Chapter Thirteen

Ryan watched as Celia squinted at the tube of cinnamon rolls in her hand.

“It is written in English.”

“You think I do my own cooking?” She said it with a flippant smile, but then it died. Faded.

Because it was a reminder of the world she had waiting for her when they were done here. Money and mansions and personal chefs.

And no Harringtons.

“I’ll do it.” His voice came out sounding a little harsh, but he gentled the tone with a smile. A genuine one, because as much as the thought of her real life sobered him, he liked the look of her in his kitchen.

Her hair was wet and tangled. She wore those skintight pants that did amazing things for her ass, and a bright-pink sweater on top. And as much as that wardrobe was A-list celebrity, the hair, the lack of makeup—that was all real woman. All her.

He didn’t think too many people got to see that. So even if she disappeared at the end of the filming, he’d know he had something no one else did. He’d always have some piece of her no one else did.

That had to mean something. He wasn’t quite sure what to do with that something, but he had a few more days to figure it out. He’d take his time, because that meant more of watching her lick frosting off her finger.

Every once in a while it would strike him that, technically, she was still his wife. Wife. Mine. He shook the thought away for the third or fourth time. Shook away the weird nerves and even weirder smile on his face. There was nothing special to smile about or get upset about. They’d had sex. Slept in the same bed. Woke up snuggled together.

Had sex again.

Okay, that deserved a smile.

And now they were making some breakfast before heading up to Harrington. He placed the cinnamon rolls in the pan. So what was strange about it? Everything. The hominess. The way he wanted to do this again and again. The way he couldn’t stop looking at her or wanting her.

Yeah, he’d figure this out, and whatever the answer was, at least it gave him this brief flash of “them.” It wasn’t just about her, but seeing himself for what he’d been, too. Single-minded, blinded by his own ambitions and beliefs of what was right. He didn’t know what to do with that information about himself yet, but at least he knew it was there.

He slid the pan into the oven, then turned to find her watching him. Not the way he’d found her watching him this morning. That look had been all about sex. Really fantastic sex.

This look was serious, considering, hopeful. It made her look young and, oddly enough, like the Celia Grant he saw in the movies, only this was real. Genuine. As if part of her actually was Celia.

He didn’t know what to say to that look. Or her in this moment. There was still enough of him off-kilter to feel vulnerable, and like hell he’d have a conversation with her when he was feeling vulnerable.

“You know, I’m not really supposed to eat stuff like this. If I land back in LA with an extra two pounds the tabloids will be all over it with pregnancy rumors or eating my Oscar accolades all the way to Weight Watchers.”

“That sounds pretty shitty.”

She shrugged. “You get used to it. It’s better some of those rumors than the truth.”

The conversation felt like they were both fishing for something, but neither was sure what. Was he trying to fish for some sign she was unhappy, that she wanted to leave her life?

But what was she trying to tell him with her comment? The truth would always stand between them because being here reminded her of her father, or just that it was that dangerous? Suddenly he had a headache, and not at all the inclination to smile.

“Milk? Orange juice?” He walked over to the fridge, wanting to find the way back to feeling homey and moderately normal.

“Milk,” she returned, standing by the stove. “Um. Out of curiosity, how does Vivvy work it?” She didn’t look at him; instead her eyes were glued to the little window on the oven door.

“Work what?”

“I mean, if she’s going to produce more than just one show with her company, how can she be here?” She fiddled with the dish towel that hung there, her mouth quirking from side to side as if she were trying to work out Vivvy’s work schedule.

He opened his mouth to answer her before a little niggling idea wormed its way through all the holes in his defenses. She was asking about Vivvy maybe not out of interest. At least not out of interest for Vivvy. Interest for herself.

How it might work.

He had a hard time taking his next breath. He never would have thought of himself as weak enough that the prospect that she might have the tiniest inkling of, even if not staying, at least starting up with him again, keeping it up—that idea would knock him for a loop.

A hopeful, desperate loop.

But he managed to breathe, to focus, to think. “What are you asking, Celia?”

…

Funny, she hadn’t expected him to call her out even if that was his normal protocol. She thought this was all part of the dance. Ask questions that aren’t the real questions you want to ask. That was the way her world worked, anyway. No one got paid well for straightforwardness.

An uncomfortable reminder that Ryan and his intolerance for lying and pretending could never be part of the world she’d made for herself. “I’m just asking how it works. Her and Nate.”

“But why?”

She frowned at the cinnamon rolls as they plumped up under the heat of the stove. “Why” was an excellent question, but, well, she didn’t have a good answer for it. “Curiosity?”

“Why can’t you come out and say it?”

She forced herself to look at him then, to prove she wasn’t a coward. She’d been a coward to him once upon a time and broken both their hearts. She wouldn’t make those same mistakes. She’d probably make a hell of a lot of mistakes, but at least it wouldn’t be the old ones.

On a deep breath, she met his gaze, and then her heart flipped because she could have sworn for a brief second she saw hope there. The same kind of hope she felt. Confused. Small. Stupid. So damn stupid.

But there. So there.

“I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

“Screwing up my life.” She didn’t voice the rest of it, but it hung in the air as if she had. By coming back to you. By wanting to make it work. I’m afraid of screwing up my life and making you a part of it.

His sharp intake of breath reminded her of last night—the way she’d touched him, let him touch her. It was just sex, but somehow at the same time it was more. Like tying themselves together so that not trying to figure out something for them seemed worse than trying.

And that was huge.

“Are you sure that’s what you’re scared of? Your life? Or do you just mean your career?” He stood, stock still, the milk jug handle all but crushed under his clenching fist.

She could lie. She could pretend this had everything to do with her career. because the minute the words were in the air, she wouldn’t be able to take them back. Like an anvil in one of those old cartoons, she remembered what she wasn’t thinking of last night and this.

Any contact with Ryan would always be a risk for her entire past to come out. Even if they made it through the show, even if the payments to her mother were enough or they found a way to silence her for good, even if everything went right, having him in her life meant people would go digging.

And yet that little spark of hope didn’t die, it didn’t fizzle. In his kitchen, feeling like a woman instead of an image or a child, the hope had no chance of dying. “Not just my career.” It was the best thing about her, about her life right now. She wouldn’t give it up. “My whole life. Me. You. I can’t help thinking…” She took a deep breath. The only way it was possible was to be open. To tell him. To trust him not to bulldoze over the parts of her life she still needed and wanted.

God, could she really do that? She looked at him standing rigid and tense, eyes on hers, and she didn’t imagine the hope in his expression. She couldn’t be imagining that. “Maybe there’s a way,” she said on little more than a whisper.

“Any come to mind?”

She smiled a little at that. “Not a one.”

It was his turn to smile. “So we’re exactly where we started.”

She crossed his cold kitchen floor, took the milk jug from his hand, and set it on the counter. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and squeezed. “Not exactly.”

His arms came around her, strong and sure, as his mouth pressed a kiss to her shoulder. “No, I guess not.”

They stood there until the timer went off, forcing them to separate. He made up plates and they sat down at his tiny kitchen table to eat cinnamon rolls from a tube and stare at each other over morning coffee.

If she could lift this moment up and put it anywhere outside of Demo, it would be perfect. But Demo was the shadow that would always plague her.

“You said you came back because you didn’t really like being a divorce lawyer, right?”

“Yeah.”

“So it’s not like you came back because you love it here or anything. You just came back for Nate and the show.”

He looked down at his plate, drawing his fingers over his mouth. “I came back to be a part of Harrington. It’s where I was always meant to be.”

She tried to smile, to feel happy for him that he had a place to belong, that meant something. And even as she’d asked the question, she knew how much Harrington meant to him. She’d grown up watching his grandfather’s love and attention showered on the Harrington twins, and knew they both had disappeared from filming almost every day to visit Millard in the nursing home.

Belonging. Love. These were things she’d never have.

“You know, you could have started divorce proceedings. Taken half of what I have. You could have built Harrington up with that.” At the time she’d been so angry he would bring her here, make her face her past, she hadn’t really given much credence to the fact he was also giving her a chance to have what she wanted. To keep their marriage a secret.

Did that mean something? He scowled at her. “I never wanted your money to make my life. I’ll make it myself.”

“With my help.” She wanted to smile at the thought. He wouldn’t take her money, but the Ryan Harrington she’d known who wouldn’t take an ounce of help from anyone…he’d contacted her after ten years to get her help.

“Something like that,” he grumbled, turning his attention back to his cinnamon rolls. “Look. It…doesn’t have to be all or nothing, you know. Vivvy doesn’t spend all her time here.”

She was afraid her heart would burst from the pain of all this hope and feeling and… God, was this really happening? “Oh.”

He didn’t look at her, but he kept talking. “It’s just. You know. You may not like being here, but you could visit. I do have access to planes and airports in California.”

“I suppose you do.”

“So…” He glanced at her and she managed a smile, because that all sounded…hopeful.

“So, when I leave maybe it wouldn’t be so…permanent this time?”

He stood to his full height, turning fully toward her now. “Yes. That is what I’m saying.”

She swallowed. “That would be…good.”

When her phone chimed, she was happy for the interruption. Whatever news Brad or Aubrey had was better than figuring out what the future held aside from leaving. Visiting. Something more than good-bye.

It clogged her lungs, but not with fear. Okay, maybe some fear. But it wasn’t fear of doing it. It was fear she might reach out for what she wanted and be told she couldn’t have it.

But Ryan was suggesting it. Ryan. Practical, realistic Ryan was saying…maybe.

She wanted to cry, in a good way. A relieved, happy, hopeful way, but she brought up the text message and all that happiness sank into her gut like a heavy, devastating weight.

YOU’RE IN KANSAS???

Brad must have spilled the beans to Aubrey.Then the phone chimed again.

Bright Lights and People have contacted me. Your mom is talking about doing exclusives for them.

And then the happiness didn’t just drop, it broke into a million pieces.

I just landed in Topeka. Be in Demo by noon. And your ass is grass.

“Bad news?”

Celia swallowed, forced her head to move away from the words that she’d been doing everything she could to make not happen. “Mom’s talking.”

“What?”

“She… She’s started contacting the tabloids. Not even just the tabloids.” Celia stood so fast the chair clattered to the ground sideways.

“Where are you going? What are you doing?”

She clutched her cell and tried to breathe through the panic, the visions of everything blowing up in her face.

He stood and crossed to her, taking her hands, but she didn’t feel it. She didn’t feel anything. “Celia, talk to me.”

She pulled her hands away, refused to watch the expression on his face change. “I need to make some calls.” And without letting him say anything else, she walked away. Down the hall, to the little guest room she hadn’t slept in last night.

Inside, she closed and locked the door and leaned against it. This was exactly the kind of thing she got for hoping.