The Someday Girl (The Girl Duet Book 2), page 13
He still says nothing, neither confirming nor denying my accusation, but I know in my heart that I’m right. In fact, now that I’ve made the leap, I can’t believe I didn’t figure it out sooner. Details are sliding into place like a camera shifting into focus.
“This is why you had so much sway over casting decisions and filming locations. This is why you’ve been so involved with the adaptation, from beginning to end. It’s your book being adapted.” I can hear the awe in my own voice. I’ve officially slid into fangirl territory, but I’m too thrilled to be embarrassed.
Wyatt sighs heavily, as though I’ve just accused him of something terrible, and mutters just one word.
“…Yes.”
“I KNEW IT!” I bounce on the balls of my feet, feeling adrenaline surge through me. “This is unbelievable!”
His lips twitch as he watches me jumping up and down like a child.
“But…” A million questions materialize in my head. “Why keep it a secret? Why not tell everyone? Why use a pen name? Why not scream about it from the rooftops every chance you get?” My hands tighten on the precious book in my hands. “Don’t tell me you’re ashamed of it or I will kick your ass from here to Sunday. You may be stronger than me, but I’m scrappy.”
His lips twitch. “Scrappy?”
“Damn straight.” I look back at the book in my hands and the whole world tilts again. “I can’t believe you wrote it. This book… everyone should read this book, Wyatt. It’s that good.”
He runs a hand through his hair, still hanging loose around his shoulders. “I don’t know about that. Frankly, I’m still surprised you’d read it before we cast you in the film. It’s not exactly a commercial success.”
“It will be after the movie comes out.” There’s not an ounce of doubt in my voice. “And, anyway why the hell would commercial success even matter?”
“It might surprise you to know it mattered a great deal to a great many people at my publishing house,” he says wryly. “I barely earned enough to pay back my advance.”
“No offense, Wyatt, but with a trust fund like yours, I sincerely doubt you needed the money.”
“It wasn’t about the money. It was about doing something outside the Hastings name. Proving…” He trails off, clearly uncomfortable with this conversation.
“Proving what?” I prod gently.
“Proving to myself that my worth isn’t purely a side-effect of nepotism and family favors.”
I stare at him for a beat. “Why did you write this story?”
“I don’t know. It was a long time ago, Katharine.”
“Bullshit. I don’t care how long it’s been. That’s not the kind of thing that fades.” I take a step toward him — forgetting, in my passion, that we’re at odds, forgetting that I’m here for an entirely different purpose, forgetting that I should stay away from him so he can move on with his life without me. “Tell me why you wrote it.”
“Leave it alone.”
“No.”
“Katharine.”
“Wyatt.”
“You’re impossible,” he growls, but his eyes have gone soft. He expels a sharp breath. “I grew up watching all these movies of epic love stories on the big screen. They were inescapable. Men and women who are destined to cross paths, fated to fall in love, predetermined to be together forever because it’s supposedly written in the stars or steered by invisible winds or sparked by the prick of cupid’s arrow. Soulmates. One, single person in the universe who is meant just for you.” His eyes hold mine and I feel the temperature in the room kick up by several degrees. When he continues, his voice is fraught with tension. “But that’s not real. It’s fiction. It’s the Hollywood spin. It’s the fairy tale that never really comes true. Because while the idea that we all have a single soulmate is lovely… It’s also bullshit.”
“But you’re a romantic! How can you—”
He cuts me off, mouth twisting. “You planning to let me finish?”
I clamp my lips shut.
“Trust me, I get the appeal of star-crossed lovers, fated to fall. Romeo and Juliet, Tristan and Isolde, Buffy and Angel.”
“Did you just make a Buffy the Vampire Slayer reference?”
“Yes.” His eyes narrow. “Why?”
I grin at him. “No reason.”
Nerd-boy.
“Anyway…” He narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t get me wrong. I love the idea of soulmates. It’s thrilling to think about meeting someone, taking one look at them, and knowing in your heart that they’re your other half. It’s romantic as hell. But, to me… it’s infinitely more romantic to think that, out of the seven billion people on this planet you could be with… you choose to be with just one.” He steps a shade closer, almost without realizing it. “Love isn’t some unavoidable destiny, some fate you can’t sidestep. It’s a choice you make — and keep making — every day of your life.”
Shit. My eyes are stinging.
“That’s why I wrote Uncharted. In these pages… Violet wouldn’t die without Beck; Beck didn’t take one look at Violet and simply know she was the one. There is no instant, inexplicable connection or unhealthy co-dependence.” He shrugs. “There’s just a story about two people who choose to be together — not because they have to, but because they want to. Even when it’s hard. Even when the whole world is stacked against them.”
My chest aches so intensely, it feels like I’ve been stabbed. Not for the first time — and probably not for the last — my mind is overtaken by a mournful lament.
Why does he have to be so damn wonderful?
He stares at me and I stare straight back, straight to his soul. I swear, in that moment, we have a full conversation without ever speaking a word. A million unspoken thoughts ping back and forth between us like a silent tennis match of things we’re both too stubborn to say out loud.
It takes a minute to rein in my emotions. When I’m relatively sure they’re back under control, I look up at him and speak in a voice that cracks despite my best efforts.
“It’s not because of them.”
He blinks, confused by the sudden shift in topic. “What?”
“Your success. It’s not because of your family, Wyatt. Maybe they had a hand in helping you, maybe their connections gave you a leg up, when you were first starting out… but that only takes you so far. Some people with even better connections than yours don’t do a damn thing with their lives. They piss away the chances they’ve been given because they’re entitled and arrogant and lazy. Why use your god-given talent when you can party all day instead?” I shake my head. “Those people, well-connected or not, lack the passion needed to create, to succeed. But you have passion — for your art, for your work, for every part of your life.”
“Oh, really?” His voice is wry. “You’ve known me, what — two months?”
It hurts to hear him diminish our connection with a time constraint, even in a teasing way. I push on anyway.
“You forget, I’ve read your words. And the man who wrote these…” I trace the name on the front cover again, still stunned it’s the same man standing three feet from me. “This man… he has a gift for words and characters and beauty. He has more passion than he knows what to do with. It’s there in every sentence, buried in every line, enmeshed in every scene of Violet and Beck’s story.”
My fingertip presses down until the embossed letters dig into my skin. He doesn’t speak, but suddenly the air is so full of tension, it’s hard to haul breath into my lungs. I can’t bear to look at him as I force out the rest of my words. My voice shakes.
“Don’t dismiss your own hard work, just because your family happens to be in the same industry. Don’t disregard your own talent, just because of your bloodline. My mother—” My voice breaks.
Wyatt shifts closer, as if to comfort me, but holds himself back at the last moment.
I clear my throat and try again. “My mother pushed me so hard to be someone I’m not that it nearly broke me. She forced a square peg into a round hole, determined to make me fit even if vital pieces of my soul were shaved away in the process. It’s taken me a long time to realize how much that messed up my self-worth. Honestly, some days I still struggle with it. But I’ve finally figured out that the family you’re born into doesn’t define the person you become — no matter if you’re the spawn of a crazed pageant mom or the offspring of Hollywood’s wealthiest family. At the end of the day, the only person who determines who you become and what you do with your life is you.” My eyes flicker up to his. “And.. you’re one of the best people I know.”
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows several times. It doesn’t help much — his voice is still gruff when he speaks. “When did you get so wise, Katharine Firestone?”
“Not wise. Just marginally less stupid.” I let my eyes hold his for a breathless moment. “I’ve had a lot of time on my hands to think, this past month.”
The comment hangs between us like a physical presence, saturating every particle of air. I want so badly to step into his strong, safe arms, to close that final distance between us and whisper all the things I’m scared of, all the awful doubts that I’ll never deserve a man like this, so he can assure me otherwise. I want his hands on my skin, his mouth in my hair, his body pressed against mine like my own personal beacon of strength.
As if he can somehow read my thoughts, he takes a half step toward me, eyes never leaving mine. I grow roots; a hurricane could not move me, in this instant. My mouth opens. It’s there, on the tip of my tongue — something crazy, something I shouldn’t say, but can’t seem to keep locked inside anymore.
Except I never get a chance to say it.
“Wy? Where are you?” a feminine voice calls from the hall. “Oh! There you are!”
The world freezes, mute and motionless, like the moment just before a lighting strike. My back snaps straight. My eyes, still on Wyatt’s, go so wide it would be comical if my heart wasn’t shredding inside my chest cavity.
Wyatt flinches as Caroline steps up to his side. His jaw is clenched so tight, the tendons in his neck stand out starkly. I finally force my eyes to leave his, to focus on her. She’s wearing a giant t-shirt, undoubtedly one of Wyatt’s. She’s barefoot, her long legs perfectly toned and tan. She’s dressed as though she’s just rolled out of bed, but her blonde hair is perfectly styled and her face is made up with more products than I own, so I’m guessing she’s been awake a while.
“Oh! Wy, I didn’t know we had company!”
The we kills me.
Her eyes are sharp. “It’s Katie, isn’t it?”
My tone is sharper. “Close enough.”
She laughs without humor. “I’ve been seeing you on every newsstand and computer screen — it’s a nice change of pace to see you in person! You’re dating Grayson Dunn, aren’t you? I saw your interview on The Eileen Show.” She drops her voice to an excited murmur. “Do tell, is he as good in bed as they say?”
I see Wyatt stiffen.
My mouth goes dry.
“Oh, did I say something wrong?” She laughs again. “Wy is always telling me I go too far when I ask people personal questions. I can’t help it! It’s a hazard of my job. I work in film sales — you’re way more likely to close a deal with a foreign distributor if you know what makes them tick.”
I don’t say a word; neither does Wyatt.
She shrugs, unfazed. “Anywho, what are you two up to in here?”
“Just going over a few things for the premiere.” Wyatt’s voice is empty.
“Dull.” She leans against his side, wraps her hands around his arm, and pouts two perfectly pink lips at him. “I’m hungry. Can we go out for breakfast?” She looks at me fleetingly. “Whenever you’re done with… this… I mean.”
Another slice rips through the delicate flesh of my heart. I can barely breathe.
Wyatt removes her wrists from his arm and pushes her back gently. “Caroline, I need to finish talking to Katharine—”
“You know what?” I say brightly, blinking back tears as I glance at my watch. “I’ve overstayed my welcome anyway. Plus, I have another meeting to get to, so I better be going.”
“Katharine—”
I’m already speed-walking toward the door. I’ve made it out of the study, into the foyer by the time he catches up to me. His fingers curl around my bicep in a steely cuff. I shake him off with a jerk, like he’s burned me with his touch. His hand falls away.
Caroline wanders slowly toward the kitchen, expression bored but eyes alert. She lingers in the doorway just long enough to betray her desire to overhear our conversation.
“I mean it,” I say flatly. “I have to go.”
His eyes are on mine, guarded again. “Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t just leave.”
I grit my teeth. “Watch me.”
“You haven’t even told me why you came, Katharine,” he reminds me softly.
How silly am I, to think he stopped me from leaving for an entirely different reason…
“Right, of course.” I snatch the folder off the small side table in the foyer where I left it when I first walked in, and hand it to him. “Here. My gift to you.”
He flips open the folder and scans the first page, features darkening into a scowl.
“Yes. You’re reading that correctly. Cynthia Firestone: Mother of the Year, twenty-two-time consecutive champion. I’m sure she’ll be serving you a copy of your own in due course, but I thought I should warn you.”
“Katharine.” His eyes trap mine. It hurts to hold his gaze; he sees too much. All my jagged, bleeding edges. “Are you all right?”
No, I’m not all right.
You’ve got a gorgeous blonde staying over for sleepovers and I’m being sued by my own mother.
Oh, and did I mention the fake relationship, stalkerazzi, and accidental pregnancy?
I am most certainly not all right.
“I’m absolutely fine.” My smile is frozen on my face. “But I really do have to go now.”
“Katharine—”
“Wy!” Caroline calls from the kitchen. “Do you have almond milk?”
“That’s your cue.” I swallow hard and turn to yank open the door.
“Wait, Katharine—”
I step onto to porch before he can grab me again, but — glutton for punishment that I am — I can’t resist a final glance back in his direction before the door swings shut between us. His mouth is a flattened line; his eyes are flooded with so many terrifying emotions, I could drown in them.
“See you around, Wyatt Hastings.”
His mouth opens to say something else, but I’m already walking away. It takes all my resolve to keep the tears from leaking out as I climb into my car, strap up, and start the engine. But as his mansion disappears in my rearview, so does my self-control.
I weep the whole way home.
Eight
“I think I put it in the wrong hole!”
- Someone who is terrible at mini-golf.
It’s that weird stretch of time between Christmas and New Year’s, when nearly everyone in the country is off from work, spending time with family and celebrating the moments of their lives. Unless you’re me, in which case you have no family worth celebrating and your world has fallen apart around your ears.
I mope around my house for three days after the encounter with Wyatt, binge-watching the first season of Vampire High, eating the entire contents of my refrigerator, and otherwise acting like a hermit until Friday afternoon, when Harper shows up at my door demanding a girl’s night.
“I don’t feel like going out,” I protest, munching on a red pepper. Pregnancy cravings are no joke, hand to god.
“Don’t care!” She plunks her makeup bag down on the vanity in my bathroom and grins wickedly. “I haven’t been out in ages.”
“Where’s Masters?”
“At home. I forbade him from coming — this is an old-fashioned girl’s night. We’ll eat, we’ll drink, we’ll dance, we’ll flirt shamelessly with college boys we’ll never talk to again… It’ll be great.” Her eyes turn pleading. “Come on, Kat. Don’t be such a stick in the mud. Neither of us has work tomorrow, I have a new eyeshadow palette I’m dying to try out, and you’ve got a closet full of brand new outfits just begging to be worn.”
I sigh. She’s got the same air of determination about her as the time she dragged me to a sample sale at a warehouse downtown at four in the morning, to get in line before every other fashionista in Los Angeles. There’s no fighting her, when she gets like this. I take comfort in the fact that at least this time I won’t have to sit on a sidewalk for three hours while my ass slowly goes numb waiting for the doors to open, all for the privilege of playing tug-of-war over clothing items I will never, ever wear but purchase anyway, just so I have something to show for my frozen butt-cheeks.
She strides into my walk-in closet, scans the many hangers, and selects a black dress she purchased for me three weeks ago, the day I handed over my wallet and gave her free range to style my wardrobe for the press tour. She came back with bag-laden arms and a shit-eating grin. I’m pretty sure my credit card was smoking, she’d swiped it so many times.
“No,” I say, eyeing the dress.
“Yes,” she counters, thrusting it at me. “You can’t wear a bra, though.”
Normally, I’d find this idea appalling. But for the past few days, my boobs have been so tender and swollen, I haven’t bothered shoving them into the torture-chambers they call bra-cups at all. So, I must admit, there’s some appeal in the idea of a dress that doesn’t require me to struggle back into one.
I eye the garment.
It walks the razor-thin line between stylish and scandalous. The back is mostly nonexistent — a racerback panel of sheer lace tapers from the shoulders all the way down the spine in a narrow strip — but the front is rather simple and remarkably pretty, with its thin straps and fitted bodice. Years of previous experience have taught me that fighting with Harper about outfits is usually a losing battle. Plus, by objecting, I run the risk of her finding something even flashier in the depths of my closet.
