by Tara Leigh
“What the hell is going on?” An irate voice interrupted our reverie. I swung my head to glare at the short man wearing a blue velvet jacket and plaid pants.
“Lucian, can you give me a minute please?”
Before he could answer, the photographer looked up from the screen of his camera. “We got the shot, we’re good.”
I turned back to Jolie as the others gave us our space. Tension was now wrapped around her shoulders, a scowl pulling at her lips. “What are you doing here?” Her voice had sharpened, words like bullets aimed my way.
At this point, I didn’t have a goddamned clue. “I live here.”
“Here, in New York?”
“As of a week ago. Your face is on a billboard right outside my apartment.”
She backed away, in the opposite direction of the open ledge, putting several feet between us. A lock of hair fell over her cheek, briefly shielding her expression from view. When Jolie turned my way again, any trace of vulnerability was gone. “And you decided to . . . what? Maul me, for old times sake?”
“Not sure that’s the word I would have used.”
“Really? What would you call it then?”
My gut twisted. The one that came to mind was mistake.
I didn’t realize I’d said it aloud until Jolie chimed in, her lips curving into a counterfeit smile. “We can agree on that, at least.” The dismissiveness in her tone made me want to throw her over my shoulder and carry her back to my place. Kiss away some of her confidence, feed off her needy moans, spank the sass out of her.
“Listen,” I exhaled a sigh, raking stiff fingers through my hair, “what we had—”
“Is behind us. We were kids.”
“Right.” I forced the word through my mouth, making liars out of us both. The last few minutes had proved our past was still very much a part of our present. “But there’s something . . .” Untangling my gaze from hers, I searched for the right words.
Clearly impatient for our interaction to be over, Jolie interrupted again. “No, Tripp. There’s nothing. Not anymore. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I really have to get out of this make-up.”
Did she have to make this so fucking hard, dismissing what we had like it was nothing?
Of course she did. She was Jolie Fucking Chapman. Difficult was in her DNA.
I pulled out my phone. “What’s your number. I’ll—”
Her eyes blazed. “What? Text me?” A bitter laugh scratched at my ears as she spun on her heel.
Against my better judgment, I followed her to where a mirror and table had been set up in front of a director’s-style chair. Jolie was settling herself into it, a woman coming at her with an open jar of thick white cream. “Give us a minute.” I snapped, just before she’d submerged her fingers.
The girl slapped the lid back on and flounced off. Jolie gawked at me. “For god’s sake, what else is there to say?” There was a tremble in her lower lip, the slightest flutter of her chin. Emotions way too close to the surface for her comfort.
Or mine.
Sending a glance skyward, I raked agitated hands through my hair. “Look, what I want to tell you isn’t about us.”
Jolie crossed her arms over her chest, a self-protective gesture. “There is no us.”
I opened my mouth, ready to tell her that we’d been a pretty kickass us, before she ruined it, when a tall brunette walked over, a determined expression on her face. “I’ve got to get back home, finish updating all of your social media. This shoot is so going viral.”
“Don’t post anything I wouldn’t,” Jolie said, looking away from me.
The brunette rolled her eyes. “You don’t post anything, so that would be impossible.” To me, she said, “I hope you’re planning on taking this one out to dinner. The poor thing hasn’t eaten a single bite all day.”
“Actually, Tripp was just leaving.”
Recognition flashed across the woman’s features, her gaze flicking to Jolie for a moment, eyebrows lifted. “Nice to meet you, Tripp. I’m Eva.”
From the satisfied smile toying with Eva’s lips as we shook hands, she was the only one of us enjoying the awkward moment. “Likewise.”
“So, are you?”
“Am I . . .”
“Are you leaving?”
I’d come here for a reason—to share with Jolie what I’d learned about her father. “Yes. With Jolie. Because I doubt she wants an audience for what I have to say.”
16
Jolie
Sparkling, discolored water swirled at my feet as I scrubbed countless layers of makeup and fine particles of iridescent glitter from my skin.
Unfortunately, no amount of soap could wash away the memory of Tripp’s touch, the feel of his muscles tensing and flexing beneath my palms, the taste of his kisses on my lips.
And the sound of the shower did nothing to drown the endless questions echoing inside my mind. Why did Tripp shove me aside years ago? Why did I kiss him back today?
What the hell am I doing in his apartment?
I was still shaking from the effort it had taken to lie straight to his face. To pretend like I was unaffected by his presence. By his touch. By his kiss. By him.
To act like a bitch when what I really wanted to do was beg.
Kiss me again. And again. And again. Until I forget why I hate you. Until I forget why I should hate you. Until I remember when you and I were an us.
I should have grabbed my coat out of Tripp’s hands and kept my butt firmly planted in the make-up chair, let the stylist remove everything they’d spent hours applying and reapplying all day. I should have eaten the pizza they’d ordered, cabbed it back to my apartment and gone straight to bed.
And emailed Lance, the first guy I’d been genuinely interested in since . . . Who else? Tripp. Even if nothing came of it, it was refreshing to be excited at the thought of a man.
A man who wasn’t Tripp Montgomery.
Until recently, I’d been convinced Tripp had somehow broken me. That he’d destroyed something inside me all those years ago. Whatever essential component I needed to fall in love again.
Like a puzzle he’d put together with care and deliberation, marveling at his creation, then returned back to the box, purposely holding onto a few pieces so that no one would ever be able to complete it again.
My memories of falling in love were so tied up and twisted with my memories of loss. First the shock of my father’s suicide. Then the accompanying betrayal. An avalanche of blame. After Tripp broke up with me, I said things I didn’t mean to a man who should have brushed them off as the ramblings of a heartbroken teen.
But he didn’t.
My angry tirade was the nail in my father’s coffin.
Death was the ultimate consequence. There were no second chances, no reversals. It was final.
Except, from death had come life. Romy’s life.
And I’d made the gut-wrenching decision to give her up. The baby Tripp and I had made together from love was a prize I had to forfeit, a gift I didn’t deserve.
A loss I forced upon myself, one that was becoming harder to live with every day.
Standing beneath Tripp’s waterfall showerhead, I let the spray soothe my stinging eyes. Seeing him had brought all of my emotions to the surface, especially those concerning Romy.
And if I didn’t get out of here soon I would be just a puddle on his marble floor.
Reaching for whatever semblance of self-preservation I had left, I shut off the water with a quick twist of the chrome knob and slicked the hair from my face, absorbing the excess water with a plush towel.
Dressing in the casual clothes I’d worn this morning—jeans, draped cashmere shirt, and narrow fringed scarf—I finger-combed my hair as best I could and left the bathroom. But not before checking my phone. Still nothing from Lance.
Tripp and I had shared a kiss, a kiss that fused past with present.
A spine-tingling, stomach-flipping, steal-the-oxygen-from-my-lungs kiss that, in the moment, had
somehow smoothed over the knot of bitterness that had been festering inside me for years, leaving behind just a wobbly collection of limbs and a head filled with if-onlys and what-could-have-beens.
But that moment was over.
Tripp had insisted that he had something important to say. Something that didn’t have anything to do with us.
He’d used the one man who was still a mystery to me. A man just as mysterious in death as he’d been in life.
I’d hear Tripp out, and then I would leave.
But first, I reached for my phone with hands that were less than steady. Lance might be geographically undesirable, but I needed the distraction. He was a lifeline to keep me from falling prey to Tripp’s . . . everything. But before I could open the RiskTaker app, a text from Eva popped up.
Eva: That was Tripp Montgomery???
Me: Yes. And I should fire you for not rescuing me.
Or maybe for all her tweets and posts so that anyone, including Tripp, would know exactly where to find me.
Eva: If you need to be rescued from that hottie, you’re beyond help.
I didn’t bother denying it. When it came to Tripp, I was definitely beyond help.
17
Jolie
My bare feet didn’t make a sound as I walked down the hall. “Okay, I’m—”
Tripp lifted his head, casting a smile that sent my stomach plunging down a steep roller coaster, exuberantly screaming all the way down. But it was too fast, too steep. I wasn’t ready for the descent. Dizzy from the rush of desire, I leaned against the wall, my gaze ping-ponging away from Tripp’s face in search of something safer: the plates he was setting on the table and the white bag with grease stains rising up the sides. “Is that . . .”
Tripp’s eyes flicked over me, leaving a trail of fire across my skin. “Gray’s Papaya. Although I also got you a salad in case you don’t eat hot dogs anymore.”
I measured the distance to the front door, what looked like a mile of open space with no wall to cling to, and instead eased into one of the chairs arranged around the table. Tripp reached into the bag and pulled out two rectangular paper boxes, handing one to me.
I choked out a laugh. The closest I’d come to eating meat in years were the raw fish and egg whites that were the main staples of my diet. “I don’t,” I said, before opening the box and taking a small bite. I wouldn’t have thought I’d be able to chew, but my body’s natural instincts jumped into action. They hadn’t had anything to eat since last night and didn’t care at all that I was standing at the edge of a mental breakdown. “Oh my god,” I groaned, covering my mouth with my hands as I closed my eyes.
He chuckled, amused. “Good?”
I was unprepared for the magnetic pull of moments I hadn’t dared think about in a decade, incapable of resisting the backward slide through time. Snippets of my history with Tripp that belonged to another lifetime, another girl. A hard rock and tender lips, a tentative kiss turned intensely intimate. A tiara of twigs on my head. The first crush of desire in my heart.
And a greasy bag from Gray’s Papaya.
Blinking my eyes open, I managed a small nod. “So good.” Bad. This was so bad. Being here was like inviting a storm into my life. Whether he knew it or not, Tripp had the power to unleash thunder and lightning and lethal winds that would wreck me. I needed to leave, now.
Tripp grinned around the bun. Unlike me, he waited until he’d swallowed before speaking up. “One of the very few things I missed about New York.”
His voice was smooth and low, capable of the sweetest whispers and most enticing promises. Whispers that faded into nothing, and promises that meant even less.
But his words? They landed like a grenade between us, making me wonder what else he’d missed over the years. Specifically, whether he’d missed me. The urge to pelt Tripp with questions and angry accusations was nearly overwhelming, although not nearly as overwhelming as the urge to kiss him again—everywhere.
Snap out of it, Jolie. What is wrong with you?
This was the man who had broken up with me the day after I gave him my virginity. The day after we confessed our love for each other. And he’d done it with a text message.
A. Fucking. Text.
And now he was acting like everything was okay just because he’d saved me from plunging thirty feet to my death, or at the very least a cracked skull.
Bastard.
I swallowed the mouthful that had turned sour, wiping my lips with a napkin and pushing my plate away. “So, what was it you wanted to tell me?”
Tripp didn’t answer, instead reaching for the other bag and pulling out two drinks with a flourish: one neon green, the other a vibrant orange. “Green Monster or Citrus Beet?”
“Monster,” I answered.
He passed me the plastic cup and a straw, glancing nervously at the contents of our drinks. “Why do healthy things look so scary?”
Eying the mess of ketchup, sauerkraut, onions, and mustard left on his plate, I raised an eyebrow. “I think your perspective might be skewed.”
With a grunt, Tripp took a pull of his straw, his face immediately screwing up in disgust. “This should be illegal.” He pushed back his chair and walked into the kitchen. “Beer, wine?”
“Nope, I’m all set.” I took a sip. “Want some of mine? It’s good.”
Flipping off the cap, Tripp raised his bottle. “I’m going to stick with what I know, thanks.”
I thought I knew you.
I thought wrong.
A beat passed as a sigh trembled through me. “I appreciate you going to the effort, but—”
“You want to know why I asked you here.” At my nod, Tripp cleared his throat. “After . . . well, everything, my mom and I left town. But I couldn’t stop thinking about what happened. It didn’t make sense to me.”
Shit. Had Tripp really brought me back here to rehash the past? I couldn’t—wouldn’t—do that. I had a bigger secret than he could imagine—and it needed to stay that way. “It still doesn’t. I’ve learned to live with that. You should, too.”
I stood up, but Tripp grasped my wrist, his touch sending a confusing flare of lust and panic up my arm straight into the receptors at the base of my spine. “The journalist who broke the story, I called him, wanting to know who had tipped him off—”
I pulled away from Tripp’s hold, needing to focus on his words instead of his touch. “A tip? Someone from inside the company?”
“Yes. I couldn’t get him to reveal his source, but he did tell me that he discovered the fraud on his own. His source only mentioned liquidity concerns and hinted at upper level management issues. When he investigated, he realized why MC Partners was having problems making their payments.”
Reeling from the idea that the scandal had been ignited by someone from within MC Partners, I struggled to keep pace with Tripp’s end of our conversation. “So whoever spoke to the reporter must not have been in on it.”
“If they were telling the truth, yes.” He blew out a heavy breath, running a hand through his hair. “But by then, the reporter had moved on and my father was already in jail. So I started to look into things. And I discovered . . .” He paused to take a sip of his beer.
“What?” I prodded, needing to know.
“Your father wasn’t actually involved in the scam.”
My vision blurred at the edges as I struggled to absorb what Tripp was telling me. “But, that’s not what the papers reported. According to them, our fathers were equally guilty.”
“My father and his cronies went to great pains to make it appear that way.”
“How—how do you know this?”
“I hacked some high-level government systems. I went back to the journalist but . . .”
“The information wasn’t obtained legally.” A fresh wave of fury burned through my veins as I connected the dots. “He wouldn’t print it.”
“With everyone taking deals and your f—”
I put a hand up, blinking back hot tears.
“Got it.” With my father gone, there was no reason to continue with their investigation. “What about your father? Why didn’t he take his chances with a trial?”
“I think that was his plan. Until the D.A. threatened to prosecute my mother. It wasn’t an empty threat, either. Her position on the Board of Directors was only an honorary title but, according to their lawyer, if she went to court, she would most likely serve time. And with your f—” Tripp paused, his voice a low rumble. “I’m sorry, Jolie. I wish things were different.”
I took a few shaky breaths. “Yeah. Me too.” If what Tripp said was true, my father hadn’t been a co-conspirator. He was just another Montgomery victim.
18
Tripp
All the color had drained from Jolie’s face, so I walked to the wet bar I’d stocked yesterday. I took my time selecting a bottle of crisp white wine, purposely giving Jolie some space to gather her thoughts, then set about uncorking it. As I filled a glass, she tossed the remains of our dinner into the bag and brought it into the kitchen. Noticing her scanning the room for the garbage, I waved my hand in front of a sensor hidden in a cabinet.
“Fancy,” she said, as a bin slid out.
“Efficient,” I countered.
Rather than return to the table, she rounded the island and took a seat in one of the barstools. I pushed the glass across the countertop.
Under normal circumstances, Jolie Chapman was the type of woman it was impossible to tear your eyes from. And not just because she was beautiful. There was something about her appeal that went beyond the perfectly symmetrical arrangement of delicate features, or the velvety smoothness of her skin. I couldn’t explain it, but looking at her made my body throb with energy, as if every cell got a buzz just from her aesthetic.
But Jolie, here, in my kitchen—with me—was definitely not normal. Not normal at all.
