The Someday Girl (The Girl Duet Book 2), page 12
Damn, he’s good.
I turn my head to hide my smile.
Harper huffs, but I can tell she’s losing grip on her anger. “Well, fine. You’re going to keep secrets, then so am I.”
He laughs, and it’s even better than the first time around. A stunningly rare sound that makes the whole room go silent in appreciation.
“What’s so funny?” Harper snaps, but her eyes are gooey with warmth.
“Babe.” He shakes his head, amused. “I already know all your secrets.”
“We’ve been dating a month! You don’t know anything. You can’t possibly.”
The laughter disappears. His eyes get alarmingly serious. “Maybe I don’t know them all, but I know enough.”
Harper rolls her eyes dismissively. “Uh huh. Whatever you say.”
She starts walking toward the kitchen, but he blocks her path.
“Already know I have to order double bacon on the side of breakfast, otherwise you’ll steal mine. Already know you spend almost as much money buying new makeup products as you make applying them to people’s faces. I know that when you say you’re going to yoga on Sunday mornings, you’re actually at church because your mom back home in Iowa would worry if you didn’t go, but religion isn’t considered cool in LA. I know there’s a thirty percent chance your hair will be a different color every time I see you. Also know, no matter what color it is, it’ll look good on you. I know that even though you insist you want to stay in your tiny ass city apartment forever, you really want a big house in the suburbs with four bedrooms you can fill with kids, because you’ve got two Pinterest boards filled with fixer-upper Victorians and Tudors set as your damn computer homepage.” He pauses. “Know that I’d like to help you fill those rooms, too.”
Harper’s mouth is hanging open and her eyes are wet with tears.
Mine are suspiciously wet, as well.
Masters smirks, pleased with himself. Walking over to Harper, he plants a quick kiss on her forehead, then turns and heads for the kitchen.
“Got any eggs, Miss Firestone? I’ll make breakfast.”
When he’s gone, Harper looks at me, weeping steadily, and I stare back at her with watery eyes.
“So… I totally love him,” she says miserably.
“I know.” I grin at her.
“You realize what this means, don’t you?”
“What?”
“I’ll never have a secret again! Our whole lives together, he’ll know everything about me! That’s… that’s just wrong! It’s disgusting!”
“Disgustingly cute, maybe,” I correct, smiling faintly.
She scoffs. “Whatever. I need eyeliner. And a hairbrush. And coffee. In that order.” She scoffs. “But everyone probably already knows that, because apparently I have no secrets anymore.”
I lay a hand over my stomach as I watch her stalk upstairs to my master bathroom. My smile dims a few watts.
“Secrets are overrated,” I whisper to the empty room.
Seven
“I think we should probably see other people.”
- A guy who is already seeing other people.
The rest of the day is remarkably unremarkable. We eat a massive breakfast prepared by Masters because apparently there is nothing in the world he does poorly, and that includes cooking a feast of pancakes, bacon, and Eggs Benedict. I’m careful about what I put on my plate, wary of setting off another untimely bout of morning sickness by angering the tiny dictator growing inside me.
I consider it a Christmas gift that I make it through the entire morning without hurling once.
Thoroughly stuffed, we collapse on my couch and watch old, black and white holiday movies for hours, until the late afternoon shadows slant long and low across the hardwood floor.
We’re all drowsy and half-sleeping when the security gate buzzer goes off.
“It’s busier than LAX here today,” I mutter, heading for the front door with Masters tight on my heels. Harper isn’t far behind.
I reach blindly for the button to open the gate, but Masters stares pointedly at the video-com panel on the wall.
“That monitor? Not just decorative. It’s there for a reason. Use it.”
I sigh and press a button to pull up the video feed. A sleek black Mercedes, driven by an unfamiliar, middle-aged woman, is loitering at the entrance. Between the gleaming Rolex on her wrist and the leather briefcase on the seat beside her, I’m guessing she’s not here to rob me at gunpoint.
I push a button to open the gate and watch as her car rolls down the drive. She steps out in a tailored suit and walks to my door, wearing impatience like some women wear perfume — in a cloud, saturating the very air around her.
“Can I help you?” I ask, cracking open the door.
“Katharine Firestone?”
“Yes.”
She snaps open her briefcase, whips out a thick manila envelope, and thrusts it into my arms. “You’ve been served.”
With that, she pivots and heads back to her car. Halfway there, she hesitates.
“Merry Christmas,” she calls back, an afterthought.
“Merry Christmas,” I echo dully, clutching the papers in my hands until my fingertips turn white. Harper leads me back inside while Masters ensures the gate closes properly behind the Mercedes. I grab a knife from the block on the countertop, filet the envelope like a fresh fish, and lay the papers flat against the shining granite of my kitchen island.
I start to read.
Then, I start to laugh.
And laugh. And laugh some more, until I’m gasping for air. Until tears are streaming from my eyes and snot is leaking from my nose and the whole world goes slightly static around the edges.
“What is it?” Masters asks. “What’s going on?”
Harper is scanning the documents. I hear her gasp.
“It’s her… her…”
“My mother,” I croak, laugh-crying.
“Your mother?” Masters sounds confused. “What about your mother? Is she okay?”
“Okay?! Oh, I’m sure she’s great. Never better, in fact.” My voice is laced with a hysterical edge. “She’s suing me.”
“Your mother is suing you?”
“Me, the AXC Network, Wyatt…” I shake my head. “Basically, everyone she could think of who might possibly be exploited for cash in a quick settlement.”
“On what grounds?” he asks, shocked.
“Unlawful termination. Failure to compensate. Breach of contract. And about ten other ridiculous charges she pulled out of her ass, just for a thrill.”
“What a bitch,” Harper hisses.
Masters looks concerned. “Does she have a case?”
“I don’t know.”
“Did you ever sign a contract?”
I think back. “No. But I was a minor when she started representing me. She’s my mother; I didn’t think I needed a contract. Besides, until a few years ago, she had the legal authority to make decisions on my behalf. I’m not sure if she could’ve signed something that grants her rights over me now, as an adult… I’ve never seen the paperwork. I’m not even sure there is any paperwork.”
Masters is looking graver than ever.
“Don’t worry,” Harper assures me thinly. “We’ll figure it out. You just need to get a lawyer. Talk to the network, see if they have a strategy for this kind of thing. And… talk to Wyatt. He’s tied up in this too. I bet he’ll know how to handle it.”
I was worried she’d suggest that.
With a grunt of disbelief, I drop my forehead onto the cool granite.
Harper strokes my hair and murmurs under her breath.
“And to think, I complained one year when my mother got me socks for Christmas…”
My hands shake the whole drive across town. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel to keep them steady and attempt to distract myself with a glance at the odometer. I’m stunned to see my new convertible has traveled less than fifty miles total, since I drove it out of the dealership last month with Harper riding shotgun.
That’s what happens when you spend a month curled up in a ball of misery and forget to live.
I take the long route up Mulholland Drive, in no rush to get there. Masters offered to accompany me, but I wouldn’t let him.
This is something I have to do by myself.
Twenty minutes later, my tires crunch over gravel as I glide to a stop in front of the mansion. Oversized terra-cotta pots are evenly spaced along the driveway perimeter — at night, they’re filled with dancing flames but now, in the mid-morning light, they stand like empty sentinels lining the walk.
My heart is slamming so hard against my ribs I’m worried they might crack under the pressure. I feel weak at the knees, like some swooning handmaiden in a fairy tale in need of smelling salts and a dashing prince to sweep her to safety. But this is no fairy tale, and I am certainly no princess.
I’m the villain.
I reach out and rap my knuckles against the door so faintly, I doubt the sound even passes through the thick mahogany. Hauling in a deep breath, I steel myself and try again. Three resounding bangs of my fist, booming in an indisputable announcement of my presence. If he’s home, there’s little doubt he heard me.
Two minutes pass. I count them down on my watch, berating myself a little more with each passing second that the doors remain closed. I waver, suddenly uncertain, and contemplate making a run for my car.
Sure, Cynthia will sue me for every cent in my bank account, and I’ll wind up penniless, homeless, and jobless. Somehow that still sounds like a better alternative than waiting another moment on this stoop.
Perhaps it was a bad idea to show up without calling first. Perhaps he’s standing just inside the door, staring through the peephole, waiting for me to give up and go away. Perhaps—
The door swings inward. “Katharine?”
I suck in a breath.
He’s wearing a white bath towel wrapped low around his hips and nothing else. The stark contours of his pelvic bones form a deep v shape, framing a chiseled chest and defined abdominal muscles that are currently dotted with water droplets. His hair is unbound, hanging in a damp curtain to his shoulders. I watch a single bead of water roll from his neck all the way down to the line of hair that trails into his towel, my eyes tracing its journey with the purest form of envy. I’m overcome by the insane desire to lean forward and lick it from his skin with the tip of my tongue.
“This is a surprise.” His voice is deeper than normal. “Sorry, I didn’t hear your knock — I was in the shower.”
I make an incoherent sound.
“Katharine, what are you doing here?”
Forcing my eyes to unglue from his abs, I glance up and find he’s studying me with unguarded suspicion and something else — something I can’t quite define. His gaze flickers down to the folder in my hands, and purpose returns in a swift instant.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I wouldn’t be here unless I had absolutely no other choice, believe me.”
He stiffens, insulted by my words.
Shit.
“No — I didn’t mean—That came out wrong.” I exhale sharply, trying to remember the speech I practiced over and over again on the drive here. It was the perfect balance of civil and composed. Friendly but factual. By the time I reached his street, I had it damn near memorized.
Yet standing here before him, every word has evaporated. My tongue is tied into knots.
“I— I have something I need to— to talk to you about.” I pause. “Business! It’s about business. Not about… other… things.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the babble.
Wyatt crosses his arms over his chest and levels me with a stare. I could be imagining it — in fact, it’s almost certainly a by-product of wishful thinking — but I’m reasonably sure there’s a tiny bit of humor lurking at the back of his eyes as he regards me standing here melting down like a faulty nuclear reactor on his doorstep. Whatever the case, he decides to take pity on me.
Swinging the door wider, he steps back so I can enter.
“Just get in here. I’ll go throw on some clothes and you…” His lips twitch. “Try to remember what you’re doing at my front door at ten in the morning the day after Christmas.” He starts ascending the extravagant staircase up to the second floor. “If you get stuck, I’d suggest looking inside that folder you’re clutching like a security blanket.”
“Right! Right.” I seriously contemplate slapping myself across the face. “I’ll just… wait here then…” I call after him as he disappears upstairs. I think I hear the sound of a chuckle float back to me, but the fog clouding my psyche is so thick, I can barely function. None of my senses are remotely trustworthy.
I look around the foyer. My eyes involuntarily drift to the opposite wall, where Wyatt once hurled a full tray of pancakes, a shocking show of violence from such a pacifist. Lured despite my will, I find myself running a fingertip against the whitewashed wall, searching for any trace of that fateful morning. A smudge of residual syrup, an indent where the tray made contact.
There’s nothing there, though. The space has been scrubbed clean.
As if that day never happened at all.
The thought bothers me immensely.
Memories crowd in from all sides, saturating the space, making me claustrophobic despite the twenty-foot ceilings soaring overhead. Unable to stay there another moment, I wander through a narrow archway into an adjacent room — Wyatt’s home office.
If a room can feel like a person, this one feels like him. Smells like him. Looks like him.
Rich leather and comfortable chairs, dim lighting and bookshelves on every wall. I suck in a deep breath and a pure dose of Wyatt invades my body, filling my every atom. It nearly knocks me to the floor.
It’s not my intention to snoop; I just want a better look at his books. I’ve always thought the paperbacks a person chooses to keep on their limited shelf space says a lot about who they are, how they think, and what they want out of life. As I run my fingers along the spines of Wyatt’s many books, I’m unsurprised to find a wide array of titles, ranging from whimsical — Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, The Little Prince — to the classics — The Sun Also Rises, A Tale of Two Cities, The Grapes of Wrath — to the obscure — A Clockwork Orange, Kafka on the Shore, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance. Unsurprisingly, I spot more than a few book-to-movie adaptations amidst his collection. A given, considering his deep love of film.
I can’t say exactly how it catches my eye. I spot it unintentionally in my peripherals — its nondescript blue spine peeking out from the stack of papers on his desk. My fingers tremble as I pick it up, sending several sheaves fluttering into the air like vellum birds. I’m bending to retrieve them when the embossed letters on the front cover of the book make my heart skip a beat.
UNCHARTED
This is a first edition hardcover; vastly different from the worn paperback I’ve flipped through in the wee hours of the morning too many times to count. I wonder how Wyatt tracked it down… before remembering that he’s Wyatt Hastings. His connections are endless, as are the zeros tacked on the end of his bank account. There are very few things in the world he cannot acquire, if he puts his mind — and money — to it.
I crack open the book like an old friend. Long before I was ever cast in the movie, I spent countless hours lost between these pages with Violet and Beck on their island. There’s always been something about their story that spoke to me like a drug, seeping its way into my system.
Is it possible to discover yourself in words penned by a stranger? Can you find your soulmate in the pages of a book?
If so, Uncharted is mine.
I reread a few familiar passages then flip it back closed, running a fingertip across the faded name on the front cover and wondering, not for the first time, about the author who penned it. Tywin G. Hassatt. A ghost, if the internet is to be believed, without so much as a biography for me to gather clues from during my gentle stalking session.
“What are you doing?”
His voice is softer than silk, but I jump as though he’s shouted. The book tumbles from my hands to the floor as my eyes fly to Wyatt. He’s hovering a cautious distance away, dressed in jeans and a fitted navy henley that brings out his eyes.
“Shit!” I curse, bending to pick up the book. My cheeks heat when I spot the other scattered papers on the rug — I’ve made an utter mess of his desk. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t snooping, I promise. I just wandered in here and I saw the book…. I’d never seen a first edition before. Where did you get it? I’d die to have one of my own. Not that I need a first edition to enjoy the story, I’m perfectly happy with my old paperback, though the cover is starting to rip a little so I’ll have to get another copy eventually…”
I’m babbling again as I shuffle the scattered pages into a short stack and set them back on his desk beside the book. The top sheet is a memo with his contact information stamped in bold, blocky letters at the top.
WYATT HASTINGS
I freeze. Almost in a daze, my eyes move back to the cover of the book sitting directly beside it, rearranging letters in my head like puzzle pieces snapping into place.
TYWIN G. HASSATT
W-Y-A-T-T H-A-S-T-I-N-G-S
An anagram.
A pseudonym.
My eyes fly to his. He’s watching me warily.
“Holy shit.”
He doesn’t react.
“It’s you.”
A muscle leaps in his jaw.
My mind is blown. “You’re him.”
His hands flex at his sides.
Wyatt — my Wyatt — wrote my favorite book in the world.
A gorgeous, incredible story of love and hope and heartbreak… written by a gorgeous, incredible man.
My hands grab for the book again, hauling the cover close to my face as though that might somehow illuminate things for me.
“You wrote this. Didn’t you?” I look at him searchingly, and see the truth in his eyes. “You’re the author of Uncharted.”
