“Sounds good.” He grabbed his helmet and followed her outside.
Once they’d crossed the first street, she turned and asked, “Have you had dinner?”
“No.” Small talk like this he could handle. He just hoped she wouldn’t take it as an invitation to start asking about his personal life.
“I highly recommend their sandwiches. Or their soups.” She stared down at the sidewalk, her lips twitching in a shy grin. “But the desserts are to die for.”
So, Ms. Park Avenue had a sweet tooth. “Good to know.”
Her eyes widened like a child’s in a toy store when they entered the café. She went straight to the dessert case and licked her lips. “You have the Sacher-torte today.”
“I made it this morning in the hopes you’d come by, Becca,” a middle-aged woman with a slight German accent behind the counter said. “Shall I cut you a slice?”
Rebecca nodded. “And could you give me another slice to go, too, Gitta?”
“Expecting a rough week at work?”
“Horrendous,” she replied with a laugh.
“And I take it you’d like your usual drink?”
Rebecca nodded again. “I’m so predictable.”
So far, she’d seemed to be anything but predictable to him. But he was willing to watch and learn.
Gitta turned to him. “And for your friend?”
“Just coffee,” he replied. Anything more might overwhelm him.
“I’ll bring it to your table in a minute.” Gitta turned to start steaming some milk.
Rebecca took his hand to lead him to a table, but the gentle touch managed to kick the air from his lungs. He’d lived so long in a world where most women begged permission to touch him that her complete indifference to his celebrity status shocked him. But then, maybe that was a good thing. If she didn’t know who he was, he might be able to let his guard down long enough to enjoy coffee with her.
He glanced around the room, but no one was staring at them or whispering to their friends while pointing at him. No flash of a paparazzo’s camera. No cringe-worthy fear that sharing dessert with Rebecca would be tomorrow’s headline on TMZ.
For the first time in years, he felt almost normal.
He placed his helmet in an empty chair and sat down across from her. As much as he wanted to relax, he couldn’t quite let his guard down. “Come here often?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Just slightly.”
She laughed at his dry reply. “You’re really missing out on Gitta’s Sacher-torte. It was her grandmother’s recipe.”
“I haven’t been very hungry lately.”
She nodded, empathy flittering across her features. “Yeah, once you’ve had your guts turned inside out for a week, it takes a while for the appetite to come back.”
He leaned forward, elbows on the table, and lowered his voice. “I still have a hard time believing someone like you understands what I’m going through.”
“Why?”
Her quick reply caught him off guard. He backed away and gestured to her appearance. “Because…”
“Because I don’t look the part?”
Before he could answer, Gitta interrupted them by setting a plate of chocolate cake and two mugs on the table. Steam rose from his mug of black coffee, but a mound of cinnamon-sprinkled whipped cream covered her beverage. “What is that?”
She stirred some of the cream into her drink and licked the spoon. “Cinnamon hazelnut hot chocolate.”
“Someone’s going to have a sugar rush tonight.”
She flashed him a wicked grin before drinking a gulp of her hot chocolate. When she lowered her mug, a dot of whipped cream lay perched on the end of her nose.
Ethan tried to smother the laugh that rose from his throat, but it was no use. Instead, he let it out and reached for a napkin. “You have a little something on your nose.”
“Oh?” But instead of acting mortified and reaching for a mirror like he expected her to do, she laughed with him and wiped her nose with a napkin. “Got it?”
He nodded, once again surprised by her. Here was a refined young woman who wasn’t the least bit concerned with her appearance. Very different from the high-society girls he’d gone to high school with or the models and actresses he’d met through the years.
She took a more cautious sip this time. “I’d promised to be an open book to you, so ask away.”
He crossed his arms and sat back in his chair, watching her nibble at the cake. So many things about her intrigued him. Where did he begin? But one question always lingered in the back of his mind. “How long have you been clean?”
“Two years and a hundred and fifty days.” she replied without looking up from her cake. “At least, this time around.”
“You relapsed?” She seemed so calm and collected that he wouldn’t have expected that from her.
“Yep. The first time, I was forced into rehab by my parents. Suboxone and all that mess. It didn’t take me long to figure out how to hide my pills and go back to the good stuff again.”
“So what made you stop?”
“I OD’d and almost died.” She kept eating her cake as though she were talking about a boring day at work instead of a near-death experience. “At a big charity ball, no less. The press had a field day with that one.”
“And why was that?”
That made her pause and look up from her plate. She held his gaze long enough for him to realize her eyes were more green than blue today. “You remember what I said last week about us taking the ‘anonymous’ part seriously.”
“Yes.”
Her chin quivered, and she swallowed hard. “Then let’s leave it at that.”
Another layer of mystery to her. Whoever Rebecca was, she was famous enough to be known by the press. “Fine. Then my next question—what do you do?”
“I’m an assistant at a women’s magazine,” she said with a roll of her eyes.
“Not your dream job?”
“Not even close, but it’s a foot in the door.”
“For what? Fashion?”
“No.” She didn’t expand, turning her attention instead on the remaining crumbs of her Sacher-torte as she engaged her fork in a repetitive dance of stab, smash, and scrape. “Next question.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” he blurted out before he realized what he was saying.
The corners of her mouth rose, and she looked up at him through her lashes. “Why do you want to know?”
Shit! Not the way he wanted this conversation to go. It was one thing to stick to safe, NA-related topics, but if he found out she was single, he’d have a hard time keeping his thoughts clean around her. “Um, because I’d like to make sure some jealous boyfriend isn’t going to hunt me down and punch me for calling you in the middle of the night.”
Her smile widened into something both teasing and inviting. “No danger of that.”
No danger why? Because she’s single? Or because she has a really understanding significant other?
Time to steer the conversation back to safe subjects before he gave into temptation and invited her back to his place. “What changed between the first time and the second time?”
“It was my choice.” She pushed her plate aside and leaned forward. “I think that was the most important thing that helped me stay clean. I’m not doing this because I was forced to by my parents or the law or some other external means. I’m doing this for me. Everything I need is in here.” She patted the area over her heart.
An ache formed in the center of his chest. He resisted the urge to mirror her and press the heel of his hand against his ribs to ease the pain. He’d been the one who’d decided to give up heroin, but there was still a voice in the back of his mind telling him he’d end up just like Ty. “And what if that’s not enough?”
“Then you look for little daily victories. For example—not embarrassing your friends or family. Or not wondering where your money went because you basically handed it over to your dealer. Or not waking up next to some stranger you dragged home while you were high.”
He nodded with each example she’d given, knowing firsthand how those situations felt—until she got to the next one.
“Or not having to give up open-toed shoes.”
“Open-toed shoes?” It was so ridiculous, a laugh wedged itself between his words. “What the hell does that have to do with staying clean?”
A blush stole up into her cheeks, and she slid her gaze to the side. “It’s kind of embarrassing.”
“You said you were an open book, and that I’d understand you better than most.”
“True.” She bit her lip and squirmed in her seat like he’d just asked her to reveal the color of her underwear. “The first time I went into rehab, it was because my stepmother noticed the track marks on my arms. So when I relapsed, I got more creative with where I shot up. You won’t believe how quickly you can get high from shooting up between your toes.”
He nodded, finally seeing what she meant. “So your parents weren’t suspicious because all they saw were flawless arms.”
She glanced up at him through her lashes. “Yeah, it worked for several months until…”
“Until you OD’d,” he finished almost in a whisper. His throat tightened, choking him as he asked, “How close did you come to dying?”
“I had broken ribs from the CPR that was done to keep me alive until the medics arrived with Narcan.”
Her answer was honest, direct, lacking the coyness from earlier. But it didn’t release the invisible rope of guilt squeezing around his neck and chest. How is it she survived when his best friend didn’t? If he’d managed to find Ty sooner—if he’d acted on the signs that Ty was slipping further and further under the spell of heroin and not caring how much he took as long as he got high—would his best friend still be here today? If he’d just watched him closer, taken away his needles, would it have made a difference?
If he’d accepted Ty’s invitation to go back to his apartment that night to get high with him, would things have turned out differently? Would he have been able to call 911 and save him like the medics had done with Rebecca? Or would he have followed his best friend like he’d always done, even into death?
He squeezed his eyes shut to block out all the scenarios racing through his mind, but the guilt didn’t ease. And the only solution he could find was in the seductive voice inside that beckoned him to relapse into his old habits. One hit was all he’d need to quiet the anguish, the doubt, the pain.
Sweat beaded along his hairline as he battled the familiar demons. Panic raced along his veins like an electrical current, setting every nerve on edge. He balled his hands into fists, fighting the growing urge to give in.
And then a cool hand covered his, pulling him from the whirlpool that threatened to drag him under.
He opened his eyes to find Rebecca watching him with worry etched around the corners of her normally smiling mouth. A sober sense of understanding laced her words as she said, “I know it’s hard, but don’t give in to it, Ethan.”
He yanked his hand back. “What the fuck do you know?”
“I’ve been there, remember?” She retreated to her side of the table. “Tell me what just happened, and maybe I can help you through it.”
It rankled his insides that she thought he needed her help. He alone was the one who’d decided to come clean. He’d made it through detox alone. And he’d be able to overcome the craving alone, too. “I don’t have to tell you anything.”
He fished a few bills out of his wallet and threw them on the table before grabbing his helmet and stomping out the door. He was done with this crap.
“Stop it right there,” a stern female voice called after him.
He drew to a stop a split second before Rebecca grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. “What is your problem?” she asked, her body rigid with anger.
“Maybe you’re my problem.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it.” She rammed her finger into the center of his chest as she drove each point home, backing him into the alley between the café and its neighbor. “You’re so angry at the world that you’re willing to blame everyone for your problems but yourself.”
He’d been brought up to never strike a woman, but she came pretty damned close to pushing enough of his buttons to make him consider shoving her out of his way. Instead, he drew up every inch of his height so he towered over her and dropped his voice to issue a low, sinister warning. “And that’s where you’re wrong.”
But instead of cowering, she held her ground, her face inches from his. “Then prove it.”
Intimidation wasn’t working with her, and for the wildest second, he fought the urge to kiss her. Maybe that would shock her enough to leave him alone. But he kept his arms at his sides, his eyes locked in the staring match they’d entered. “You first.”
“Fine. I don’t know what your story is because you won’t share it with me, but Gary knew enough about you to think I’d be able to help, and I trust his judgment.”
“You want me to open up, and yet you purposely evaded several of my questions in there. How do you expect me to trust you when you obviously don’t trust me?” He turned on his heel and made it three steps before she called out his name. His mind told him to keep walking, but something else made him halt.
“You’re right,” she said, and his defenses cracked. He’d been so ready to say the hell with this, but with two little words, she’d managed to temper the rage boiling inside him.
She approached him slowly, circling around him at arm’s reach like she expected him to take a swing at her if she got too close. Her face remained wary as she studied him. “Can I trust you?”
He drew a breath into his lungs and held it while he weighed the cost of listening to another word from her. So far, she’d managed to get under his skin more than any other woman he’d ever known—in both good ways and bad ways. And if he opened the door to her, she’d keep invading his personal life until she knew all his secrets.
But if he held one of her secrets, he could use it as leverage for when she got too close.
“You can trust me.”
She glanced over her shoulder at the pedestrians on the sidewalk behind them before pushing even further into the alley. The smell of rotting garbage wafted around them, but she seemed oblivious to it. “Have you heard of Shore Hotels?”
“Who hasn’t?” He’d stayed in his fair share of the luxury hotel chain’s rooms when he was touring.
“My great-grandfather started them.”
“You’re Becca Shore?” Her confession set off a chain of recognition that unfolded like a clap of thunder. Images of a blond, tanned, partying heiress who frequently graced the tabloids a few years ago flashed before him. They seemed so at odds with the calm woman in front of him, but when he looked closer, he recognized her face. It was a bit fuller, and she’d traded the bronzed glow for a flawless ivory complexion, but the eyes were the same.
She ran her fingers through her dark hair, one side of her mouth quirking up in a half smile. “Would you like to see my driver’s license?”
“No, I believe you.” And more important, he finally understood why Gary had suggested she help him out until he had a sponsor. If anyone knew about trying to stay clean while under the pressures of fame, it would be her. “So what happened to you?”
She flipped her hair over her shoulder, her spine stiffening. “Excuse me?”
“I mean, I couldn’t open up a gossip rag without reading something about you, and then—bam!—you disappeared. What happened to the army of paparazzi that used to follow you around and catch you with your underwear missing?”
“After I OD’d
, I purposely made sure I disappeared for a while so I could get my shit together. I checked into a treatment center. By the time I left there, I started caring less about what others thought of me and more about what I thought of myself. I changed my appearance, finished school, got a job, all while flying under the radar.” She shrugged. “It’s kind of nice to be normal for a change.”
“But you’re still a Shore.”
“Yeah, but I’m so boring now, the press leaves me alone. Besides, I don’t think they’d recognize me. You didn’t.”
But did she recognize him? He searched for any sign of recognition, but saw nothing. Either she was completely clueless or completely unfazed by his celebrity status. It didn’t matter, judging by the way his shoulders unknotted after learning who she was. Even if she did know, he doubted she’d go blabbing to the press about him.
“So does that help you any?” she asked.
“Loads.”
“Then I’ll see you next week?”
“Maybe.” Time to leave before she started prying into his personal life again.
She caught his arm and stopped him. “Please.”
Such a simple word, and yet it was strange to witness a wealthy heiress say it. “Why?”
“Because I want to help you any way I can. But I can’t unless you let me. Even if the meetings aren’t your thing, I’m still here if you need someone to talk to.” She released his arm and took a step back toward the café. “I’d better go retrieve that slice of Sacher-torte before someone else does.”
Part of him longed to follow her back into the café and spill his guts to her over another slice of cake, but both fear and pride held him back. He wasn’t ready to trust her.
Not yet.
But he would be willing to consider taking her out for coffee again next week, if only to hear more about how she managed to dodge the press all these years and move on with her life.
Chapter Three
Becca drummed her pen on her thigh as she stood against the wall in the conference room. It was Monday, the day when the editor-in-chief of Moderne magazine, Elaine Halpern, listened to story ideas from her staff and either approved them or shot them down. As an assistant, Becca was required to take notes and research the articles for the staff writers. She wasn’t allowed to pitch story ideas.
Rockers After Dark: 6 Book Bundle of Sexy Musicians Page 95
