The Complete Darkest Sunrise Series

by Aly Martinez

  “Right.”

  “Now, go. Get back to work or you won’t be able to afford the obscene bill my secretary will be sending you tomorrow.”

  “Fan-fucking-tastic.” I hit end without so much as a goodbye, and when I turned back to the door, Andrea was standing on the other side, her arms crossed over her chest as she glared at me through the glass.

  “What?” I said loudly.

  “Can we get back to filming now?” she yelled back without bothering to open the door.

  Impatiently, I lifted my half-smoked cigarette in her direction. “Can I get a minute first?”

  She flicked me off, rolling her eyes before stomping away.

  I took another toxic inhale. It was the first cigarette I’d had in a while, but it was doing nothing for my shitty mood.

  Nothing in the world pissed me off more than Shana Beckwit. I couldn’t even think about her without my blood pressure soaring.

  On the flip side, there was one woman who seemed to have the most amazing knack for erasing it all.

  After opening my texts, I clicked on her name. My face broke into a smile at the sight of her last message.

  Rita: Okay. Fine. I’ll bring an overnight bag. But I’m not wearing the yoga pants again.

  I hadn’t responded because, while I had a nostalgic soft spot for those pants, I was also pretty damn curious to see what she’d bring to my house to sleep in.

  Over the last week, going slow with Rita had been the most incredible—and agonizing—thing I’d ever done. Our schedules hadn’t allowed us nearly as much time as I would have liked, but we’d gone out to dinner twice, and she’d come over once to watch Game of Thrones. Which, not to brag or anything, but also to brag a little bit, I’d been right about. She loved it. I was counting down the episodes to The Red Wedding. And not because I was some kind of masochist eager to relive that insanity. But I was sick of listening to her prattle on about a certain someone’s abs. And yes, I did see the irony in that.

  It was Monday night, and due to the long hours we’d been pulling to finish up the season, Andrea had given everyone the following day off. It had taken a fair amount of convincing since Rita had to work the next morning, but I’d somehow managed to convince her to spend the night with me. The fickle March weather had cooled significantly over the last few days, so sleeping in the hammock again was out. And with the day I’d had, the idea of having her in my bed, even without sex, was the only thing keeping my head from exploding.

  After taking one last drag, I snuffed my cigarette out and then typed a message.

  Me: What time are you coming over?

  She replied almost immediately.

  Rita: What time do you want me there?

  Me: Now? My day’s been shit.

  Rita: Aw, honey. I’m sorry. Are you done filming?

  I groaned to myself. Fuck no, I wasn’t done filming. It was four in the afternoon, and we probably had at least two hours left—maybe more since I’d messed up my hair like a dumbass.

  Me: Not yet.

  Rita: Okay. How about this? Let’s skip Antojitos tonight. I’ll come over and we can watch my future husband’s abs crusade across Westeros.

  Me: No, babe. You’ve been talking about tacos all week. Antojitos is the best. I’ll be fine.

  Me: Also, you call that man your future husband one more time and I’m going to tell you how every single episode ends.

  I wasn’t annoyed. Not in the least. I was actually smiling because I could imagine her sitting at her desk at work, giggling. Christ, I was such a sap. But that woman—that beautiful, smartass, witty woman—was so deep under my skin and I fucking loved every second of it.

  Rita: Don’t be silly. (On both accounts.) You had a crappy day. I don’t need that funk tainting my delicious tacos experience. We’ll hang out at your place tonight. You still think you’ll be done by seven?

  I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I’d have loved to take her to Antojitos, but a night at home with her was exactly what my tired body needed.

  Me: Come at six thirty. I can’t wait until seven.

  Rita: Then I’ll be there at six thirty.

  Rejuvenated by more than just the cigarette, I tucked my phone into my back pocket and went inside, all of the anger and frustration washing away by the time I hit the massive kitchen.

  And then, with one glance at Andrea, who was standing at the mouth of the hall, it all came roaring back—tenfold.

  Because she was standing next to Douchebag Greg.

  What the fuck was what I thought.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” was what I said.

  Thanks to the internet, my address was unfortunately public knowledge, but after buying the place, I’d had a security gate added at the entrance of the property. But on a day while we were filming, dozens of people coming and going, I figured it wasn’t impossible to follow someone in.

  Andrea backed away from Greg and threw out a palm to stop me. “Chill out. I already called security.”

  It was safe to assume I did not chill out. “Are you seriously fucking standing inside my house right now?”

  “We need to talk.” He tugged at the collar of the plain-ass white button-down tucked into his plain-ass white khakis. In what world had this man been able to score a woman like Rita?

  “And what the hell makes you think that I want to listen?” I closed the distance between us, snapping and pointing for Andrea to move.

  Surprisingly, she followed my order.

  He shifted his gaze around the room before bringing it back to mine. “Because, if you don’t, Rita’s going to lose everything.”

  I stopped only a foot in front of him, a wicked smile pulling at my lips. This asshole had not just threatened her. He hadn’t. No fucking way. “I am positive you didn’t say that.”

  “I said it and I meant it.” His nostrils flared as he held my stare, but his hands revealed the barest hint of a shake. “I hired a PI. I have pictures of you two together. Pictures of you kissing her, your hands all over her ass.” He paused, sucked in jagged breath, and then spat, “She’s my wife!”

  “Your wife? You’re delusional, man. To hear her tell it, she hasn’t been your wife in a long time. Even before you barebacked Tammy’s pussy and knocked her up.”

  He gritted his teeth. “According to Georgia law, she is still very much my wife. And you are fucking her for nothing more than sport.”

  I blinked. As much as I would have adored to be fucking Rita, it sure as hell wouldn’t have been for sport. It would have been to see how many times I could make her come over the next hundred years. Meh. I guessed that could have been a sport.

  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  He planted his hands on his hips. “I already spoke with my attorney. If I take those pictures to a judge, she’ll never see a single penny of alimony from me. Her infidelities will also be considered in dividing our marital property. I swear on my life, Tanner, if you two keep this shit up, I will leave her with nothing but the waitress’s uniform she was wearing when she walked into our relationship.”

  My vision flashed red, and blood thundered in my ears. This. Fucking. Prick.

  “Let me see if I’ve got this right,” I said, bumping my chest with his.

  He wisely backed away.

  “You spent the last six months lying to her, cheating on her, breaking her, and now, you’re pissed and making threats, because she’s trying to move on? For fuck’s sake, you got a woman pregnant. What the hell do you think a judge is going to say about that?”

  He lifted his pretentious, weak chin. “She’s not trying to move on. She’s trying to hurt me. You two have the perfect little arrangement, don’t you? You get your rocks off inside of my wife, and she’s parading you around through my own fucking office to get back at me.”

  I barked a laugh. “That’s not what’s happening here, Greg. But I applaud your abilities to somehow make everything about you. Truly, that’s a talent.”

&nb
sp; “That’s exactly what’s happening here. You don’t know Rita like I do.”

  I stabbed a finger into his chest. “You need to fuck off with that shit. I may not have had seven years with her, but you don’t know Rita like I do. If you did, you never would have given her a reason to move on. Your loss. You fucked up.” I smirked, leaning in to whisper, “I really appreciate it though.”

  His face got tight. “Leave her alone. This is your only warning. Walk away, or I swear to you this will get ugly for her.”

  “Ugly? For her?” I laughed. “How did a dumbass like you graduate from medical school?” I took a step away and threw my arms out to my sides. “Take a look around you. You might have deep pockets, but I assure you mine are deeper. And for a woman like Rita, you have no idea how much I’m willing to invest. Go ahead. Try it. I fucking dare you to file your fancy little pictures at the courthouse. Do me a favor and send me a copy while you’re at it.” Smugly, my lips curled at the corners. “I love the way her cheeks pink when my hand is on her ass.”

  His eyes flashed wide, but I didn’t let it slow me. This moron picked the wrong day to fuck with me.

  “You show up here tonight thinking you’re going to throw down the gauntlet? But you failed to consider that I’m going to be the man to pick it back up.”

  His jaw went hard, and his shoulders rolled back like he might possibly have a backbone. I didn’t wait to find out.

  “From here on out, my attorneys will be handling your divorce from my woman. And just so you know, my legal team will gut whatever ambulance chaser you have on retainer. By the time I’m done with you, you’re going to be lucky if you get to leave that marriage with your own dick. Now, get the fuck out of my house so I can finish filming my goddamn show. I have a date tonight.” I could barely hear through the blood thundering in my ears, but instead of breaking my knuckles open on his face the way I so desperately wanted to, I winked, turned on a toe, and walked away.

  I heard Andrea swoop in behind me, a few of the production crew jogging over to take her back. But Greg wasn’t going to do a damn thing other than tuck his tail and slither away like some sort of weird stray dog-snake shifter.

  I, on the other hand, went back outside, had one more cigarette, and called Doug back to inform him that we needed to add a divorce to his ever-growing list of legal duties.

  With a flirty grin aimed at the camera, I tossed my side towel over my shoulder and flexed my abs. “Until next week. Keep on simmering.” I winked for good measure.

  “And that’s a wrap!” Andrea yelled.

  My smile fell immediately. “Thank you God!”

  “Good job, guys. Pack it up. I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to get the hell out of here.”

  A glance at the clock told me it was six forty. Rita should have been there already. Unlike me, she was never late. I dug my phone out of my back pocket, finding a notification on my home screen.

  Rita: I’m here, but there’s a ton of cars, so I think you’re still filming. I’ll be in my car, Googling pictures of Robb Stark when you’re done.

  I laughed, shaking my head.

  Me: You didn’t have to wait in your car, crazy. Get in here. I’m done.

  The read receipt popped up only seconds before the text bubble.

  Rita: I didn’t want to interrupt. On my way in now. See you in a second.

  My first stop was pulling on a new T-shirt. Topless cooking was only fun on TV. After that, I retrieved the two resting filets I’d prepared during the last episode and hurried to the stove to put the finishing touches on the Asiago cream sauce. I usually let the team take home whatever odd and ends we’d prepared during filming, but tonight, I had other plans for it.

  Rita and I had been dating for over ten days and I’d yet to cook for her. Despite that we’d spent a fair amount of time together, we’d mostly gone out to dinner, so I hadn’t had the opportunity. Plus, she’d never asked me, so I hadn’t gone out of my way to make it happen, either.

  But I’d had a bad day and the first thing she’d done was cancel dinner at a restaurant she was looking forward to and offer to come over, sit on my couch, and just hang out. That meant a lot to me, so I was going to cook her a dinner that would blow Antojitos out of the water. It might not have been tacos, but I was going to make damn sure she’d love it all the same.

  I was plating the asparagus and mashed parsnips, the room still a flurry of activity as the crew packed up to leave, when I heard Andrea say, “So you are the infamous Rita.”

  My head snapped up, my smile already wide.

  “Um, I guess?” she replied, her gaze finding mine over Andrea’s shoulder.

  “You were quite the hot topic of conversation on the set to—”

  Oh, hell no. Greg’s showing up was a conversation I was going to have with Rita when we were alone. The last thing either of us needed was Andrea swooping in and laying it on her with all the finesse of a sledgehammer.

  “Medusa!” I interrupted. “Put the snakes away.”

  Andrea turned to glare at me, but I only had eyes for my blonde.

  I gave her a chin jerk. “C’mere.”

  She flashed Andrea a tight smile, and then her heels were clipping against the hardwood as she navigated the cords and cameras surrounding my kitchen. She was holding a white casserole dish with both hands, a large pink bag dangling from her arm.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  She set the dish down on the large island and started around to my side. “Dinner.”

  I froze with the spoon of asparagus halfway to the plate. “What?”

  “Dinner,” she repeated, glancing at the two plates I was working on. “What’s that?”

  My lips quirked. “Dinner.” And then something struck deep at the center of me. “You cooked for me?”

  She pressed up onto her toes to steal a quick kiss. “You said you had a bad day. I didn’t have much time after work, but I decided to save us the trouble of ordering a pizza.”

  My chest got tight—like, so damn tight I thought there was a solid chance I was going to have a heart attack. “You…cooked for me?” I repeated, incredulous because it was such a foreign concept. If I wasn’t at a restaurant, no one besides my mom ever cooked for me. Honest to God, Shana had never even made me a PB&J. I was a chef. It was assumed that I would always be the one in the kitchen.

  But Rita had cooked for me. Just like she’d worn yoga pants last week. And asked if we could hang out instead of gallivanting around town. And she had a hammock. And a great ass. And she laughed at my jokes. And she sat in her car instead of barging in when we were filming. Sure, she always beat me at staring contests, but I could get better. And she was beautiful beyond all reason. And a great kisser. And she made the world’s best sounds when she was coming. And I was going to throw down the gauntlet with her ex. And and and…

  Her small hand landed on my back. “Tanner?”

  I gave her a single finger, asking for a second as I doubled over in full-fledge hyperventilation mode. Okay, it was mostly a joke, but it very easily could have been real for the way my chest felt.

  “Honey, are you okay?” She doubled over beside me.

  “Yes. But I’m having a bit of a moment.” I turned my head to see her and dramatically panted, “What’s in the dish, Rita?”

  Her emerald greens shifted from side to side. “Uh…tuna noodle casserole?”

  And she’d made me tuna noodle casserole.

  Jesus Christ, this woman had made a professional, world renown chef tuna noodle fucking casserole.

  Something deep inside me knotted again.

  Oh, yeah. Life was all about the little things.

  I blindly reached out for her arm, accidentally on purpose grabbing her boob before finding her forearm. “With or without peas?”

  She giggled, replying, “With. Who the hell makes tuna noodle casserole without them?”

  Who the hell made tuna noodle casserole at all anymore? Whatever. It didn’t matter. Sh
e’d made it for me.

  I didn’t stand up as much as I turned, put a shoulder in her stomach, and lifted her off her feet.

  “Tanner!” she squealed as I headed for the stairs. “I’m in a dress.”

  I smoothed a hand down her ass to make sure she was covered—and also to cop a feel.

  “Turn off the stove and lock up when you leave,” I called to Andrea and the rest of the stragglers as I took the steps up to my real home as quickly as one could with a laughing woman thrown over their shoulder.

  I went straight to my bedroom, threw her on the bed, and then followed her down. I caught my weight on my palms at either side of her head, planking above her before gently settling my weight on top of her. Her simple black sheath dress was too tight around her thighs for me to fit between them, so I rolled to my back, taking her with me.

  “What are you doing, crazy?” she asked.

  “I’m kissing you, for probably the next twenty minutes, so I’m going to need you to clear your schedule with Robb.”

  Her laugh morphed into a moan as I took her mouth.

  And then I kissed her.

  Not “casually” or “slow” or anything else our relationship was supposed to be.

  No. I kissed Rita Hartley like a woman I not only could fall in love with, but one I absolutely would fall in love with.

  We just needed to take some time, grow this thing between us into the highest peak it had always been meant to be.

  I’d give her time to heal and get back on her feet.

  And she’d give me tuna noodle casserole because I’d had a bad day and she’d had an hour after work.

  Together, we’d rule the world. Or, at the very least, sit on the couch, holding hands and laughing as it burned down around us.

  I was fine with either option because they both included her.

  For twenty minutes, I kissed Rita, frantic and needy. Our hands roamed and our bodies rolled, but we never took it any further.