by Lexi Ryan
“Yeah. I have a little girl, and she keeps me busy. What about you? You said you aren’t living in California anymore?”
“I sold my condo after…” I don’t know if that sentence needs an ending or is complete just like that. After Mom’s wedding… After the letter… After you moved to Indiana…
“Do you miss it?”
“In some ways I do, but it was time to move on.” Every corner of that place was filled with memories of Keegan, and while it was hard to walk away from those, it was also hard to live with them. It might have been worth it, though, if other memories weren’t there too—the kind I try not to think about, the kind I had to escape to stay sane. “I’m in Georgia now. My life has changed for the better since moving out there.”
“Em!”
Keegan and I both turn toward the entrance to see Becky rushing toward our table, her soft-sided carry-on slung over one shoulder. “Em, I’m so sorry. Adam just called and told me the doctor admitted the baby to the hospital. She has pneumonia. I’m going to the airport to get the next flight home.”
“Oh my goodness. I’m sorry, Becky.” I put my napkin on the table and scoot out my chair to stand.
Becky shakes her head and puts a hand on my shoulder. “No. You stay put. Go to the spa, enjoy your weekend. I’m serious.” She turns to Keegan. “Will you make sure she enjoys herself? She needs a break, and I’m afraid if I’m not here she’ll be glued to her laptop working the whole time.”
“My daughter had pneumonia over the winter,” Keegan says. “It was terrifying, but they’ll be able to keep an eye on it while she’s in the hospital. I know it’s scary. Remember she’s where she needs to be.”
“I know. She’s my baby, is all.”
Keegan nods. “You’ll feel better when you’re in the room with her.”
Becky’s eyes fill with tears. “I feel so bad leaving Em. We planned this months ago, and—”
“Stop it,” Emma says. “Stop worrying about me, for goodness’ sakes. Go home to your baby. I’ll be just fine.”
Keegan nods. “She will. I’ll make sure she has a good time.”
Becky gives him a watery smile. “You’re the best. Thank you so much.” She squats down to wrap me in an awkward one-armed hug and whispers, “I’ll call later. Promise me you’ll try to have fun. You deserve this.”
Chapter Five
Keegan
I’m pretty sure I just agreed to spend my weekend in Vegas with Emma Rothschild. No, I just agreed to show Emma a “good time” in Vegas. To say this is a dangerous proposition is an understatement.
Our food is served shortly after Becky rushes from the restaurant, but Em just pushes her waffles around on her plate instead of eating.
Reaching across the table, I lay my hand on top of hers. “The baby will be okay.”
She lifts her eyes to meet mine and nods weakly. “I know. And I’m glad she’s going home to be with her. She wouldn’t have had any fun worrying about the baby the whole time.”
“Then what’s wrong?”
She looks up at me through her lashes, and I’m rocketed back in time to our first date and the way she studied me with a combination of wonder and nerves, as if she’d never been on a date before. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to make good on your promise. I’m a big girl and I can handle a weekend in Vegas alone. I’m sure you have your own plans. It’s just…”
“Just what?”
Her lips are sweet pink, and I can’t help but watch as her tongue darts out to wet them. “Doesn’t it seem strange to you that we ran into each other this weekend? After all this time?”
“It’s a small world, as they say.”
“The right thing to do would be to say goodbye.”
“Is that what you want?”
She blinks at me and her lips part before she releases a puff of air and drains the rest of her mimosa. “No.”
I exhale a rush of relief. Saying goodbye might be the smartest move, but now that she’s close, I don’t want to let her walk away. The waiter returns with our bill, and I take it from him and scribble my name and room number on it before dropping it to the table. “Take a walk with me?”
Her face lights up and she nods. “I’d like that.”
We’re quiet as we leave the restaurant and stroll around the gardens. It’s still early and the tourists from other hotels haven’t descended upon this spot yet, but there are enough people milling around that the silence between us doesn’t feel awkward.
“Do you know them?” Emma asks, pointing to the garden’s entrance.
My friends are walking in our direction, led by Bailey and Mia.
“You ditched us for a girl?” Bailey says. “Of course you did.”
Mia nudges her. “He’s with us all weekend. He’s entitled to a breakfast alone.”
Mason arches a brow. “I don’t think he ate alone, Mee. Are you going to introduce us to your friend?”
Right. “Everyone, this is Em—” I look at Emma, my eyes widening as I realize she probably wouldn’t be wearing the wig if she wanted me to share her true identity with my friends.
“Emily Zimmerman,” she says, covering my mistake without a hitch.
“She’s an old friend from high school,” I lie. I don’t know Emma from high school, or from college. She was from the space between—that summer when I thought my life was already mapped out in one direction and a young actress made me believe I was good enough to turn the other way. “Em, this is Mason, Arrow, Mia, Chris, Grace, and Bailey.”
“Wow,” Emma says. “A bunch of NFL stars right here in front of me. It’s great to meet you.” Mason shakes her hand, and Em blushes hard. “That was a great catch you made in the fourth quarter in the game against the Patriots. For what it’s worth, that offensive interference call in overtime was completely bogus.”
Mason beams. “A Gators fan?” He looks to me and them back to Em. “It’s always nice to meet a fan.”
Mia and Grace wave, but Bailey crosses her arms over her chest and narrows her eyes at Em. “You look familiar.”
Em smiles. “I get that a lot. I think I have one of those faces.”
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Emily,” Mia says.
“Mia and Arrow are the reason we’re here,” I tell Em.
“You’re the ones getting married next weekend?” Em asks, directing the question to Mia.
Mia laughs. “In two weeks, actually, and our friends are the ones who made this happen. We haven’t all been together in a long time, so it’s pretty much the best wedding gift ever.”
Emma turns to me. “See? You should be spending your time with them, not me.”
“She was here for a bachelorette weekend, but the bride had to go home unexpectedly,” I explain to my friends.
Emma shifts awkwardly. “And now Keegan thinks he’s obligated to entertain me, but I’ll be fine. I have an appointment at the spa this morning and plans to sit by the pool all afternoon. There’s plenty to keep me busy.”
Mia jumps in, as I knew she would. “You’re welcome to hang with us this weekend.” Arrow nudges her, and her eyes go wide. “What?”
“Maybe he wants to be alone with his old friend,” he says in a whisper we can all hear, and the others laugh.
Bailey, who’d typically be in for ribbing me in any conversation that had to do with my sex life or love life, stays silent. As all our friends have paired off, Bailey and I have become close. When I bought the bar that would become The End Zone, I didn’t think I had a chance to play in the NFL, but when the Gators signed me, Bailey stepped up to manage the bar during the football season. I know people suspect we’re fooling around, but we really are just friends brought together by our crappy love lives.
Mia tilts her head and studies Emma. “No pressure on joining us, but if you two wanted group activities, my offer stands.”
Emma shakes her head. “I don’t want to impose.”
“You can’t do Vegas alone,” Mia says. “Come
on. A friend of Keegan’s is a friend of ours. I don’t see any reason you can’t hang out with us. We have a VIP bungalow reserved at the Wet Republic pool at the MGM. We’re going to spend the afternoon there and then go to dinner and a show before we hit some new club at Caesars.”
Emma looks at me and then back to Mia. “You really are sweet to invite me.”
“I mean it,” she says. “The more the merrier, but your choice.”
Bailey gestures toward the café. “We should go before they give away our table.”
“Oh no,” Emma says. “I didn’t mean to keep you from breakfast.”
“It’s not a problem,” Mia says, shooting Bailey a hard look. “I hope we see you at the pool this afternoon.”
The idea of spending the entire afternoon with Emma in her bathing suit makes my gut warm and knot all at once. She’s always been self-conscious about her body for no damn good reason. Her mom has that Hollywood-waif thing going on and always criticized Emma for not dieting and exercising her body to fit the same mold. You can’t change your body type though, and Emma wasn’t built to be a waif. Emma was built to be all curves and hips. She’s femininity and softness in all the right places, and it’s a fucking crime that she’s spent most of her life feeling ashamed of that.
When my friends walk away toward the restaurant, Emma and I stroll through the hotel.
“You canceled your breakfast plans to eat with me?” she asks.
I shrug. “It wasn’t a big deal.”
She shakes her head. “You didn’t come to Vegas alone. You’re supposed to be with your friends. I’m ruining your weekend.”
I smile at her. “You’re not.” I stop in front of a topiary that’s been shaped to look like Harry Potter riding his broom and tuck my hands into my pockets. “I’m sorry I was such a dick last night, leaving you like that.”
“I’m surprised you were even willing to speak to me. I shouldn’t have expected you to dance.”
I cut my eyes to her. “I was afraid if I stayed, something might happen between us.”
“Oh.” Her lips curve into a small O as her cheeks turn pink.
“But now that I have you next to me, I realize how stupid I was being last night. I want to spend the weekend with you. For old times’ sake, hang out with me and my friends.”
“Why do you want to do this?” She shakes her head, her brow creasing. “You don’t know me anymore. My life is… It’s complicated, Keegan.” She frowns and tugs her bottom lip between her teeth. “You’ve been caught up in my problems before, and I don’t want to do that to you again.”
I wince at the reminder. Is that what Harry was to her? A “problem”? I push the thought aside to be filed under “shit that’s not my business.” I don’t have a right to be hurt by what Emma did to me, not when my intentions going into our very first date were never what she believed. “I promise you I have a really fucking busy life waiting for me and I don’t need romantic complications any more than you do. We’re adults, and just because we used to be involved doesn’t mean we can’t be friends now. Right?”
She meets my gaze for a few long beats. “I’ll think about it.”
Chapter Six
Emma
Five Years Ago…
You know that bad feeling you get somewhere between the back of your neck and your spinal cord when you feel something terrible is going to happen? It’s the feeling that makes you look over your shoulder to see if someone’s following you. It’s the feeling that makes you close your curtains at night because you’re so sure someone’s looking in your windows that you can practically feel them on the other side of the glass.
I know that feeling. I’ve known that feeling for more of my life than I care to think about. It’s the feeling of being watched and never knowing if the person who’s doing the watching is just curious or wants something from you.
“Small price to pay for a life in the spotlight,” Mom would say. But if a life in the spotlight isn’t what you want, then I’d argue the price is way too high.
People still want to know what’s happening with the cute little girl from the popular family sitcom Lucy Matters, but it helps that I haven’t taken a role of any kind in two years. Even though the paparazzi likes to follow me and try to catch me in a pose that best highlights my double chin, I don’t have to put up with half of what Mom does.
On her good days, Mom just grins at the camera and positions herself so they get her best side. On her bad days, she’ll flip them off, spit at them, and pay her security guard to go after the footage. Nevertheless, even the bad days she lets roll off her back.
For me, though, there’s something about that level of privacy invasion that feels like a violation. Even if it’s been weeks since the last paparazzo snapped a picture of me, I still feel like I’m always on display, and not in a good way. It’s as if everyone’s looking and waiting for their turn to point and laugh.
I know why Britney Spears lost her mind. I know why she shaved her head. I get it, and I don’t even have Britney levels of fame. Far from it.
It’s a beautiful day on Laguna Beach. One of those days that makes me forget, momentarily, to look over my shoulder. The air is warm, the sun hot on my skin, and the breeze off the ocean is the perfect combination of cool and salty that reminds me that, despite everything else I hate about California and being this close to LA, the ocean is part of who I am.
I’m walking Bigsy downtown when I see him. I have a hat on and my big sunglasses in place. I look like half the other people wandering around here. People here are either tourists or have more money than God. Shamefully, I fit in the second category.
I have Bigsy’s leash in one hand and an ice cream cone in the other. I don’t eat in public very often—nothing as incriminating as ice cream, at least—but I ran five miles on the beach this morning, and I felt like I earned this treat. Now I have a camera pointing at me as my punishment.
The man steps close, snapping pictures even as I hold my hand out, pressing him and his camera away.
A tall guy comes out of nowhere, stepping between me and the man with the camera. He’s all broad shoulders and angry eyes as he takes a swing at the man with the camera.
The man collapses to the ground and holds his bloody nose. “What the fuck?”
The taller man puts a foot on his chest. “Give me the camera,” he says, holding out his hand.
“Fuck you,” the photographer says, and that’s when I recognize him as the same man who took pictures of me on the beach last night. My gut twists. Someone taking the opportunity to get a quick picture of me is one thing, but I hate being followed. It makes me feel trapped in my own life.
“Give me the camera.” The tall guy puts more pressure on the photographer’s chest. “Do it or you and this concrete are gonna become real close.”
The man throws his camera, and the mess of gratitude, relief, and residual fear tangle in my chest to keep me speechless.
My rescuer hands me the camera, and I take it with shaking hands. It’s a crappy little thing, too, and maybe that’s what made the photographer good. He can sneak up easier with something so small and discreet. My rescuer kicks the man in the side with his boot. “Get out of here.”
The photographer scrambles to his feet and mutters something before rushing away.
The guy turns to me. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. “That was… I’m so embarrassed that you had to do that.”
He smirks. “I kind of enjoyed it. Do you have that problem a lot?”
“Sometimes. I’ve taken self-defense classes before. It’s not like I don’t know what to do when men get too close.” The irony of those words makes me flinch, but I shake my head and continue. “I froze. He took pictures of me on the beach last night, too.” I shudder. I hate this feeling.
He looks me over as if scanning my body for injuries. “Some guys turn into complete lunatics when they see a pretty woman.”
His words and his eyes on me nudge
away the fear, pushing it from the center of my consciousness and replacing it with something warmer. “I don’t think that’s why he was taking my picture.” I laugh.
He runs his eyes over me again and shrugs. “Why else would he take pictures of you? Are you some guy’s cheating wife?”
“Hardly.” My cheeks are hot from blushing so hard. This guy is so good looking and he saved me from the photographer, and now he’s flirting with me. I know he’s probably just trying to make me feel better. It’s working. He’s built, young—my age, if I had to guess—and his eyes are so sincere, I think that maybe he truly doesn’t know why the jerk with the camera would want my picture.
“Thanks,” I say, holding up the camera.
He points to my ice cream cone in its sad little puddle on the sidewalk. “Can I buy you another one?”
“I think I’ll be okay without it.”
“Nah. Let me buy you a new one. I’m about to buy some for myself, and I’d hate to eat it alone. We’re supposed to eat ice cream on days like these.” He points to the clear blue sky, and I like him so much in this moment. There’s probably some psychology term for that—rapid infatuation with someone who’s just rescued me. “I insist,” he says. He turns and walks into the ice cream shop as if he has no doubt that I’ll follow.
I look at Bigsy and think about taking him home and ignoring the guy’s invitation. I don’t. For one, that seems very rude after what he just did for me, and two, I’m curious about my hero and don’t want to say goodbye yet. Or maybe it’s less curiosity and more loneliness. Maybe I like the way he looks at me.
When I step inside, he’s placing his order. He looks at me over his shoulder. “Do you mind if I get something for your dog?” Bigsy rushes forward as if he understands his words. “It’s just a little cup of whipped cream.”
