But this isn’t just about him. It’s about me.
For the first time in over four years, I’m curious. About a guy. One I barely know but somehow manages to stir up emotions I haven’t allowed myself to feel in a long time.
With a shaky hand I slide the blue bag closer, but before I peek inside, I’m hit with doubt—and annoyance. Vaughn’s apology and gift make me mad at both of us. Yes, it was sweet, but it’s also excessive. A simple “sorry” followed by a “thank you” is all I needed. All I can afford, given the last thing I want is to have something that reminds me of him. I can’t, in good conscience, accept a gift like this. I pick up the bag and hurry toward the kitchen door to return it to him.
I also owe him an apology for calling him a drunk. I shouldn’t have done that. He flustered me and I lashed out because I didn’t know how to handle his playfulness.
I run outside, hoping to catch him, but he’s nowhere to be seen. I take a deep breath, take a minute to gather myself. The sky is the kind of summer blue and white that makes you wish you could fly from one puffy cloud to the next. The air smells like jasmine and roses. Vaughn smelled like an ocean breeze wafting across clean sheets. The combination made me hot under my skin, and I’d felt an uncharacteristic urge to rub my back against his front when he stood behind me at the kitchen counter. I blink away the unwelcome memory. An irresistible energy radiates from him, and it draws me in even as my past tethers me.
Vaughn is dangerously hard to resist. And he knows it. Of course he does. He earns a living by having that effect on people, right? But the simple notion doesn’t stop my stomach from fluttering when I think about the perfect angle of his clean-shaven jaw. Or the panty-dropping smile he wields without even trying. And his eyes… God, this morning they were lucid and such a brilliant shade of green that I feel even guiltier for doubting his sobriety.
If nothing else, I really need to say I’m sorry. I start down the narrow slope of the side yard toward the sidewalk. I’m almost there when the sound of an engine purrs to life. Turning, I catch Vaughn’s car maneuvering out of the driveway. I take a few tentative steps forward, not sure if I should flag him down or wait for another time to return his gift. My decision is made for me when he drives slowly by and turns his head in my direction. He’s wearing dark sunglasses. His mouth is set in a serious line. I’m not positive he sees me, or if he’s just looking at the house, but it doesn’t matter, because a second later he’s out of sight.
Not out of mind. I fear he’ll never be out of my head, our one weird night together forever stored in my long-term memory. I trudge back into the kitchen with the Tiffany’s bag dangling from my fingers.
Amber is cutting into the frittata. Dixie is sitting at the breakfast bar sipping on what I suspect is her second Bloody Mary and paging through a magazine. “Look!” She holds up the magazine open to a page with a black-and-white advertisement that features Vaughn’s face and bare shoulders. He looks beyond handsome with stubble lining his jaw and just a hint of a smile, like he knows exactly what a woman wants. Him. “He’s the Giorgio Armani fragrance guy.”
“He did smell good,” Amber says.
“I can’t believe you didn’t fuck him last night.” Dixie closes the magazine. “Or at least fool around. Jesus, Kendall, did you take a vow of celibacy after—”
“Stop.” I bang the kitchen door shut and lean against it. “Do not say another word.”
“Don’t have to.” The ice tinkles in her glass as she takes a long drink, holding the conversation hostage until she’s good and ready to continue “You just answered my question.” For a brief second I imagine compassion swims into her eyes, but she makes known my mistake when she adds, “Which means I get to play with Vaughn and any other hot guy who makes an appearance.”
“You’re that easy, huh?” I say in a weak attempt to get back at her. I’ve never been able to best her verbal sparring and don’t like myself for trying.
She crunches a piece of ice before curling her lips into a bulletproof smile. “Why yes, I am, princess.”
There’s no wounding Dixie. She doesn’t give a damn what anybody thinks of her, least of all me. “For the last time, please stop calling me that.” I clench my fists so hard my fingernails bite into my palms.
One dark blond eyebrow wings up. “Is the ‘please’ supposed to make me care?”
Tears sting my eyes. I didn’t do anything to deserve her hostility. For my whole life I’ve done nothing but try to be a sister, and when that didn’t work, I kept my distance. It’s not my fault our father behaved like he did, but the truth is, he’s a decent man who made mistakes and has tried his damndest to make up for them. If she’d stop holding his sins against him, she might discover what our dad wants more than anything is a relationship with all three of his daughters.
“The ‘please’ is because unlike some people, I have good manners.”
“Princess, you have no idea how polite I can be.”
“You’re right. I don’t know if you can be polite at all,” I throw back with as much spite as I can muster.
“You want to go there right now? Fine.” Dixie slaps a hand on the countertop, straightens her back. “Four days ago I walked into my bedroom and caught my boyfriend fucking my best friend. My best friend who I helped get the waitress job at the bar where I worked, and my boyfriend who also happened to be my boss and the guy I’d moved in with. So in the span of thirty seconds, boom.” She splays her fingers wide to mime a bomb blast. “Bye-bye boyfriend. Farewell best friend. Adios apartment.”
“I’m sorry,” I say. “That sucks.” I can’t imagine any guy having the balls to cheat on Dixie. She’s vicious when crossed.
“Why are you sorry? You didn’t break my trust. They did. But that’s not the point of my story. The point is, I could have screamed and thrown shit. I could have castrated him and kicked her ass. I could have done a Carrie Underwood on her car and torched his precious guitars.”
“Oh my God. You killed them, didn’t you?” Amber asks. “Now you’re on the run?”
Dixie glides a hand slowly through her hair and then shakes it out. “No. I walked away without giving them the satisfaction of knowing I’d found them, which is pretty fucking polite, so don’t ever question my behavior when you don’t know anything about my life.” With that, she picks up her drink and polishes it off.
I press away from the door and sit on the barstool beside her, for some dumb reason wanting to offer comfort.
“Don’t even, princess. You think we’re going to do some sisterly bonding over broken hearts? I don’t have a heart, which I’d think you’d have figured out by now.”
Okay, then. I dart my eyes to Amber. She’s cut the frittata into eight perfect pie slices, her focus on food rather than our screwed-up family. It’s not pity I feel. It’s care. For the first time in our lives Dixie’s opened up with something personal, and it gives me hope.
“Did you really leave without saying good-bye?” I ask, reaching for a piece of the frittata.
“I might have put a boot through his favorite guitar on my way out, but yeah, pretty much.” She grabs some of the egg-and-veggie dish with a smile on her face. “I certainly can’t explain how his picture and the address of the bar ended up on a site called Knobgobbler, and I have no clue who posted her number on Skanky Bitches.”
Amber chokes.
“Easy, girl,” Dixie says. “Am I too much for your delicate ears? Better get used to it.”
“There’s water bottles in the fridge,” I say.
She grabs one, takes a big sip, then clears her throat but doesn’t say anything. She’s always been the quietest of us, but she seems more distant than normal, probably because of our situation.
Dixie licks her finger clean. “So now that you know I’m jobless and homeless, why can’t you guys leave and go back to where you came from?”
I roll my eyes as I study her posture, her face. Four years in New York City taught me a lot about people. I’d often
do my homework in coffee shops and people-watch for hours. Brit and I would make up stories about the pedestrians we saw through the windows, giving everyone a happily ever after, of course. Dixie is tough, no doubt, but she’s also hurting, and that’s why she’s lashing out.
Amber waves away Dixie’s question. “I think one confession is enough for our first day. I’m going to go take a nap.”
“You can’t run away from us all summer,” Dixie says.
“I’m not running away.” Amber rounds the breakfast bar. “I’m exhausted from traveling, so I think that earns me a pass.”
“It does,” I tell her.
She gives me a small smile and leaves the room.
Dixie stands and starts cleaning up the mess I made of the kitchen before Vaughn showed up. “So what’s your deal? Shouldn’t you be with mommy and daddy on some celebratory trip to Europe or something? You did just graduate, right?”
“I wanted a change of scenery this summer.” Dixie has no idea I haven’t lived at home since I left for college, staying summers in the city to work and inviting my parents to visit me during holidays.
“Ha! I bet you’re wishing you’d chosen someplace else.” She covers the frittata with plastic wrap and puts it in the fridge then leans her hip against the granite countertop. “Luckily the house is plenty big enough for all of us if we don’t want to talk to one another. Aunt Sally will just have to deal.”
Dixie’s eyes shift to the Tiffany’s bag. “What’s that?”
“Nothing.” I grab the gift and put it in my lap to hide it from view.
“You suck at”—she makes air quotes—“nothing. It’s written all over your face that it’s something. So, come on, spill. I’m a good listener. You wouldn’t believe some of the stories I’ve heard while bartending.”
“Why would I tell you anything?”
“You know what? You’re right. You stay in your corner and I’ll stay in mine.” She resumes cleaning like I’m no longer in the same room.
The truth is I’m way out of my element when it comes to Vaughn, while Dixie could probably write a book on the topic of men. Maybe this could be the first step toward building a relationship with her. I put the bag back on the counter. “It’s a gift from Vaughn.”
She tosses the sponge into the sink. “No shit. What for?”
“A thank-you for letting him sleep on the couch last night. There was a party going on at his house, and he needed someplace to crash.”
Dixie might not have a college degree, but she’s wicked smart. She squints, assessing me. “Let me get this straight. You met the guy last night. Let him sleep on the couch because shit was going down at his house, and he brings you an expensive gift to say thanks.”
“Sounds about right.”
“Half right, maybe, but I don’t really care. Are you going to open it?”
“No. I’m going to return it to him.”
“Why?”
“Because a thank-you is all that is necessary.” I lift the bag. “I can’t accept something like this when I barely know the guy.”
“That’s ridiculous. You don’t even know what it is.”
“You’d accept a gift like this and wear it without any qualms?”
“Hell yeah, I’d accept it. Then I’d sell it. Look, princess, before you strain yourself figuring out how to return the Hope Diamond, open the damn box. They do carry stuff besides fancy jewelry. Maybe it’s a pen, or a key chain, or a sterling silver corkscrew to help you pull your head out of your ass.”
Rude as she is, she could be right. It’s probably just a token. A nice one, because he’s obviously got the means, but the kind of thing a person gives as a gesture of appreciation for an associate or a helpful neighbor. A key chain makes perfect sense. I bet that’s what’s inside and I’m freaking out over nothing. It’s still too generous a gift, but possibly one there’s no harm in keeping. Vaughn did go to the trouble of picking it out for me.
“I should open it.”
“About time.” Dixie puts her elbows on the counter and cups her face in her hands to watch me.
I’ve never gotten a gift from Tiffany’s before, so I have no idea if everything comes in a dark blue velvet box, but that’s what I pull out of the bag. My heart pounds a little harder as I open the box. Nestled inside isn’t a key chain but a sterling silver daisy key pendant necklace with a diamond in the center of the flower. My hands shake. It’s delicate. Beautiful.
“Huh,” Dixie says. “Looks like you’ve got yourself an admirer. Word of advice?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately without looking at her. Instead, I tuck the necklace back into place and put the box in the bag. It’s too much. I’m returning it no matter what she recommends.
“A guy like Vaughn gives a gift like that? He wants to fuck you, plain and simple, so if you’re not down for that, princess, you should follow your Hannah Montana instincts and give the thank-you back.”
I don’t bother responding. I’m not sure what the gift implies, only that it adds a layer of confusion to my bad mood. He barely knows me! I stand up and walk out the kitchen door with the bag in my hand.
Out of view from the kitchen window, I sit on the iron bench next to the gardenias Aunt Sally planted and tends to like children. Lying in the dirt beside the bench are the three large garden rocks Amber, Dixie, and I painted when we were young. Each is different in color and design but painted in similar childlike strokes. I decorated mine with calm blue swirls. Flashy purple lightning bolts zigzag across Dixie’s, and Amber’s glows with a round yellow sun. Aunt Sally tends to our rocks as well, because they’re still shiny.
Now that I have privacy, I pull the small blue envelope out of the Tiffany’s bag. I purposely didn’t tell Dixie there was a card. It was hard enough sharing the gift with her. I slip a white notecard from the envelope and read what Vaughn wrote.
Thank you for being my guardian angel. And for the sofa. I’ll trade you keys. Sincerely, Vaughn.
I slide the note back inside the envelope and return it to the bag.
I’m no one’s guardian angel. If that were true, Mason would be okay. We’d be planning our future, maybe even getting married this summer. Instead, I’m alone and desperate to find a job or career path that doesn’t include law school.
I get to my feet and walk to Vaughn’s front door. He may have meant well, but right now his thoughtfulness is too much for me to bear.
I put the bag behind the potted plant and turn and walk away. For the next couple of hours I search online for local jobs, sending my résumé to a few entry level positions that sound interesting.
That’s a lie. They don’t sound interesting. I close my eyes and wish for time to stop until I figure things out. Impossible, of course. Just like Mason’s recovery.
Chapter Six
Vaughn
When your agent summons you to lunch at The Ivy to meet with an America Rocks producer, you arrive promptly no matter how drastically you have to bend time, space, and traffic laws to do it. I’m antsy by the time I pull to a stop at the curbside valet in front of the iconic white picket fence surrounding the patio of the famed West Hollywood eatery. The dash clock reads 2:07 p.m. Not perfect, but respectable. I surrender my car to the attendant and try to steady my pulse. There’s no need to look eager. Best case scenario is I’ve raced from a shoot in Culver City to jump through another hoop. Worst case? This is their way of letting me down gently and offering me a consolation prize, like man-on-the-street interviewer for the open audition crowds. Hours of tape for maybe ten minutes of screen time per season. And fuck it, after I recovered from the catastrophic disappointment, I’d probably take the offer. I love the show that much.
Instead of steadying, my pulse stalls like a rusty clutch because I spy Nigel Cowie holding court under the shade of a generous white umbrella. Nigel’s not just a producer for America Rocks, he’s the producer, and he’s sharing the small linen-draped table with John Brenner—one of the associate producers I met du
ring my first audition and subsequent callback—my agent, Nina Felder, and my father. I’ve never met Nigel before, but the tall, tanned Englishman is instantly recognizable thanks to his habitual five o’clock shadow and signature tight black T-shirt. I stand stock-still for a half second to take it in, savor the moment, and yes, to give my heart a chance to fall back into a normal rhythm.
I get only the half second, though, because Nigel spots me, stands, and extends an arm my way. “Vaughn Shaughnessy. We meet at last.”
The patio’s not full for a Sunday afternoon, but every head swings from the prominent Brit to me, and every Hollywood insider and waiter-slash-actor in the place starts doing the math on two America Rocks producers, one agent, one manager, and the guy from the Armani ads. I plaster a confident smile on my face and stride over like I expected this meeting. “Mr. Cowie,” I say, and shake his hand. His grip is firm, his smile surprisingly genuine.
“Nigel,” he corrects. “I believe you know this lovely lady and these other gents?”
“Of course.” I shake hands with John, who looks like Tony Romo’s twin brother, kiss Nina’s flawless cheek, and give my dad a quick one-armed hug. “Glad you could make it,” he mutters in my ear, letting me know I’m tardy. Nigel gestures me to the single empty seat at the table.
I sit, and conversation pauses while a waiter approaches with a tray of drinks—Ivy gimlets all around. My back is to most of the patio, but I can practically hear texts being tapped out on every phone in the vicinity. When the waiter retreats, Nigel leans in and raises his glass. “Cheers. Apologies for mucking up everyone’s schedule with a last-minute meeting,” he says in a voice modulated for our table alone. “I’m off to London tonight and I wanted to meet all the talent on our short list in person before I left.” He touches his glass to mine and adds, “Old-fashioned of me, I know, but I like a sit-down and a chat. I appreciate you indulging me.”
“It’s no problem,” I manage, which sounds humble and understated when what I really want to do is leap up and high-five Nina. I want to fist-bump John. I want to kiss Nigel full on the mouth. Mostly, I want to wipe the frown off my dad’s face. This is great news. Why is he scowling like someone pissed in his cocktail?
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