Across the Horizon

by Aly Martinez

  It was only that pissed off in her voice that kept me in the car. Greg was not my competition. He was a nuisance. Not to mention an idiot. Something I’d known when she’d told me that he’d cheated on her back at the Fling. Something I knew even more after having spent the last four hours with her.

  He was also not something I wanted to deal with when he was standing inside her house after midnight with a drink in his hand. I did not have the PR capital to spend on getting arrested tonight. Per my attorney, I was supposed to be lying low. I didn’t think waking up to my mug shot on TMZ was what he had in mind.

  “Does he still live here?” I asked.

  She swung her head my way so fast that I feared she’d given herself whiplash. “Hell no. I kicked his ass out weeks ago.”

  “But he’s still got a key, and after finding out about us today, he decided to show up tonight and be a dick,” I deduced.

  “God, I hate him,” she groaned. “I had a really good night. He does not get to show up here and ruin it.” She jerked the door handle, but I caught her arm before she had the chance to swing it open.

  “So don’t let him ruin it,” I implored.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do? Go inside and yell, ‘Honey, I’m home’? Maybe scooch over in the bed so Tammy can sleep in the middle of us?”

  If I wasn’t so pissed that she had a jackass like Greg in her life, I would have laughed. But I didn’t think laughing at her was going to get me a yes to my next question.

  Grabbing my balls—not literally because that would have been weird—I rushed out, “Come back to my place. We can have another drink.” I waggled my eyebrows. “Maybe swing in the hammock.”

  Her face got soft, all the pissed off fading away. “Oh, honey. That’s really sweet of you. But I couldn’t.”

  Shit. Rejection stung. But I’d convinced her to go out on a date with me. I could work some magic on this too. “And why not? You said it yourself: We had fun tonight. And if you go in there now, he’s going to erase all of that with more of his bullshit. It was bad enough he got to be a part of the way we met. Don’t let him be a part of the way tonight ends too.”

  She looked away. “I don’t know, Tanner.”

  I lifted my hands, palms up. “Well, I do. I’m not asking you to sleep with me. I swear to you that is not part of this. I mean, you are a beautiful woman and I would definitely like to have sex with you eventually.” I winked. “But the whole drive here, I was trying to figure out how to keep you for a little longer.” I motioned toward the door. “Maybe the douchebag is a sign.”

  Her lips curled. “A sign, huh?”

  While I was already grabbing my balls—again, not literally—I snaked a hand out, catching her at the back of the neck, and pulled her toward me. Her breath caught, but she came willingly.

  I rested my forehead against hers and begged, “Come on. Say yes.”

  She chewed on her bottom lip, swiveling her head to glance at the door without breaking our connection. “I would like to see your hammock. You know, just so I can see how it compares to mine.”

  Victory sang in my veins. “It’s a really good hammock.”

  Her eyes fluttered closed, and then she brushed her nose with mine, bringing her lips painfully close.

  I could have done it. I could have kissed her until the windows steamed.

  But I didn’t want a fucking kiss in her driveway.

  I wanted to take her back to my house. Get her someplace where she was only mine, without that moron looking on.

  I wanted her laughing in my hammock with my arms around her. I wanted her curled in close like she’d been while waiting for the valet.

  Mainly, I just wanted more time with her.

  Gliding my hand up to cup her jaw, I pleaded, “Say yes.”

  We both jumped when Greg suddenly appeared beside the car and knocked on my window. “Get the hell out of the car, Rita.”

  Clenching my teeth, I turned a thunderous glare his way.

  I would not go to jail.

  I would not go to jail.

  I would not go to jail.

  Ah…fuck it.

  I reached for the door handle, but it was Rita who caught my arm this time.

  “You know what. You’re right. Let’s go back to your place. This asshole does not get to ruin this for me. I let him have seven years. He does not get one more minute.”

  I don’t know why, because I knew she was in the process of getting a divorce, but it felt like a punch to the stomach knowing she’d given this guy seven damn years. I’d had one date with her and was fighting like hell to get one more hour. If I’d had seven years, you can bet your ass she would not be sitting in another man’s car in my driveway.

  She’d be in my arms. In my fucking hammock. Laughing and smiling up at me while I frantically thought of ways to keep that smile aimed at me for another fucking seven years.

  Fuck this guy.

  “You sure?” I asked her as a courtesy, but I was already putting the car in gear.

  Confidence brewed like a summer storm in her green eyes as she replied, “I’m positive. Let’s go.”

  That was all it took.

  Throwing one arm around the back of her seat, I reversed out of her driveway.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Greg yelled, jogging beside us. “Rita, get the fuck out of the car.”

  She laughed, wild and carefree, giving him a finger wave.

  I only gave him one finger.

  Then, much to my excitement, her hand came down and landed on my thigh.

  It was probably a show for her ex.

  I should have cared that it was a show for her ex.

  I didn’t, but only because she’d left it there—her thumb tracing sweet circles until I couldn’t take it anymore and intertwined our fingers—long after we’d left Greg in the proverbial dust.

  “Holy shit,” Rita breathed as we drove down my oak-lined driveway. The motion lights came on as soon as we hit the brick horseshoe. “Holy. Shit,” she repeated more slowly when my white, old-South plantation home appeared in front of us.

  I loved that house. And not just because it was mine, bought outright with cash when I was only thirty. It had the most kick-ass top and bottom wraparound porches, giving me a full three-sixty view of the property. And that’s not even to mention the six bedrooms and five bathrooms I wasn’t currently using but had high hopes that I would in the not-so-distant future. It had taken quite a bit of renovating to get the kitchen the way I’d wanted it. But those upgrades allowed me to film in my home rather than traveling back and forth to The Food Channel studios in New York, so it had been worth every penny.

  “Wait until you see the backyard.” I clicked the garage door open and guided us inside, cutting the engine before it had fully closed.

  “It gets better?” she asked in a tone filled with wonder.

  I went to smile, but it occurred to me that it had become a permanent fixture on my face since I’d first picked her up. Reluctantly releasing her hand, I tipped my chin to the garage door leading to the house. “C’mon.”

  I hurried around the hood, but she was already out of the car, her high heels clicking on the concrete as she made her way to me. The second she got close enough, she hooked her arm through mine and leaned in close, causing my perma-grin to stretch.

  After using my key to open the door, I hit the alarm and then guided her through the mud room to the wide-open living room. My downstairs was impressive. It was what my interior designer called “the showroom.” Three bedrooms, a dining room, and a sitting room all decorated in classic minimalism with dainty furniture that had absolutely not a touch of my personality anywhere. I didn’t care. Short of filming in the kitchen hidden on the other side of the stairs, I didn’t use that space anyway.

  With her head craned back, admiring the massive crystal chandelier that I’d thought was overkill from day one, she said, “Wow, Tanner. This is gorgeous.”

  It was. But it wasn’t me. />
  “Let’s go upstairs.” I started us toward the split staircase.

  She pulled us up short. “Uh…how about we stay down here for a while.”

  Shaking my head, I chuckled. “Relax. I live upstairs. There’s a den with a TV. According to my interior designer, a television ruins the aesthetic of a room, so I wasn’t allowed to mount one down here. There’s also another kitchen that actually has food and wine and not just lighting and cameras.” I swung my arm out toward the closed double doors on our left. “Though, if you’d prefer to awkwardly stare at each other again, that useless sitting room is perfect for it.”

  “You have two kitchens?”

  She followed when I once again started us toward the stairs.

  “I’m a chef. What did you expect?”

  “Right. Of course,” she murmured.

  However, when we got to the second floor landing and hung a right, I knew it wasn’t what she expected at all.

  “This is your second kitchen?”

  Yeah. It could be said that my kitchen upstairs wasn’t exactly what a person would consider luxurious. But it was all me.

  Reluctantly releasing her, I walked around the two-seater bar and retrieved a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge. “Were you expecting more?” I asked with a smirk, knowing good and damn well she had been.

  She lifted her fingers about an inch apart. “Maybe a little. I think we had that same range at my house before we upgraded. And while I am no slouch in the kitchen, I am far from a chef.”

  I got busy with the cork-and-pour routine while she settled on the stool closest to the end. “My mom does too. I’ve promised her a Viking for Christmas this year. I’ve been holding out because it’s going to piss my dad off. He’ll have to cut out a cabinet to make it fit. But she’s been begging for it.” I slid a glass of wine her way before pouring my own.

  “Can I just say that I think it’s adorable that you’re close with your mom?”

  I propped myself on a forearm at the corner of the bar so I was facing her. Close enough for the citrus scent of her hair to put a spell on me, far enough away that I could resist the overwhelming urge to kiss her… Maybe. Possibly. Shit, I was going to fail.

  It was strange having her there. And not just in my house. Dozens of cameramen, assistant cameramen, boom operators, and sound guys were in and out of my front door on a daily basis. But rarely did anyone go upstairs. I could count on two fingers the amount of women I’d brought home with me—only one if I didn’t include Andrea. I didn’t date much when I was in Atlanta. I could barely get a woman to look at me without stars in her eyes in that city.

  But life in the spotlight was crazy like that. It made me a different person, and not because I was some diva with a mile-long rider. Honestly, in the years since Simmer had taken off, I hadn’t felt like I’d changed at all. But the world looked at me differently. And because of that, I was expected to act differently. I wasn’t allowed to have a bad day, or flip someone off when they cut me off in traffic, or even just eat grapes as I walked around the grocery store. (Relax, I always paid for them.) When I left my house, anything and everything I did became a representation of who I was as a brand—not a man.

  Judgy Judys were everywhere, waiting for me to step out of line. Sometimes those Judgy Judys were masquerading around as my friends. Or worse, my real friends became the Judgy Judys, selling me under the bus for five minutes of fame.

  Having any kind of private life was next to impossible. So when I “dated,” it went a lot like this: She ordered shrimp and grits, we’d go back to her place or whatever hotel I was staying at in New York or LA, and they’d leave the next morning with stars still in their eyes but without the promise of a second date. I was a nice guy. These women knew the score. Or at least they accepted the score because without it nothing came after shrimp and grits. This system had worked well for several years.

  Cue Shana Beckwit, the only woman I’d attempted the illusive “more” with.

  Also cue the restraining order, a new set of tires, a photo of me lounging in bed covered by a thin blanket that did nothing to hide the outline of my cock two minutes post-orgasm floating around the internet, and a PR firm working overtime to keep the rest of her bullshit out of the headlines.

  So yeah, maybe bringing a woman back to my place and trusting her with the most vulnerable part of my brand—i.e. me—wasn’t the smartest idea in my current situation. But there was exactly a zero percent chance that I was going to pass up an opportunity with Rita.

  And I had to admit, seeing her casually sitting on my stool made me happier than I’d thought possible a few months ago.

  I touched the rim of my wine glass to hers. “Adorable wasn’t what I was going for tonight.”

  She leaned forward on her elbows. “Then what were you going for?”

  Honest. Free. Real.

  Dramatically, I sucked in a deep breath. “Clearly, a savage warrior in my patriotic duty against terrorist alligators.”

  “I think you may have missed the mark,” she whispered back. Then she pursed her lips, the slightest hint of humor peeking out at the corners.

  Like a moth to a flame, I swayed toward her.

  I was going to do it. I was going to kiss her. I was going to kiss that fucking smile right off her sexy face, swallow it, turn it into a moan, and then swallow that too.

  Instead, I nearly stumbled off-balance when she suddenly stood and rounded into the kitchen. I couldn’t decide if it was a pointed move on her part or shit for timing on mine. She didn’t give me long to think.

  “So, explain this kitchen to me,” she asked, trailing her finger down the brown-and-taupe-veined granite beside the single-basin sink. “There are dishes in the sink and fingerprints on the fridge, so obviously, you use it. But that stove is electric. I figured you’d want something fancier. Was it like this when you bought the place?”

  I could have said yes, let the question die in the water without exposing anything real about myself no matter how innocent it might be. But I really liked the idea of being myself with this woman.

  “It makes me feel like I’m at home,” I confessed. “Growing up, I had top-of-the-line nothing. I learned to cook on electric and it’s kind of nostalgic for me now. I’m also a single guy, so let’s be honest. By the time I leave the restaurant or finish filming, I’m too tired to cook for myself. But if the urge strikes me, I have an enormous chef’s wet dream downstairs.” I shrugged. “So, when I asked to have this kitchen added upstairs, I just wanted it to be comfortable.” I waved a hand around the small space. “And this is what I picked.”

  I had no idea what happened after that. It was the strangest thing. One second, we were causally sipping wine and chatting, and the next, the air in that room became too heavy to breathe.

  Puzzled, I narrowed my eyes on her. “Rita?”

  She didn’t reply—at least not with words. Her smile faded, and her shoulders rounded. Her green eyes grew distant before lighting with something I couldn’t quite figure out.

  Sadness. Regret… Hell, what was that?

  Instinctively, I reached for her hand, but she pulled it away.

  Then, in a broken whisper, she gave it to me. “You could have had anything in the world and you picked something that made you feel like home?”

  And then I’d wished she’d stop giving it to me.

  “I think I picked Greg because I wanted something that didn’t feel like home.” She slapped a hand over her mouth as though she were trying to force the words back in.

  I didn’t understand her confession, but the mortification carved into her face was plain as day.

  Darting past me, she mumbled something about a bathroom.

  “Rita, wait.”

  But it was too late. She was power-walking through my den, straight to the hall.

  I jogged after her, rounding the corner in time to see her yank the linen closet open. She quickly shut it before throwing the door to the guest bedroom open.


  She kept her gaze aimed at the floor and snapped, “Jesus. Where is your bathroom in this mansion?”

  “Next door on the left,” I answered.

  She hurried inside, shutting the door with an urgency just shy of a slam, leaving me in the hall. Alone and with my stomach in knots, I prayed that this wasn’t the dramatic ending to the best first date I had ever been on in my entire life.

  * * *

  With shaking arms, I leaned on the sink. “What the fuck was that?” I asked myself in the mirror.

  Not surprisingly, my refection didn’t answer.

  I’d been wrong. I couldn’t do this. Not while keeping the hurricane brewing inside me at bay.

  I shouldn’t have gone home with him. I should have thanked him for a lovely dinner. I should have apologized again for putting my hands on him at the Fling, and I should have gotten out of his car, gotten in my car, driven to a hotel so Greg couldn’t find me, and spent the night—and quite possibly the rest of my life—hiding under the blankets.

  There was a knock at the door. “Rita?”

  I sucked in a shaky breath, turning on the water before calling back, “I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “Please,” he said. It was followed by a thump on the door that I thought was his head. “I’m sorry. Whatever I said, I… Shit. I don’t know. You have something against an electric stove?”

  My stomach wrenched. He was trying to crack a joke. He’d been nothing short of incredible all night, and I’d acted like a nutcase dumping my shit on him. Yet there he was, standing outside of his bathroom door, issuing blind apologies for something he couldn’t possibly understand.

  Why did he have to be such a good guy?

  I turned the water off and faced the door as though I could see him standing on the other side. “There’s nothing to apologize for, silly. I just needed a minute.”

  There were several beats of silence before he said, “You want to talk about it?”

  I smiled sadly. Yeah. He was a really freaking good guy. “Not particularly. I just… Give me a minute, okay? I’m dying to see that hammock.”