by Elle Kennedy
“Call it a gift.”
“A thousand-dollar stack of chips is not a gift.” Setting my jaw, I push the red circles back toward Ben’s pile. “I can’t accept it.”
He pauses for a moment, and then sighs. “Fine, be difficult. We’ll play as a team.”
“And I won’t keep a dime of the winnings,” I say firmly.
“And you won’t keep a dime of the winnings,” he echoes, albeit grudgingly.
The dealer’s lips twitch, and I suspect he finds the entire exchange amusing. He’s probably never encountered a chick so willing to kiss a thousand bucks goodbye.
“Ready to play some cards?” he asks politely, glancing from me to Ben.
We spend the next hour at the blackjack table, with Ben explaining the game to me with the utmost patience. After a few big wins, I start to relax. I smile at the tuxedo-clad men who join us, sip a glass of champagne, and stare at a familiar-looking woman in a gold sequined dress for ten minutes before Ben finally whispers that she’s an anchor at CNN.
“You do watch the news, don’t you?” he teases.
“Sometimes.”
The laugh he gives sends a flurry of shivers up my spine. “Don’t you feel alienated sometimes, being so out of touch with the world?”
I shrug. “I’m too busy to feel alienated.”
He tweaks one of the wavy tendrils framing my cheeks. “We really need to talk about this jam-packed schedule of yours.”
My reply is cut off by the sound of a female voice squealing, “Benjamin?”
An unbelievably tall, unbelievably beautiful woman with raven hair and sparkling blue eyes saunters over in an indecent red dress and a pair of six-inch heels. Before I can blink, the giant sexpot throws her arms around Ben and splatters kisses on his cheeks.
“Benjamin! It is you!” With her heavy accent, it sounds more like “Ben-ja-meeen, eet eeez you!”
Something about the way her eyes twinkle suggestively hints that this beauty knows Ben on a very intimate level. In fact, after a closer examination of her face, I realize she’s the supermodel at Ben’s side in the picture I found on the Internet.
“Sonja,” Ben says in a warm voice, while gingerly disentangling himself from her embrace, “I should’ve known I’d run into you here.”
“Well, of course. This is my second home! Do you remember the first time we came here, Benjamin?” Sonja licks her bottom lip, a move so blatantly sexual I want to tear out her tongue.
Meow.
“And who is your lovely friend?” she adds, sparing me a brief look.
I have to hand it to the woman. She makes the phrase “lovely friend” seem like the most contemptible insult ever composed.
“This is Maggie.” Ben’s features are strained, discomfort evident in his eyes.
“It is wonderful to meet you, Maggie.”
Wow, even my name coming out of Sonja’s lush red lips sounds like an affront.
“Yeah, same here,” I reply.
“And what do you do?” she presses, and there’s something a bit catty in her eyes. “Judging by the way you look in that dress, I’m going to guess you’re a model?”
I swallow, feeling horribly exposed as Sonja looks me up and down. “Actually, I’m a waitress. From New York.”
There’s a moment’s silence. Then it’s broken by a long tinkling laugh from Sonja.
She turns to grin at Ben. “So you’re—how do you Americans say it? Slumming it?”
The callous words slice into my chest and cause my breath to jam in my throat. I no longer feel exposed. I feel humiliated, and even though nobody is looking our way, I feel like every eye in the room is glued on me.
My hands tremble slightly. I want to slap this bitch the way I slapped Robbie Hanson when he called me a foster-freak back in the ninth grade, but for the life of me I can’t make my vocal cords work. So I do the only other thing I can think of. I mutter, “Will you excuse me, please?”
And then I straighten my shoulders, lift my chin, and walk away as steadily as my legs will allow and with as much dignity as I can muster.
24
Ben
“Oopsy. I seem to have upset your little friend.”
My heart shrinks as I stare after Maggie’s retreating back. Next to me, Sonja looks pleased with herself, which makes me rethink every positive thing I’ve ever thought of the woman. She’s a snob, sure. Self-absorbed, totally. But I never took her for downright nasty.
“That was uncalled for,” I say coolly.
Sonja just laughs. “Oh, Benjamin, I was only—how do you say?—goofing around. Your friend is much too sensitive. This is why you need a real woman, caro.”
“I have a real woman.” I hook my thumb at the exit. “She went thataway.”
Without another word, I leave Sonja at the blackjack table and march out of the casino, quickening my stride when I enter the lobby and find it empty. One of the clerks at the front desk discreetly nods toward the glass doors at the entrance.
I step outside in time to see Maggie stalking toward the golf cart in front of the building. She looks so achingly beautiful in that green dress, so goddamn sexy in those strappy heels, that I have to restrain myself from pulling her into my arms and kissing the fuck out of her.
She isn’t crying, but the look of ice she gives me when she notices my presence clearly says, Back off.
“Maggie…” I start timidly.
She bunches the hem of the dress with her hands so it doesn’t drag on the ground on her way to the waiting cart. “Don’t worry. It’s not your fault she spoke the truth.”
I almost keel over backwards. “What? You think what she said was the truth—”
She flops onto the back of the golf cart and signals the driver.
Chest tight with anger, I push forward and leap into the little car before it speeds off. I force myself to take a calming breath, but it doesn’t ease the tension constricting my jaw. “There wasn’t an ounce of truth to what Sonja said,” I argue, stunned that Maggie would even suggest it.
“Maybe not. But it is something I’ve been wondering myself.” Maggie sounds frustrated. “What are you doing with me, Ben? You’re a movie star, I’m a waitress. You’ve got millions of dollars in your bank account, I’m lucky to see a hundred in mine. You know Brazilian supermodels and famous rappers, I spend my days with poor and abused kids.” She lets out a strangled sigh and scrunches up the material of her dress with one hand. “This isn’t me, Ben. This dress. Being pampered in a spa. Throwing away money at casinos. It’s not me, and you don’t seem to get that.”
“I don’t seem to get it?” I’m growing angry again. “Why would I? From the day we met I’ve been trying to impress you! And since nothing else seemed to work, I thought maybe I’d have some luck with whisking you away to a tropical island.” I roll my eyes bitterly. “My bad, apparently.”
“Why would you want to impress me?” Her voice comes out strained. “I…I don’t get what you want from me.”
I can see her pulse thudding in her throat, hear the ragged breaths exiting her mouth, and a thread of confusion stitches my insides. She’s just raised the one question I’ve been avoiding for days.
What do I want from her?
Sex would’ve been the answer a week ago.
More sex would’ve been the answer last night.
But, if I’m honest with myself, maybe it’s always been about more than sex. I liked Maggie from the first moment I met her. Liked her sass, her confidence, her complete disinterest in my celebrity lifestyle. I like that she isn’t scared to tell me off, and I especially like how she makes me work. For her body, her trust, her time. Women constantly throw themselves at my feet, but not Maggie. She knows who she is and what she wants, and she isn’t afraid to say it. That’s probably what I like most of all.
“I want to spend time with you.” I rake my fingers through my hair, frazzled. “I’m with you because I like you. Because you’re…real. Don’t you get it? I’m surrounded by p
lastic people. Fake, shallow people who think they know me, who pretend they care about knowing me. Do you realize you’re the first person other than a reporter who actually wanted to know where I grew up?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Hell, even my own agent doesn’t bother to dig deeper.” My mouth twists in a frown. “He hasn’t once asked for details about Gretchen Goodrich and that money. He just assumes—like the rest of the world—that I fucked her.”
“And you expected something different?” Maggie says wearily. “You’ve got a reputation for sleeping around. It’s really not so shocking that people believe you went to bed with a married woman.”
Something inside me hardens. “And what about you? Do you believe that line of bull?”
“I don’t know what to believe. I don’t know you, outside of the biblical sense.”
My nostrils flare at her dismissive tone. “You’re saying that in the entire week we’ve spent together, you didn’t get a single sense of who I am? That I might be a decent guy?”
She tilts her head and offers a look full of distress and far too much wisdom for her age. “Very few people are decent, Ben. In the end, the only person you can count on is yourself. Sex, relationships, even love, they’re not tangible, they disappear in the blink of an eye.”
“So, what, you avoid it all for fear that it might disappear?” I shake my head. “Is that why you hide behind your job and your volunteer work and college, because those are the only things you can count on?”
She just frowns.
I inhale the humid night air. “Well, I call bullshit. You can count on relationships and other people to be there for you. Some connections can never be broken. Look at my mom, for instance. She had a hard life, raised me on her own, struggled to put food on the table, and she never complained, never packed up and left, even though I know there were times she must have felt like it.”
“You want to talk about mothers?” Maggie shoots back. “Well, mine abandoned me in front of a gas station when I was five. She told me to wait outside while she went over to the bank, said she’d be back in ten minutes. You know how long I waited out there for her?”
I falter, completely taken aback by the shards of raw pain slicing Maggie’s features.
“Thirteen hours. I waited for thirteen hours before the owner of the gas station finally called the cops, who carted me off to social services.”
The driver pulls the golf cart to a stop in front of our bungalow, and Maggie hops out without another word. I lean in to tip the man behind the wheel, then shove my hands in the pockets of my trousers and climb the porch with slow, heavy steps. Maggie is already inside by the time I enter the room, but I still have no idea what to say to her.
Her confession reverberates through my head. It brings a knot of sickness to my stomach, a tight squeeze to my chest, and for a moment I have to wonder how this perfect night I planned ended up in shambles.
I can’t wrap my brain around it. My own father walked out on me, but growing up with a warm, loving mother dulled the ache my dad’s desertion left in my heart. I can’t even imagine how Maggie must feel knowing she’d been abandoned on the sidewalk like a piece of trash.
“I lived in sixteen foster homes during the thirteen years I was part of the system,” she says, continuing as if we’d never been interrupted. She glances at me over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. “I’ve been on my own since I was five years old, Ben, so don’t talk to me about connections and lasting relationships. In my life, there’s no such thing.”
25
Maggie
The Gulfstream jet cruises the morning sky at thirty thousand feet, heading back in the direction of New York. But I can’t decide if I’m looking forward to going home, or dreading it. Everything that happened last night still troubles me. Sonja’s harsh words, the blow-up with Ben that followed. He hadn’t tried to kiss or touch me after that, just slid into bed and went to sleep, while I lay awake half the night and thought about what I said to him.
My head tells me that relying on others is a mistake. But my heart speaks differently. My heart argues that I shouldn’t allow the past to affect my future. That sooner or later I’ll need to lower the walls I’ve raised and let someone in.
It’s funny, really. I tried to explain to Ben why I was keeping him at arm’s length, and in the process I ended up doubting my own convictions. I’ve always told myself I need to build my career before thinking about relationships and babies, but now I’m not so sure.
Am I using my goals as an excuse not to get close to someone? What about when I earn my degree and start that career? Will I finally open my heart and seek out love, or will I just find another goal to fixate on as a means of avoidance?
Those are questions I’ve never asked myself before, and I find it ironic that a cocky movie star was the one to spur this internal investigation. Celebrities are supposed to be superficial, preoccupied with material things and trivial bullshit, and although it shames me to admit it, that’s partly what attracted me to Ben in the first place. I assumed he’d get bored of me after a day or two and then be on his way. The fact that he’s still here is probably the most confusing thing of all.
Leaning back in my chair, I reach up to rub my temples, excruciatingly aware of Ben’s presence.
Sitting there in a black long-sleeved shirt and black jeans, with morning stubble dotting his chin and dark hair falling onto his forehead, he looks sexy and dangerous. Which only reminds me of how attracted I am to him. But he hasn’t said a word since we boarded the jet, and the silence between us has dragged on for so long I have no clue how to make it go away.
I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know how I feel about him, and I’m not good with uncertainties.
“Gretchen was the other woman.”
My head jerks up. “What?”
“Remember I said my father ran off with another woman? Well, it was Gretchen Goodrich.”
I have no idea how to respond to that. So, as usual, I take the easy route. “Oh.”
Ben shifts in his seat, crosses one leg over the other and inhales deeply. He looks as troubled as I feel, and I resist the urge to lean over and kiss his troubles away. That would probably be inappropriate, anyway, considering the bomb he just dropped.
“My father was always looking for a get-rich scheme, according to my mom. And after she got pregnant, he searched for any reason to get away from her,” Ben says flatly. “Spending the rest of his life in Cobb Valley, stuck with a wife and a kid, didn’t appeal to him. So he made excuses to leave—phony business trips, visits to non-existent relatives. Apparently he met Gretchen during a trip to Vegas. She was nineteen at the time, vacationing with her family.”
I pause. “The Hunters, right? I read online that they own a salad dressing empire or something.”
“You read right.” Ben’s mouth twists in a wry smile. “I’m sure that’s what attracted my father to her in the first place.”
“So they got together?”
“They got married,” he corrects.
My jaw drops. “But wasn’t he already married to your mom?”
“Yup. Dear old Dad neglected to tell his new bride that he’d already tied the knot with someone else.”
“What happened?” I’m utterly fascinated by this soap opera.
“Long story short, Gretchen and my father were married for two years before her parents finally stepped in. They weren’t pleased with the marriage to begin with, but once my father tried to control the trust fund Gretchen received when she turned twenty-one, her father did some digging and found out about my mother and me. They had him arrested.”
“For…bigamy?”
“Theft, actually. When the truth came out that his marriage to Gretchen wasn’t legal, he tried to run off with a wad of cash and some of her jewelry. He was behind bars for a few years.” Ben shakes his head sadly. “He had a heart attack in prison and died.”
“Did you and your mother know abo
ut Gretchen?”
“Mom did, but she never told me, and the Hunters made sure to keep the scandal under wraps. I only found out when Gretchen contacted me six months ago. She was diagnosed with breast cancer, and she’d been thinking about her life, her past. She said she’d never stopped feeling guilty for being the reason my dad abandoned his family. I guess that’s why she wrote me into her will.”
Ben picks up his coffee cup and takes a long sip. Then he glances over with a pained expression. He looks so solemn and downcast, that this time I don’t stop myself from reaching over and touching him. I squeeze his hand and interlace our fingers.
“Why didn’t you just tell the truth?” I ask. “To the press, I mean?”
His fingers tighten over mine. “I thought about it, but there was my mom to consider.”
“What do you mean?”
“Gretchen left me that fortune to ease her own guilt, but to me it’s just a reminder of what a fucking asshole my father was. Money isn’t going to make the memories go away, especially for Mom.” Ben lets out a strangled groan. “Fuck, just knowing the money will be released over to me after Gretchen’s estate goes through probate makes me feel like I’m betraying my mom. Like I’m profiting from her pain.”
The vulnerability etched on his features leaves me speechless. How is this the same man who practically ordered me to give him a place to stay? How is this the same man whose arrogance drives me crazy?
“Not to mention,” he goes on, “if I tell the media the truth about Gretchen and me, the vultures will camp out on my mom’s doorstep and demand to know how she feels about her bigamist husband leaving her for an heiress. I can’t do that to her.” He shrugs. “Let the press think what they want of me, as long as they leave my mother alone.”
I stop fighting myself and lean forward to plant a soft kiss on his lips.
“What was that for?” Ben murmurs after I pull back.
I sigh. “That was for being far more decent than I gave you credit for.”
