The Someday Girl (The Girl Duet Book 2), page 11
“Both.” I grin at him, the first real grin I’ve had in days. His eyes watch my mouth stretch with an intensity that makes me nervous.
“Kat—”
I press my lips together to quash the smile. “Yeah?”
“I—” He cuts himself off. “Just… watch the damn road, please.”
Flushing, I turn my attention forward and focus on getting home alive. I hear him sigh, deeply relieved, when I punch in my security code and we pull into my driveway a few moments later. The air is unnaturally silent with the engine off.
“I should’ve said this before, when I first found out — I’m sorry about Helena,” I blurt, cheeks flushing. I glance at him. “I don’t know what happened exactly, but I’m sure it wasn’t an easy situation for you. I’m really sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t anyone’s fault, really. She just… broke. Sometimes this life, the pressure… Not everyone can handle it.”
We’re both quiet. The air is so heavy I can barely breathe.
“I’ve heard it makes some people go on crazy camera-smashing rampages,” I say carefully.
He smirks. “That guy had it coming.”
“So long as you realize he’s going to sue you for damages…”
“I have a fleet of overpriced lawyers for exactly this kind of bullshit.” He shrugs. “They’ll take care of it.”
“Ah.” A massive yawn cracks my face in two. “Damn, I’m beat. Thank god we have the next few days off.”
His mouth flattens. “We do? Why?”
“Don’t you read your schedule?”
“That’s what assistants are for.”
I roll my eyes. “Typical.”
“Really though — why don’t I see you tomorrow?”
“Dunn, tomorrow is Christmas. We’ve got the next week off.”
“Oh. Right. Still, I’m surprised Sloan is giving us a break.”
“He might be a hard-ass, but even he takes this time of year off.” My eyebrows lift. “Aren’t you doing anything with your family?”
“Parents always spend the holidays in Florida, and I’m an only child.” He shrugs. “Never been big on it, as holidays go. Fourth of July is much more my speed.”
“Fireworks, beer, BBQ, and bikinis — I wonder why.”
His eyebrows waggle, a flash of his old mischief. The man is incorrigible.
“Enjoy your time off while it lasts — I’ll see you after the holidays, Dunn. Are you going to Sloan’s New Year’s Eve party?”
“I may make an appearance. I may go out with Ryder.” He shrugs. “I don’t like to commit to any one thing.”
I know he’s talking about parties, not relationships, but I have to bite my tongue to keep from snapping, Yes, I figured that one out on my own, thanks. I’m not sure what else to say, so I just undo my seatbelt and reach for the door handle.
“Kat.”
I pause, arm midair, taken aback by the emotion suddenly infused in his voice. I’m afraid to look at him, so I stare at my hand, stuck in limbo, shaking slightly as I hold it aloft.
“I know you think I’m an asshole. I know I’m the bad guy in your story. Trust me, I know.” He swallows audibly. “If I was a better guy, I’d go on being the villain you seem to need me to be. I wouldn’t apologize or ask for your forgiveness, because I know I don’t deserve it after all the shit I’ve put you through.” He pauses. “But I’m not a better guy. So I’m asking.”
I inhale sharply.
“Forgive me. Stop hating me,” he pleads softly. “Not because I deserve it. But because I won’t survive if you keep thinking I’m scum.”
“Why now?” I ask, almost inaudibly. “What’s changed? You didn’t seem to care what I thought of you a month ago. You didn’t seem to give a shit about making me angry yesterday, or a week ago, or the decade before that, for that matter.”
He expels a sharp breath. “I don’t have an easy answer for you. I wish I did. All I can tell you is… I hate this. I hate you hating me. I hate waking up in the morning, knowing you’re going to spend the day wishing you were somewhere else. With someone else.”
“So you want me to forgive you because my anger is an inconvenience?” I shake my head. “Sorry, that’s not good enough.”
“No! No. I want you to forgive me because it’s killing me to be this fucking close to you and not be able to touch you or talk to you or laugh with you. I want you to forgive me because it’s Christmas and at Christmas, you’re supposed to put aside all the miserable shit that makes your life hell for three hundred and sixty-four days out of the year, and be thankful for the rare things that make you happy.”
I look back at him, at the pleading look in his eyes, and for a fleeting instant I want to break down and give him everything he’s asking for. A crazy, delusional part of my brain sees the shadowed parts of this broken boy, and recognizes them as the match for my own terrible darkness.
Maybe it’s only fitting for someone like me, stitched together with damage and destruction, to wind up with someone like him. Maybe, if I stretch my arms out in the darkness, I can grab hold of him, because he lives there too. Maybe choosing shadows won’t be so bad, if we’re stuck inside them together.
“You make me happy,” he finishes in a whisper. “Even if I’ve done a shitty job at showing it. And I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know if this — us — has a shot in hell at working. But I promise, I’m going to do better. Whether it’s just as friends or something more… I promise, Kat, if you’ll just give me a chance to make this right, I’ll prove it…”
I reach out and put my hand over his mouth, stopping his words.
“Don’t. Okay? Just… Please don’t. Don’t say something you don’t mean just because you’re lonely and sad and it’s the holidays. Don’t tell me you miss me because it’s tough to be alone.” My eyes hold his. “The thing I’m learning is, it’s okay to be alone, Grayson. Good, even. It helps you figure out who you are and what you want, without other people’s influence.”
“But—” The word is muffled against my palm.
“You’re searching for something missing in your life. You think that something might be me, but it’s not.” I pull my hand away. “You’re not looking for me; you’re looking for you. You’re lost. And that’s okay — everyone is a little lost. Look who you’re talking to.” I sigh. “I don’t know much, but I do know you can’t find yourself by getting lost in someone else.”
Indecipherable thoughts are swimming in that set of infinite eyes.
My voice is cautious. “You know what I want for you, more than anything?”
He shakes his head.
“I want you to figure out who you are — without the cameras or the press or the drama. I want you to look in the mirror and like the man you see looking back. Not because he’s rich or famous or good in bed. Not because women lust after him or men want to be him.” I smile softly. “Because he respects himself. Because he knows who he is and what he wants, truly wants, out of life. That’s a man I’d be interested in getting to know.”
His face flickers through so many emotions in such a short span, I can’t keep track of them all. Nor do I want to.
“Merry Christmas, Grayson,” I whisper, my eyes holding his for a long moment. I reach for the door handle. I’m halfway out, when his voice stops me again.
“Kat?”
“Yeah?”
“You told me what you want for me.” His jaw clenches tightly. “But what do you want from me?”
My breath catches in my throat. I can’t give him the answer; I don’t know it, myself.
With a head shake and a sad smile, I turn and flee into the house.
Christmas has never been my favorite holiday. Cynthia wasn’t big on giving gifts to others, and my revolving door of stepfathers were unpredictable when it came to leaving presents under the tree. Still, when I wake this year and walk downstairs, there’s an immutable feeling of loneliness stirring in my veins. I fix myself a cup of decaf coffee and walk out onto my terrace, the slight chill in the early morning air seeping through my thin sweater and fuzzy white knee-socks.
All over the world, families are huddled around trees, tearing paper and singing carols, hugging each other close and celebrating together. And I am totally alone, staring out over the hillside toward the Pacific, where early morning light stains the expanse of ocean a steely gray shade.
Harper will come over later, of course, probably dragging Kent in her wake. We’ll exchange gifts and drink disgusting eggnog and sing off-key Bing Crosby, and I’ll tell myself that everything in my life is perfect, even though it’s a lie.
I set my coffee cup on the deck railing and wrap my arms around my body for warmth. In a moment of weakness, I allow myself to wonder what Wyatt is doing this Christmas. Will he be with the all-powerful Hastings clan, talking business over bourbon and smoking cigars at a lavish family gathering? Or curled up somewhere with Caroline, celebrating their first holiday together by a dazzling tree beneath that massive chandelier in his front room, making love in front of a fireplace until the sun fades from the sky?
My eyes are stinging precariously.
He’s not mine to miss, but I miss him anyway. I miss his laugh and his smile and that undeniable sense of safety I always feel inside his arms.
What would he say, if I called him right now? Would he even answer?
My hands itch to find out.
I’ve put him out of my mind over the past few days. The press junket has been a grueling parade of smiling bright and saying all the right things at all the right moments. At the end of each day I’ve collapsed into bed without even bothering to eat dinner, falling into a dreamless sleep before my head hits the pillow, jerking awake to the blaring sound of my alarm only moments before Harper arrives to make me beautiful so it can start all over again. Nonstop. There’s been no time to think of Wyatt.
But in this brief lull, my feelings catch up to me with the force of a freight train. I pull my phone from the back pocket of my sleep shorts and scroll down to his name. The sight makes me smile.
Wyatt Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore Hastings
If I close my eyes, I can almost still hear his laughter the day he programmed it in, on our way to Hawaii. Memories slide over me — salty waves and warm sand, his arms dunking me beneath the surface but keeping me tethered. Always, always, always keeping me safe.
My smile fades.
I click a button to power off my phone.
No.
I will not call him. I will not inflict myself on him again. I will not drag him back into the wreckage of my world, not when he is so much better off without me.
No matter the personal cost.
Even if it kills me.
Seeking his forgiveness would be a selfish act, not a selfless one: I’d feel better but he’d feel worse. Like a terminally ill patient who infects the person unfortunate enough to take up the bed beside theirs with a deadly virus.
Sorry for killing you, but at least now I don’t have to die alone.
A snapping sound cuts through the sinister web of misery inside my head. I whip around in time to see a man dressed fully in black, perched on the bough of a tree in my backyard. There’s a massive camera clutched in his hands and a slender tree branch cracked in two beneath his heavily booted feet.
“What the hell…” I murmur, watching in disbelief as he lifts the camera to his face and starts clicking.
Shit!
Heart pounding, I flee inside, slam the sliding door shut behind me, and dive onto the floor by my sofa, out of sight. I lie there in a pile of limbs, waiting for my sluggish thoughts to start making sense.
There is a man in my tree, risking criminal charges for a photograph of me drinking coffee in fuzzy socks.
He must’ve scaled the fence, desperate for a few pictures to sell to the gossip rags. I can almost see the headlines he was so hopeful for: Kat and Grayson’s First Christmas! See the exclusive photos on page 12…
Joke’s on him.
I’d laugh at the ludicrous situation, but it’s not remotely funny. Belatedly, I realize I should probably call the police. Somehow that feels like an overreaction, so I call Masters instead. He answers on the first ring.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m—”
“Are you inside?”
“Yes, I’m—”
“Good. I’m pulling into your driveway. Don’t come outside.”
“But, Masters—”
He’s already hung up. I army-crawl like a damned idiot across my hardwood floors, all the way from my kitchen to the front room. Twitching the curtains aside, I peer out and see — sure enough — there’s a familiar black SUV parked behind my red convertible. The engine’s off; the driver’s seat is empty.
Where the hell is Masters?
I’ve barely had a chance to wonder that when he emerges from the side yard, muscles straining against the confines of his white button down as the man in his arms thrashes to get free. It’s no use — Masters is a giant. I’m pretty sure he could dead-lift a baby elephant without breaking a sweat.
The flashing lights of a police cruiser appear at the end of my driveway. In less than ten minutes, Masters has deposited the trespasser into the officers’ custody and given them a brief statement. He glances back at the window I’m watching from, my face pressed against the glass with the same intensity I use to peruse cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery. He gives a slight head-shake as if to say stay inside, idiot.
I decide not to argue with him.
The police drive off with the paparazzo bolted firmly in the backseat of their cruiser; Masters vanishes around the side of the house, presumably to check for other intruders. He’s back a few moments later, standing at my front door with his hands shoved casually into the pockets of his jeans. I let him in, eyes fixed on the shocking garment.
“You own jeans?” I ask, stunned. “And here I thought you were born wearing that badass looking security-dude suit.”
“Security-dude suit?” He snorts and locks the deadbolt firmly. “Trust me, I wouldn’t be here in jeans if it hadn’t been an emergency.”
“How did you know he was here?”
“Remember when you first moved in, and I spent several days rigging all manner of cameras and security sensors around the perimeter of your house, while you and Harper laughed at me and called me paranoid in the extreme?”
My cheeks heat. “I might… possibly… recall saying something along those lines…”
“Right.” His eyes crinkle in amusement. “Long story short: motion sensor went off, sent a ping to my phone, I got in the car and came straight here.”
“You could’ve called me.”
“I assumed you’d still be asleep. And I was worried you’d do something stupid, like confront the bastard by yourself.”
“When have I ever done something stupid?”
He just looks at me.
“Second thought, don’t answer that,” I murmur. “I’m too fragile to handle the truth.”
Masters walks to the kitchen and pours himself a cup of coffee.
“That’s decaf,” I warn.
He grimaces, but takes a sip anyway. “Caffeine’s effects are mostly mental, anyway.”
“Says the man who can consume it any time he wants.”
“Jonesing for a jolt?”
“You have no idea.” I hop up on a kitchen island stool, swinging my legs. “What will happen to the pap?”
Masters shrugs. “They can charge him with criminal trespassing. Stalking would be a stretch — this guy doesn’t seem like a repeat offender. You haven’t noticed him lurking before, have you?”
I shake my head. “There’s always a swarm of them, like flies on a carcass.” I pause. “The carcass being Grayson, of course.”
“And you.” Masters sounds serious. “You’re big time now.”
I snort.
“Miss Firestone, there was a man camped out in your eucalyptus tree twenty minutes ago. Believe it or not, that’s not a normal occurrence for regular people. You need to accept that your reality has changed, and start acting accordingly when it comes to protecting yourself.”
A groan rumbles from my throat. “I know. It’s just hard to see myself that way.”
Masters shrugs. “We’ve all got crosses to bear.”
The sharp ring of my doorbell makes my eyebrows shoot up to my hairline. I wonder if it’s the police, back to take another statement, but somehow I doubt officers of the law make it a habit to jam their finger repeatedly into the doorbell despite me calling, “Just a minute!” on five second intervals as I race for the front room.
I undo the deadbolt and she storms inside, a messy cloud of magenta hair sticking out in all directions. There’s not a lick of makeup on her face. I blink slowly, stunned. I haven’t seen Harper Kline without eyeliner since… ever. I was beginning to think she was born with twin birthmarks in the shape of perfectly winged cat-eyes.
“Oh good,” she says stormily. “You’re not dead. That means I can KILL YOU MYSELF!”
I wince. “Merry Christmas to you too?”
Still scowling, she yanks me into her arms and squeezes the wind out of my lungs.
“Paparazzo in my tree,” I wheeze. “I’m fine.”
“I thought something terrible happened. Kent sat straight up in bed, grabbed his phone, and bolted so fast I could barely get a word out of him. And since neither of you had the courtesy to answer your damn cellphones… here I am.” She pulls away, eyes watering. “I didn’t even brush my hair or swipe on a single coat of mascara.”
“I love you too,” I whisper, recognizing a declaration of affection when I see one.
She pins her boyfriend with a lethal stare. “You! Mr. We-Don’t-Need-Secrets-Babe. Ha! Next time you race out of the house without a word to save my best friend, you’re taking me with you.”
“I’m not,” he says, swallowing a slow sip of coffee.
“Come again?” Harper hisses.
“Not taking you with me.”
Her face flushes with fury. “You’re an ass.”
He shrugs. “Maybe. But I’m an ass who likes his girlfriend’s very fine ass safe in bed, not chasing down bad guys in backyards at six in the morning on Christmas.”
