by Wendy Wax
Before Avery could come up with a suitable answer or call an Uber or do something that might halt this conversation, Ray pulled out his phone, scrolled through his contacts, and selected one.
“Oh, no!” she said when she saw Chase’s name pop up on the screen. “This is not going to happen. Definitely not now.” And yet she stood frozen as he touched the screen again then held the phone out to her. When she refused to take it, he held the ringing phone up to her ear.
Her feet were still rooted to the sidewalk when the ringing stopped. Before she even opened her mouth, a voice she’d hoped to never hear again chirped, “Hi, this is Chase’s phone. At the moment, he’s too lazy to answer. How can I help you?”
Avery’s stomach roiled. She swallowed hard, barely managing to keep down the lovely lunch she’d eaten earlier. With a strangled curse she turned and strode away from Ray and his phone, drawing in great gulps of air as she put distance between herself and the sickeningly cheerful voice that belonged to the relationship-wrecking, boyfriend-stealing Riley Hancock.
* * *
• • •
Troy Matthews arrived at the Winter Haven cottage on Saturday with a cocky smile on his face and his arms filled with bags of groceries he apparently intended to cook. He’d barely handed them to Kyra when Max and Dustin jumped all over him. His laugh filled the living room as he tossed Dustin over his shoulder then left him dangling down his back while he pretended not to be able to find him. Which set Dustin to giggling and Max to barking.
“I’m surprised Joan let you in,” Kyra said when the hilarity began to die down.
“It must have been the chocolates I brought her. And the fact that I didn’t protest too strenuously when she strip-searched me.” Troy winked. “At least not the first time.”
“Ha!” Kyra rolled her eyes but she couldn’t hold back her smile. Already his good humor had brightened and filled the small, silent space. Best of all, he didn’t allude to last night’s tear-filled invitation or the details he’d wrung out of her.
“Whadda you wanna do, Troy?” Dustin asked eagerly and with a smile that dissipated the tension she’d been living with since the previous morning’s public meltdown.
“Well,” he said. “We can take the canoe and get a little paddling in. Or we can throw the football for a while. Or maybe play a little corn hole.”
“Corn hole?” Dustin chortled. “I love corn hole!”
“I know,” Troy said. “I brought you a set. We can play right now if you like, but I don’t want you thinking I’m planning to show you any mercy.”
“Let’s play!” Dustin shouted. “And then we can go canoeing. And after that we can throw the football. And . . .”
“Right. Got it. Let’s go set up the corn hole and then we’ll challenge your mother to a game.”
“All right! Let’s go!” Dustin grabbed Troy’s hand and dragged him to the door. Max went with them hitting everything he passed with a tail too happy to be still.
All of the promised activities followed. And were topped off with steak kabobs on the grill and s’mores for dessert.
“Wow,” Kyra said after Troy returned from carrying an exhausted and happy Dustin to bed. “You do know how to pack a lot into half a day.”
“I call it intensive action therapy,” he said, plopping down on the sofa beside her. “You just keep moving and doing things that are supposed to be fun until they are. It’s sort of the whistling in the dark of happiness.”
“It certainly worked on Dustin. And just seeing him smiling and happy, well, I can’t tell you how huge that is.”
“I guess my work here is done then.” He smiled but made no move to leave.
Kyra smiled back, looking into his eyes, frighteningly glad that he was there. “I have to say it’s kind of hard to imagine someone who comes from your sort of background having to work at finding a way to be happy.”
“On the contrary, my dear Watson,” he said in an extremely poor British accent, and for the first time she noticed how often he hid the truth inside a joke. “In my experience, rich people aren’t necessarily happier than others, they’re just better at acting happy. Because nobody really wants to hear some rich asshole complaining about how hard it is to have a ton of money. There is zero sympathy for poor little rich kids and even less for rich adults. Ask Bitsy sometime.”
He softened the truth he’d just shared with another impish smile, offering another glimpse inside the man she’d made the mistake of writing off as uncomplicated, uncharitable, and unthinking.
They sat quietly facing each other. He looked into her eyes in a way that made her think he could see all the way inside her. To a place she’d been careful not to examine too closely.
He leaned forward tentatively. Before she fully grasped his intent, he kissed her, his lips firm and warm and stunningly gentle. “There,” he murmured against her lips. “Now we’ve got that whole first ‘official’ kiss thing out of the way.” She felt his lips smile against hers. “And it only took me three years to work up to it.”
She burst out laughing.
“Again, not exactly the reaction I was hoping for. Unless, of course, you believe as I do that laughter is a great natural aphrodisiac.”
Kyra laughed. “If you had told me three years ago when you were filming Dustin at every opportunity that I would ever want you to kiss anything but my ass, I would have thought you were on drugs.”
“I’d be glad to kiss your ass. Do you want me to turn my head while you bare it?” Again, the teasing tone with a truth wrapped up inside.
For a moment she thought, why not? She was single and over twenty-one. And it seemed laughter was in fact a turn-on. Especially when coupled with kindness. And twinkling blue eyes. And then there was that declaration of long-held feelings for her. Besides, her brain jumped from the man in front of her to the one who had been in her head now for so many years; Daniel was no doubt in bed with his wife this very minute. An image of Daniel and Tonja locked in each other’s arms formed before she could stop it.
Troy shook his head. Sat back. His eyes stopped twinkling. “You need to be careful what you wish for, Kyra. I don’t think you’d be all that happy if you ever got it.”
She sat where she was, speechless.
“All righty then.” He sat back, putting more space between them. “Shall we flip a coin for who gets the bed and who gets the sofa?” His tone was once again teasing; his eyes were not.
“No. But I will bring you a blanket and a pillow.” She jumped up, unsure whether what she felt was regret or relief, and went to retrieve the bedding. When she returned, his smile and a portion of the twinkle were back in place. “I hope you don’t snore too loudly,” he said as she left. “It’s a very unattractive trait in a woman. One I might be compelled to document and share on social media.”
“Ditto!” Kyra teased back, telling herself as she walked to her bedroom that it was better this way, less complicated. She was not disappointed. Not one little bit.
But she left her bedroom door open a crack. Just in case.
* * *
• • •
Bitsy knocked quietly on Nikki’s door. She’d learned the hard way that ringing the doorbell could spell disaster at this time of evening if Nikki had managed to get the twins to sleep.
The door opened silently. Nikki looked like a bag lady only without a bag. Unless you counted the ones under her eyes.
Yawning, Nikki stepped back so Bitsy could enter. Even in the dim light she looked unkempt and possibly unwashed. Toys littered the floor and almost every other flat surface. Dirty dishes teetered in the sink. The hall closet that held the washer and dryer was open. Dirty laundry spilled all over the floor.
“Have you already talked to Joe tonight?” Bitsy asked.
“Yes. Before I put the girls down. All three of us go a little crazy at the sound of his voice. It�
�s kind of Pavlovian how we react every time the phone rings.” Nikki frowned. “I hope we’re not setting them up to be emotionally tied to the telephone.”
“I think that happens anyway before they become teenagers.” Bitsy once again took in her friend’s greasy hair and haggard expression. “It doesn’t look like you bathed or put on makeup before you FaceTimed.”
“Usually I do.” She yawned. “But sometimes if I run out of time, I just keep the shot tight on the girls.” She swayed slightly on her feet.
“Nikki, this is not good. Tell me what I can do to help! And where is Luvie? Did she get flattened by a bus? Is she lying in a hospital somewhere? Because I can’t imagine anything less would keep her away from Sofia and Gemma for so long.”
Nikki shrugged, but she didn’t make a move to sit down or even offer Bitsy a seat. Which would require clearing away the detritus that seemed to be everywhere. “She’s got the flu. A really bad case. She’s determined not to infect the girls.”
“How are you handling everything you’re working on and taking care of the girls alone twenty-four-seven?”
“Obviously I’m not doing it all that well. I just keep going until they finally fall asleep. Women do it all the time.” Nikki yawned.
“Nothing personal, but I think a lot of those women are younger. And not necessarily mothers of twins.” She peered more closely at Nikki, who had always been so beautifully put together. “I hope Luvie is able to come back to work soon. I don’t really want to be around when Joe finds out you’ve been on your own all week.”
“Yeah, we definitely don’t want Joe to know that.” Nikki emitted another huge yawn. “There’s something I . . . oh, yeah.” She patted her robe pockets, finally producing a tiny triangle of a page torn from a magazine, which she handed to Bitsy. A phone number was scrawled across it. “He asked me to have you call him at this number. And I’m pretty sure he said he’d already talked to Bertie.”
Bitsy recognized the Cayman country code. Gulped. But before she raced back to her own place to make the call, she slid an arm around Nikki’s shoulders. “Tell me what I can do to help.”
Nikki sighed. “Well, I need two more models for the fashion show—a size ten and a size twelve. And someone to help inventory the new beachwear I ordered. Oh, and when I find it”—her eyes skimmed over the trashed living area—“will you look over my commentary for the show? I think I’ve got most of the outfit descriptions in but it’s pretty rough.”
“Of course. And maybe Avery and I could come babysit one evening so you can get out for a couple hours. Neither of us are very experienced, but eleven-year-old girls do it, right? Together we should be able to handle it.”
“Sure. Thanks.” Nikki yawned again.
“All right.” She hugged Nikki good-bye, eager now to speak with Joe. As she left for her own place, she vowed to help pick up the slack and make sure Nikki took some time off. She shoved her unease about Nikki aside as she dialed the number Joe had left.
Joe sounded far away but excited. “So, I sat down with Bertrand this morning. The man’s been living high but I guess the more you have, the more you want.”
She wanted to ask how Bertie had looked, how he’d sounded, whether he’d come alone, if he’d mentioned Delilah or that he was a father, but Joe didn’t offer any of those details and she couldn’t bring herself to ask.
Neither could she bring herself to tell him what he’d most want to know—that for some reason Luvie was missing in action and his wife was clearly getting snowed under. Because she was small and selfish. And didn’t want him running home before he’d taken care of Bertie.
“I told him I really wasn’t sure there was room for him in this deal and that I was only talking to serious players,” Joe continued.
“And how did he take that?” Bitsy asked, already imagining the look of irritation that would have shown first in his eyes and then, if he wasn’t careful, spread across his face.
“Not well,” Joe acknowledged. “Or given our goal, just right. He made a point of letting me know that the investment I was looking for was basically ‘chump change.’”
“Yeah.” She thought about her husband and how wrapped up he’d become in demonstrating his cleverness and his supposed business acumen. So many things she had either missed or gotten used to.
“If he wants in, he’ll have to transfer the money from his account one week from today at exactly eleven A.M. And I made sure it was a big enough amount that he’d have to tap into the primary account and not the smaller ones he’s been using for day-to-day living expenses. The freelancer will be standing by and ready to empty that account as soon as Bertie accesses it. Bertie stole this money so it’s not as if he’ll be able to complain to anyone. But should it ever come up, I will disavow any knowledge of your efforts to reclaim what belongs to you.”
Bitsy could hardly breathe as she heard the words she’d thought would never come. When she thanked Joe and hung up, she realized that if all went well, in just one week she’d no longer be broke. Even if she had a few less zeros attached to her bottom line than she had before, she’d finally be herself again.
Thirty-one
Kyra felt like a runner in a first marathon for which she had not adequately trained. She had run too hard and too fast at the beginning. She had stumbled and encountered unexpected hazards. But the finish line was no longer so far distant as to be unimaginable. She no longer cared whether they reached it at a run, walk, or crawl.
With less than two weeks to go, seven to eight days of shooting left for Dustin, she had traded in her mantra of half full, half full for almost there, almost done. It echoed in her head when Daniel insisted on take after take, overshooting every scene from every possible angle in an attempt to put decision making off until later. Those looking for immediate answers or action had learned to talk to Tonja.
Morale was low. The early days of perfect takes were far behind them as they limped toward the finish line. But the publicity machine continued at warp speed, churning out photo op after photo op and interview after interview, all of it carefully choreographed to counter the reports of budget overruns and schedule delays that leaked from the set along with the allusions to Daniel’s erratic performance in front of the camera and lack of talent behind it.
Today the “friendlies”—the cherry-picked entertainment reporters who could be counted on not to ask the difficult questions—had been invited onto the soundstage for a chance to shoot photos and do brief interviews with the principal actors. Kyra sat in a chair just outside the spill of light where Dustin could see her. There to meet his eyes each time he searched for her. There after each forced smile and every inane question. Even a four-year-old recognized when the same question got asked for the tenth time. And her four-year-old had learned how to deliver the answer like he delivered his lines—as if they came without effort and he sincerely meant them, but she could see the calculation that had begun to sneak into his eyes, the effort it took to appear genuine and enthusiastic when you no longer were. This was a skill that might prove useful later in life, but it wasn’t a skill a child should develop. Especially not her child.
“That’s great, Dustin. Can you smile up at your dad?” a photographer asked. “Right. Good, that’s good. Okay, can we get Chris and Derek and Tonja in the shot, too?”
They rearranged the principals all over the set for stills then opened up to questions. The video team, who were ever present in the same way Troy had always been on Do Over, documented the press conference for The Making of The Exchange. Only Troy’s instructions at the time had been to catch them at their worst while this crew was there to make sure the cast and crew looked good. For a tiny moment she let herself think about Troy and their first “official” kiss.
The whir of motor drives and digital flashes bounced off the hard surfaces of the set. Daniel used his million-dollar smile to good effect and even called the entertai
nment press by name. His slightly furrowed brow and distracted air were obvious only to those who knew him well.
“So how far over budget are you right now?” The voice came from the darkness not far from where Kyra sat. The reporter stepped into the light, someone she’d never seen before and clearly not a friendly.
There was a buzz of speculation. Daniel continued to smile, but he was already stepping out of position. At a nod from his wife he left.
“I’ll be happy to answer that question. Wouldn’t want you reporting rumors.” Tonja stood her ground. She leaned down and whispered something in Dustin’s ear, and he walked off the set and came to Kyra. Kind of like a mother lion letting the cubs escape before taking on the predator that threatened.
Kyra didn’t wait to see how Tonja dealt with the reporter, whether she would kill him with kindness or devour him and pick his bones clean—when someone sacrificed themselves, you didn’t linger to watch them get mauled. She and Dustin headed to the trailer.
A short while later someone from wardrobe came to take Dustin for a fitting, and she puttered about repeating her mantra, trying to stay busy so she wouldn’t be counting the hours and minutes that remained in the marathon.
When the trailer door opened behind her, she expected it to be Dustin. But when she looked up, Daniel stood just inside the doorway. He looked tired and disheveled, but as she watched he quirked one dark eyebrow upward. “I feel like Tarzan coming home at the end of a long day.” His tone turned mock serious, his voice deeper. “Jane, it’s a jungle out there.”
She laughed but wondered if he, too, had been aware of Tonja the lioness allowing him to scamper off to safety, or whether he’d grown too used to being protected to notice.
The way he looked at her made it clear that his wife was the last person on his mind at the moment.
She felt a quick stab of shame. But even disheveled, he was far and away the most attractive man she’d ever met. Despite the feet of clay she now knew were encased inside the expensive loafers, he approached her with complete confidence born of long experience. Her physical reaction was instantaneous and had also been honed over time.
