by K B Cinder
“I’m fine. Work is busy.” Really busy. I was covering the dinner rush later that afternoon and hoped to God that Helen had found more staff.
With a little prodding, she’d let me post some cheap ads online, and the response was overwhelming. She’d hired a hostess and a dishwasher to keep up with the increase in customers, but she still needed to double that, at least. We needed wait staff desperately.
“I’m not asking about work,” she objected, swiping another fry. “Have you heard from you-know-who?”
“Nope.”
I hadn’t heard from anyone Fix Up-related in the three weeks since the network retraction. Well, besides getting the flowers from Umi that had since died. I’d kept them on my back patio, still not entirely certain they weren’t poisoned.
Oh, and besides that pesky blonde that showed up and kissed me in my parking lot before attempting to ditch me again.
But it was better that way.
Graduation was a week away, and I couldn’t afford any distractions. Especially not a six-foot-tall, sandy-haired, kissing expert of a distraction.
Rini munched on a fry before washing it down with a sip of her strawberry milkshake. “Have you thought of reaching out?”
“No.” I grabbed my iced tea to wash down anything I could say that I’d regret.
She set her milkshake down, eyeing me cautiously. “Listen, I know you’re still pissed as hell, but I’m wondering if you’re taking this out on the wrong person.”
Seriously? I went to speak, but my elder sister held out a manicured hand, her fingertips shiny with oil from the fries.
“Yes, he didn’t tell you about needing to pick Staci during filming, which is totally shit, but what if he couldn’t?” she prodded, her teeth sinking into her lower lip while I digested the question. “I’m just trying to play devil’s advocate here. Don’t freak out on me.”
“Or he didn’t care enough to mention it.” I lost interest in the rest of my sandwich thanks to the topic, so I grabbed my napkin to blot my mouth. “He makes his millions being Hollywood’s bad boy. That’s a solo gig. A girlfriend cramps the look; I get it.”
That didn’t mean I liked it. I wasn’t a toy for anyone to play with.
“I don’t know,” she said with a sigh, stabbing at her milkshake with her straw. “He looked at you like you were his everything. Something feels funky.”
“It’s the baby doing somersaults in your abdomen.” I snagged a fry before she cleared my plate too. “That would make anything feel funky.”
“I think he really loves you, sis,” she huffed, eyeing my fries with envy. “Call it pregnant intuition.”
“I call it you-watched-our-show-and-want-a-happily-ever-after.” I didn’t blame her. At one point, I’d wanted one too. The love. The house. The dog. The two-point-five kids.
“I want a happily ever after for you, period,” she argued with a frown. “Where you own a cute little restaurant—with or without him.”
I smiled, loving that forecast of my future.
But deep down, I hoped a sliver of Slater would be in there somewhere.
15
Talita
Whoever claimed that running released endorphins was full of shit.
After two miles, I was no closer to a runner’s high than when I’d started. The only high I might’ve had was a contact one from the kids smoking grass at the frat party I’d passed on 17th and Main.
I was also disgusting—as in covered in sweat with swamp ass for days—disgusting. The cute sports bra and leggings combo that I’d been so excited to wear was a total bust, the fabric forcing out sweat before trapping it like a sponge. It led to an interesting squish as I walked back to my apartment, and I wasn’t too eager to figure out exactly what was squishing.
The sweatpocalypse splattered flyaways to my forehead, my pigtail buns cute but impractical when combined with running. With every breeze came relief, but there was also a fluffing effect, leaving the two puffs in a crazed Einstein-meets-electrical-socket situation.
On the surface, a run seemed like a good idea. Endorphins didn’t sound like a bad trade for a side stitch and some sweat. I needed all the endorphins I could get and then some to get my head on straight.
I powered through the last two blocks to my complex in a slow shuffle, the sweat trap in my pants unbearable while my calves cramped. It couldn’t be pretty from afar, but thankfully it was dark, so no one could get a good look at the carnage in passing.
The apartment lot was quiet as I entered from the street, the final stretch free of witnesses. I avoided street lamps along the way, not wanting prospective spectators to catch a peek of my oh-so-graceful walk of shame. I had to look like a baby with a load in its diaper.
I should’ve just stayed in and attempted a Bikini Bod video. At least then I would’ve been steps away from the shower to rectify the sweaty situation instead of blocks.
I slipped my lanyard from around my neck and stuck the key in the lock, a little annoyed that I’d have to wash that sweat-covered cloth, too.
Damn cheap workout clothes. I needed to stop one-clicking cute outfits before reading reviews. Pretty didn’t equal practical. I was lucky the leggings stayed in one piece. They could’ve split up the middle and showed the streets of Honey Hills my honey hills the whole way home.
“Talita.”
I jumped and whirled with a screech, my back pressing against the door in a panic.
Slater pushed off the stucco, emerging from the shadows to the right of my door in worn jeans and a snug t-shirt. “Sorry I scared you.”
“Why the hell are you standing in the dark? You could’ve given me a heart attack!” I pressed a hand to my chest, making sure the organ was still beating. It was, but at least triple its normal rhythm. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
A dimple emerged as a smile snuck through his steely facade. “I’m sorry. I just got here. Bad timing.”
There wasn’t really a good time for him to pop up, but it was especially bad timing with my melting act in full swing. I had to look and smell like death by sweat.
I leaned into the door as my body sagged in relief. At least it was just him. He might’ve been a jerk, but he was relatively harmless. “What are you doing here?”
His smile fell into a flat line. “I want to have that talk.”
“Uh, didn’t we go over this?” I asked, waving a hand at the parking lot where we’d shared our last conversation. “You can’t come in and out of my life. I’m not a doormat, Slater.”
Yoyo relationships weren’t for me. Never had been; never would be. Everyone deserved a one and only—not a fair-weather beau.
His expression pained. “I’m not asking you to be one. We need to talk.”
“We don’t need to do anything,” I corrected, turning to finish unlocking the door. My hands shook as I did, the adrenaline from the scare still humming through me. The keys rattled, filling the silence with something other than our breathing.
“Lita, please.”
I pushed the door open and stepped inside, fully intending on slamming it in his face, but when I went to do the deed, I couldn’t. Like the sucker I was, I froze.
He looked like a puppy waiting to come in out of the cold. “Lita,” he repeated, his blue eyes pleading.
I would regret it—I would totally regret it—but I left the door wide open for him to waltz inside.
“I need to shower,” I informed, kicking off my sneakers as gracefully as I could without disturbing the sweat puddle in my pants. “I’m gross.”
Slater stepped in and shut the door softly. His cologne traveled with him, flooding my apartment with man. “Shush it; you’re beautiful.”
“Keep your compliments to yourself.” I threw the warning over my shoulder as I disconnected my keys from the lanyard and set them on the counter.
Letting him inside was one thing. Falling for his flattery was another. I wouldn’t go down that road. I’d throw up every roadblock possible to avoid that disaster.
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He held up his hands, feigning innocence. “Will do.”
I pointed a finger at him, summoning my inner elementary school teacher. “Stay out here.”
If he so much as sniffed down the hall while I was showering, he’d have hell to pay. My broken bathroom door knob needed to remain a mystery. If he knocked, the door would pop wide, and my clear shower curtain wasn’t made for modesty.
A slow nod was the only answer I received, but it was all I needed before taking off toward the bathroom. I stripped as soon as the door shut, my sports bra alone containing enough of the wet stuff to make a disturbing smack when it landed in the bottom of the hamper. The lanyard soon joined it with the rest of my clothes.
The hot spray of the shower powered through the funk, every swipe of suds chasing away the ew of the evening.
Knowing that Slater was waiting should’ve made me hurry, but the heat felt too good to rush after a long night at work. My muscles were in knots, my shoulders and back tense from hunching over the cutting board and stove. It was a rookie mistake—everyone knew proper posture was key in the kitchen—but somewhere between the baklava and octopus; I stopped giving a fig.
Paired with the earlier shopping adventure with Rini, I was dead tired.
Hopefully, the dainty bottles of Calming Lavender shampoo and conditioner were up for a challenge, because I needed all the calming they could give before facing Slater. Just to be sure, I added an extra squirt of conditioner to my hair before rinsing and scrubbing my body again.
After the sweatpocalypse, there was no such thing as too much washing. But there was such a thing as too much heat. And too much spray on sensitive places.
Running my hands over my body only made it worse. Thoughts of the Sinner ran rampant. My nipples turned to pearls with every brush of the hand. It wasn’t long until my fingers began circling extra slow over the tender flesh, reveling in the contact. Imagining they were Slater’s hands.
What the hell was wrong with me?
I flipped the water off, calling it quits before I ran more bases with me, myself, and I.
With a crooked towel hat atop my head and another wrapped around my body, I brushed my teeth, kicking myself with every stroke over how unnecessary it was. Like sexy panties and a bikini wax before a date, it was only asking for trouble. With Slater around, I should’ve kept an emergency onion by my side to bite, just in case my willpower slipped.
Once satisfied, I took a nervous step into the hallway, happy to see that he’d listened and remained in the living area. With the coast clear, I scurried into my bedroom and scrounged for something comfortable that still said hear me roar. That ruled out at least two drawers of fleece character pajamas and my top drawer of sexy little somethings. I settled on black yoga pants and a loose-fitting top, not willing to rock a bra after a shift and a run. If he didn’t like the peekaboo headlights, he could keep his eyes to himself.
I found him sitting on the sofa, his shoes removed just like the last time. Yet again, they were placed neatly next to mine by the door.
“Feel better?” He threw the question out like test bait, sampling the water.
I crossed to sit on the opposite side of the couch, folding my hands neatly in my lap. “Yup.”
Unfortunately, my muscles were still demanding a hot date with ibuprofen and a heating pad, but the cushy couch helped a touch.
He looked me over from top to bottom, a slow smile spreading. “How far did you go?”
My cheeks burned. “Excuse me?”
Had he sneaked a peek in the bathroom? What an ass. I knew I should’ve called maintenance to fix that flimsy handle. Living alone, it hadn’t exactly been a priority. That was before I had an ex-whatever creeping around.
He shot a nervous glance my way before clearing his throat. “You went for a run, right?”
“Oh, yeah, right,” I muttered, the hot shame building rather than draining.
Of course he meant that. I needed to take a chill pill.
“What did you think I meant?” he chuckled.
I adjusted, sliding a bent leg under me. Anything to break up the fire in my cheeks. “You never know with you.”
His blue eyes drifted over me again, heating everywhere they touched—even my already-blazing face. “I was talking about running; you’re the one thinking dirty thoughts over there. Get your head out of the gutter, jeez.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I’d get off the hook or die trying. If my cheeks could get the message and get onboard, that’d be great. They were blowing the hell out of my cover.
“Whatever you say, you sicko. Now how far did you run? Using your legs?”
“Two miles.” It wasn’t much compared to the six he put in every morning, but it was nothing to sneeze at either. Before we met, I was lucky if I could run to the end of the parking lot without keeling over. I quickly found out that skinny didn’t necessarily mean fit.
He slid an arm over the top of the couch, the long limb bridging the gap between us as he brushed a wet curl behind my ear. His knuckles grazed my cheek as he did, and I had to stop from leaning into his touch. “Not bad. It’s a good night for it. Nice and cool.”
I took a deep breath, inhaling his scent. Not exactly helping. “What do you want?” I blurted, sounding a little snappier than intended.
He raised his brows before pulling his arm away, stealing the closeness and comfort that I hadn’t known I needed. “Well, if you want to get right to it…” he began, sitting up to tilt his body to face me. “I’m a self-centered coward who is also head over heels in love with you.”
Ok, then. That wasn’t what I was expecting.
The wheels upstairs spun, but the words never made it to my mouth.
Slater swooped in to save us both from the awkward silence. “I understand if you don’t feel the same right now. To be honest, after everything, I can’t believe you didn’t kick me in the sack and call it a day.”
His blue eyes held mine, coaxing a response. When one didn’t immediately come, his throat bobbed with a nervous swallow.
I gave him a small nod, still at a loss for words. What the hell was I supposed to say to that?
Did I love him? Yes. Should I? Probably not.
Thank you wasn’t acceptable, but it wasn’t like I’d profess my love to the man that dropped me like trash.
Months earlier, I would’ve thrown my arms around him and forgiven him. Forget Staci. Forget the Fix Up. All that would’ve mattered was us. But after having the time to think, grow, and smell the roses, I smelled trouble.
Despite my lack of enthusiasm, he still perked up at receiving a semblance of a response. “Look, I don’t expect you to profess your dying love. I need to earn that. I need to earn your respect too. I’m just asking for the chance to try.”
My heart skittered at the offer. It was exactly what I wanted to hear. What I needed to hear. But that was precisely the problem.
“Why?” I asked, searching the planes of his face for a reason. It all sounded too good.
He let out a ragged breath, pain pulling at the corners of his full lips. “Because when you love someone, you do what’s best for them—not yourself.”
I snorted, “You’re the best thing for me? Subtle, Slater.”
Financially? Definitely. Emotionally? Not a chance.
“Maybe not, but the truth is the best thing for you,” he offered. “You deserve to know. Everything.”
“You’re not going to tell me you’re secretly my brother, right?” I teased, desperate for his smile to return. A serious Slater wasn’t natural. It left me ready to run.
The flash of happiness reappeared, though it was brief, with a tiny smirk pulling before vanishing. “I’m afraid not. Vince was a ladies' man back in the day, but he’s never been to Jersey.”
My jaw dropped. “Vince is your father?” Oh. My. God.
I’d met him when Slater and I were together, but it was always at Slater’s house—far from the rental in Malibu
where we shot the show. In fact, Vince never stepped foot on the set. He’d introduced himself as Slater’s manager, and I’d thought nothing else.
But now that I really looked at Slater, I saw the similarities. Slater’s face was more angular than his father’s, but the resemblance was there. The straight nose. Heavy brow. Slightly pouty lips.
Slater nodded. “Buckle up; there’s more.”
“Why wouldn’t you tell me that?” I asked, still absorbing the fact.
I never would’ve told the man half the jokes I had if I’d known he was Slater’s dad. I wanted to crawl in a hole. I totally dropped more than one sex joke in front of the guy. I cussed up a storm too. Mama would kill me if she found out.
“We’re not really close.”
Bullshit.
“Slater, he practically lives at your house!”
He looked at his hands, his fingers fidgeting with one another. “Close in location doesn’t mean close in a father-son way. He’s a great manager. Better than I deserve. But we don’t have a familial relationship. All business.”
Watching him squirm didn’t feel as good as I’d once imagined it to. It hurt instead. “Any other hidden relatives that I should know about? Is Umi your evil twin?”
“Fuck no,” he laughed, lifting his eyes to mine again. “I would’ve kicked her out of the womb. I’m not convinced she’s human, actually.”
I grinned. “Same.” Umi Jonas might’ve been the closest thing to the devil on Earth. Apology flowers or not—she was mean as hell.
He shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “I didn’t want to do the Fix Up,” he admitted, changing course. His tone changed too, the playfulness stripped as it dropped. “When I showed up on set, I was prepared to hate every second I was there, but then I saw this pretty girl in a stylist’s chair. She had these beautiful brown eyes that didn’t need the ridiculous lashes that someone glued on them. She knew it, too, but she didn’t complain. She just laughed and joked around with anyone that came near, and I had to talk to that girl. I had to make her laugh. So I did.”
