighing things in her mind.
West had questions too. “My turn. Why do you eat with me? Why do you let me push you into the car? Most importantly, why did you kiss me?”
Meg dropped her head to his shoulder and took in a deep breath. “You make me feel,” she said so softly he barely heard her.
West lifted her face in his hands. “I make you feel what, Meg?”
“There’s never been a time when I haven’t had chaos inside of me. I’m curious. It’s one of the reasons I became a photographer, why I move around a lot.”
“I know you’re leaving. Is that what this is about? It’s fine. I’ll take what I can get.”
Meg’s laugh was laced
with nerves. “Why would you ever take only what you can get?”
“Stay on topic. Things are getting good. What do I make you feel?”
“You make me feel safe. It’s as if you have all day to sort through my thoughts and while you are sorting, you look at me like…”
“Like you’re everything?”
Meg bit her lip and nodded. “If this is a game, if I’m a notch, please tell me now and we can go back to being friends. I liked being your friend. That was working.”
“It’s not a game, Meg.” West leaned in to kiss her, but she held her fingers up to his lips.
“Good. In that case, I would love to see you naked, but I have a few questions before we go there.”
His heart thundered in his chest as she sat straddled across his lap. She had no clue the effect she had on him. She wanted to clarify the rules for sex, simple as that. He was either having a heart attack or he was falling in love with her. West had played love a few times, but this must be the real deal because what was racing through him had nothing to do with a sweeping soundtrack and everything to do with being pulled into a riptide.
His body was ready for whatever was next, but his mind scrambled for how he was ever going to make this work. He had a feeling once he took her to bed he’d need a plan, because there was no way in hell once was going to be enough.
Maybe, his rational mind kicked in, he didn’t need a plan. Meg might be staying put for a little while, but after her TED talk, she would return to her life of adventure. That was fine, he lied to himself. They would see each other when they could. People did the distance thing all the time.
She shifted on his lap and much to his body’s disappointment, West opened his mouth. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but it’s almost morning. Why don’t we save your questions for tomorrow? Instead, I could kiss you stupid and we could fall asleep right here.”
“You want to cuddle with me?”
He nodded.
“Westin Drake, if you are a phony bastard, I am going to be so mad at you,” she said, and then she kissed him again.
He didn’t want to let go. Her mouth softened and he continued taking. In that moment, he was more than enough and she truly was everything. Surrounded by the skyline, he shifted her onto the couch and ran to the bedroom for the comforter. Her eyes were heavy as he tucked in behind her and covered them both. She folded her arm under her head.
“I’m going to buy you a poncho,” she said, barely above a whisper, and fell asleep in his arms. West smiled into her hair and kissed the back of her head.
While his heart struggled for a way to keep her close, his brain knew he should have kept his distance, ignored the fact that she smelled like a tropical island and had a way of reminding him that he was once a kid who played flag football with his brothers or the man who caught his first tuna with his dad off the coast of California.
He’d moved to San Francisco for a little perspective, but from the moment she told him she’d forgotten her underwear, nothing was off limits. Now, holding her in his arms, he wanted everything, which was ridiculous. No one got everything. Life always came down to choices and what he was willing to give up.
It was late and before West convinced himself he’d throw it all away for the woman in his arms, he pulled the covers farther up, drew her closer, and fell asleep.
Chapter Sixteen
Meg’s eyes opened at around five a.m. as far as she could tell from looking out at the darkness. She’d slept outside for so many years that she considered it a bit of a game to guess the time and place upon waking. West’s body was firmly pressed against her back, making the where and with whom part of the puzzle easy. They’d fallen asleep on his couch and looking out through the wall of glass windows, she felt like they were camping, surrounded by the night sky. If the outdoors had down comforters and cashmere robes, that is. She softly kissed the arm holding her close and slipped out from under his warmth.
The suite was so quiet she could hear the hum of his laptop on the table behind her. They were in the middle of a city, suspended over it to be exact, but she couldn’t hear any of the real world. Meg was reminded of the first time she met Westin Drake. They were suspended then too. She was beginning to wonder if his feet ever touched the ground, if it was even possible for someone who was comfortable with his face on a passing bus to ever go to the grocery store or pump gas. She’d seen movie stars on the covers of rag magazines since she’d been home. Some of them were pumping gas, albeit in unflattering sweatpants or looking painfully hungover, but their hands were on the pump like everyone else.
Meg wasn’t sure he could even drive. There were a lot of things she didn’t know about him, things not found on Google, she thought as she crossed her arms, hoping to hold herself in place. The carpet beneath her bare feet was plush and she noticed papers near the pulsing light of his open laptop. Glancing at the stack, she read the title—Preliminary Shoot Schedule. Her eyes skimmed down. Table Read – Full Throttle: Floor It. She stopped there and realized the date below was tomorrow. He needed to be in LA tomorrow and they were eating falafel? Hadn’t he said September? Was a table read different from filming? How long did a table read take, and why hadn’t she realized he was leaving? She turned away from the desk as if her back would somehow keep the information from sinking in.
While she tried to refocus on West’s sleeping face, the next inevitable question made its way to her brain—What the hell am I doing? Her gallery show was finished and while she was sure the profits were enough to pay her rent through the next year and keep Amy in incredibly high heels for a bit longer, Meg didn’t have a next step. There were still a few last-minute tasks for Anna’s wedding, but that wasn’t a job. After that, what was her plan, her next assignment?
She did not know and the fact that she was in Westin Drake’s hotel room like one of his many conquests made things worse. Her thoughts were thick with self-criticism and a reminder that she was a photographer who hadn’t picked up her camera in almost two weeks. She’d gone downtown to photograph some of the old buildings and hadn’t even downloaded the shots. She was normally frantic to see her work after a day out. When had that changed? Probably around the time she’d let Amy pressure her into polish and hanging out with celebrities. Is that what she was about now?
And then there was David last night. How could she forget about that? The memory of his smug face as he paraded around his expecting wife like a prize he was dangling under her nose. She didn’t love him and she certainly didn’t want to change places with his wife. Meg worked for a living and preferred being alone. She wasn’t even sure she wanted a partner. Wait, she knew she didn’t want that, didn’t she?
She’d given her life to her career, and while she’d returned for her family and a sense of stability, that didn’t mean she wanted what her sisters had. They were different. So instead, she was what? Sneaking around an overpriced hotel suite that doubled as a home for a man she’d let slide into her life and who was now leaving? How was that any different than settling in with David?
Holy crap, she couldn’t breathe.
Barely aware she was moving, Meg gathered her things. She took off the sweatshirt West had loaned her, folded it, and placed it on his bed like an item she was returning to the store. Had she truly been escorted to his room last night through the back elevator? Who lived this way? Certainly not her, she thought, slipping into her shoes from the night before. Meg’s roommate in college often spent the night at some guy’s house and she used to return home in the early hours of the morning. Mascara smeared, she’d whisper “walk of shame” and crawl into her bunk. Meg had never participated in that college ritual, but here she was like a groupie. She stopped, purse in hand, and wondered why she was being so hard on herself. They hadn’t slept together.
It occurred to her that all of this started when she read he would be in LA tomorrow. There it was again, the urge to leave before being left. She would think about what all that meant some other time. Right
now, she opened the door and made her way to the service elevator.
West woke up alone on the couch. He was on his stomach, which meant Meg was not blissfully tucked against his body. Rubbing his eyes, he called her name and after a quick look around the suite realized she was gone. He checked his phone and saw her text:
Thank you for dinner and your couch. It has been great working with you these past few months. Good luck with your movie. Safe flight to Los Angeles.
Working with him? West read the text again. Yup, that’s what it said. What the hell had happened? He replayed the evening in his mind, lingering on the parts when they were kissing, which only left him more confused.
Working with each other, my ass.
He was poised to text a clever response but stopped. Setting his phone down on the table, he ran his hands over his face. They had finished her gallery show and technically he had no more business with Meg Jeffries. Aside from the fact that his heart was throbbing in his chest, they were done. That was how she wanted it. The whole covert ops thing coming up to his hotel was understandably too much for her. Wait, how the hell did she get home?
West called down to Towner.
“How did Meg get home?”
“Well, good morning to you too. If you are referring to the woman your security team bumped into getting off the service elevator, Vince drove her home.”
“When?”
“Around five thirty this morning.”
After a thank-you, West hung up, glad Meg was safe but still stunned by the brush-off. She’d left at five thirty and texted him at—he turned his phone over—seven. What was that, guilt relief for leaving without a damn word?”
He had never been responsible for anyone but himself. Looking out at the city below, he realized someone usually swept in right as life or responsibilities loomed close to his shoulders. He was left with his parents and their almost empty nest by the time Patrick and Cade left for college, but right as his parents started talking chores and responsibility, Boyd was back from Oregon with his young son Mason. The family dynamic was turned on its ass and two years later, West was gone to UCLA, his youth intact and any share of the family weight left firmly back on his older brother’s shoulders. Hell, even as far back as when they were kids, West would talk himself into trouble and one, usually a couple, of his brothers would wear the black eye.
