KOTA STARED AT Christy’s computer, open on his desk.
Em sat across from him. “There’s nothing on it about the wedding,” she said. “No notes, no article except that snippet you’re looking at, which obviously wasn’t a serious draft.”
He couldn’t dispute that. Asshole’s Brother Ties the Knot was plainly a rant. He’d pissed Christy off, probably with his own rant about her boyfriend, and she’d taken it out on the page. It wasn’t meant for publication.
“Mercer’s source at the Sentinel confirms Christy quit,” Em went on. “She never submitted a story, never even went back to clean out her desk. Her publisher threw her to the wolves, the senator served her with papers, and she had to hire a lawyer and file an answer before Buckley dropped it.”
Kota swiveled his chair and looked out at the rose garden. “So she told the truth.”
“About that, yeah. Refusing to write the story cost her her job, almost got her sued, and stained her rep as a journalist forever.”
And all because, when push came to shove, she wouldn’t betray him.
“So what?” he said, refusing to soften. “She fucking lied her way into the wedding. She lied to her own father about it. Then she lied her way into my house—”
“Keep it real, Kota. You finagled her here by roping Zach in.”
“Don’t nitpick. If I knew who she was, I wouldn’t have let her through the door. And I damn sure wouldn’t have brought her to the island. Once she lied about who she was, it tainted everything.” Every word. Every kiss. Every touch of her hand.
“You’re right,” Em said.
He swiveled to stare at her. “You never agree with me about anything.”
She shrugged. “It’s no fun kicking you when you’re down.”
“I’m not down. I’m fucking furious.”
“You’re both. You’re furious because Christy deceived you. And you’re miserable because you fell in love with her.”
He glared.
“Verna predicted it, you know. That’s why she wouldn’t give us the phone number. She said you were a big boy and could handle yourself, and Christy was a good person and would do the right thing.”
“Yeah, Ma fed me the same line of bullshit.”
“Well, she was kind of right.”
“Don’t you start too.”
“I’m not starting anything. In fact”—she stood up—“I’ll take that computer back to Christy right now so you can forget all about her.”
He shut the laptop and planted his palm on it.
She tugged at it. He pressed down.
“Not yet,” he said.
“It’s got her notes for the book she’s writing about her mother.”
“She’s waited two weeks, she can wait a little longer.” He slid the laptop into a drawer. “Where am I supposed to be right now?”
Em scrolled through her phone. “At Peter’s office, interviewing my replacement.”
He stacked his heels on the desk. “I canceled that. You can stay.”
“Oh goody.” She scrolled some more. “The trainer’s due at nine to put you through a three-hour workout, then Peter’s doing a twelve-thirty lunch at his place with the Levi’s people. You’ll have to duck out by two, because Sissy”—she wrinkled her nose—“is coming by to run lines.”
“You got a problem with that?”
“Please. You two don’t need to run lines. You’ve only got one scene together in the first week of shooting, and neither of you says more than ten words.”
“Since when are you reading my scripts?”
“Since I got insomnia. They put me right out. Dakota shoots fifteen extras. Dakota blows up a city block.”
At least Em could make him laugh. That was more than anyone else could do. He couldn’t laugh, or eat, or sleep. He was running on empty. The three-hour workout might kill him.
“Anyway,” Em was saying, “it’s a ploy by Sissy to get you in the sack.”
He smiled. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“She’s gross.”
“She’s gorgeous.”
“She’s skinny. I think she’s anorexic.”
“So?”
“She’s been trying to get you in the sack for months.”
“So?”
“You can do better.”
His smile fell. Better hadn’t worked out. Meaningless sex was all he was good for.
He dropped his feet to the floor. “Block out two hours. Sissy’s dream is about to come true.”
RAYLENE SURVEYED THE dirty dishes stacked on the coffee table. “Spaghetti again? Aren’t you sick of it yet?”
Chris looked up from the CSI marathon. “It’s easy,” she said.
“And fattening. And it clashes with your pajamas.”
Chris looked down at the blob of red on bright yellow SpongeBob. She dabbed it with a finger, then looked up at Ray and deliberately sucked it off.
Ray grrrred in frustration and stomped up the stairs.
Mission accomplished. Ray was being even more of a pest than usual, always harping on Chris about getting off her ass, or getting her head out of her ass, or getting her ass out of the house.
Enough with her ass, already.
And there was nothing wrong with wearing pajamas all day. They were comfortable. They didn’t cinch or bind. If people could wear pajamas to work, they’d be a lot happier.
Though a trip through the washer was probably overdue.
Stumping up the stairs, she cursed the insanity that had gripped her when she’d bought a three-story house. “Dumb, dumb, dumb.”
She passed the second floor and Ray called out, “He’s not worth it.”
But he was. He was worth all her suffering, and more. She’d done Kota wrong, and she’d pay for it all her long, lonely life.
Stripping down, she caught her reflection in the mirror. Two weeks, and already her ass looked two sizes larger.
Round was good. Bulbous was . . . not good. Kota wouldn’t give it a second look now.
She pulled on yoga pants—a short step up from PJs—and a T-shirt long enough to cover her ass. “There,” she said.
The mirror replied, What next? A muumuu?
“Shit.” She dug out her sneakers and tied them on.
When she walked into the kitchen, Ray had come down and was standing at the counter. She took one look at Chris and sputtered her wine. “Halle-fucking-lujah.” Her favorite phrase since Zach had stopped by. “It’s about time.”
Chris made a face and kept moving out the door. The slightest distraction could take the wind from her sails.
Outside, she cringed like a vampire. The noontime sun lanced her eyes like a scalpel.
Running was out of the question even on her best day, which this wasn’t. She’d like to blame her ankle, but two weeks of slouching on the couch had cured it. The problem was her heart. It weighed her down like lead, almost too heavy to carry.
The unseasonable heat didn’t help matters either, another reason to curse Ray for prodding her off the couch.
She’d about had it with Ray anyway. Their relationship was prickly at best. Chris only put up with her because Ray had played masterfully on her guilt since sophomore year, when she’d walked in on Chris making out with Evan Graves. It wasn’t like Ray had still been dating him—he’d dumped her a week before—but she hadn’t given up on him yet. And even though Chris hadn’t liked Ray any better in college than she did now, the roommate code of ethics forbade trespassing on posted property.
But enough was enough. If Chris had learned anything in the last few weeks, it was that decisions motivated by guilt never led anywhere good. Guilt had made her take Ray in. And guilt had driven her to the Sentinel. The cosmic convergence of those two bad decisions now had her trudging down the sidewalk under the sweltering sun, feeling fat, ugly, and worthless.
There was a lesson there, but she was too irritated to compress it into a pithy, tweetable phrase.
Resentment at Ray carried her all the way to the boulevard and across it, then fizzled out in the relentless heat.
Her shoulders slumped. The walk had delivered all it promised. Sweat, heavy breathing, chafing in more than one place. She regretted every step.
She turned around to head back to the couch, and as she waited at the light, panting like a dog, her gray T-shirt sporting sweat circles from armpits to waist, her unwashed hair straggling like weeds around her puffy face, fate dropped one more steaming turd on the pile.
Because who should pull up to the light but Dakota Rain, top down, aviators on, hair styled by the wind to look camera-ready.
Chris froze. Even her heart stopped beating.
Like a petrified rabbit, she prayed the wolf would glide past without spotting her motionless form.
The “Walk” light appeared. She ignored it.
Nothing—not an earthquake, an explosion, a nuclear bomb—could induce her to step into the crosswalk in front of his car.
Seconds ticked in slow motion. The “Walk” light glowed like the sun.
Kota forked his hair back in that way he had. He turned his head to say a word to the person beside him.
And suddenly Chris couldn’t take it anymore. She made the mistake so many dead rabbits had made.
She tried to hide.
Just a quick step toward the light pole, but the motion caught his eye. She saw recognition hit him like a slap in the face. The light finally changed. Horns blared behind him.
She turned on her heel and ran, fat ass flapping behind her.
KOTA THREW THE Porsche into first and left rubber on the road.
Em gripped the armrest. “Yikes! What the hell?”
“Christy. Chris.” What should he call her? “The lying bitch.” That worked.
Em swiveled. “Where?”
“You missed her. She looked like hell.” Like she’d been sick for a month. “But her ankle must’ve quit hurting, ’cause she took off when she saw me.”
“She probably thought you’d run her over.”
“Pfft. She’s not worth the trouble.” Cops. Insurance. Bodywork on the Porsche.
“Maybe you should—”
“What?” He shot a death ray at Em. “Take her on a date? Bring her home for Thanksgiving?”
“—try to forget her.”
“Already done.”
Em shut her mouth in that way that spoke louder than words.
He refused to take the bait.
She folded her hands in that way that meant he was too dumb to live.
He focused on driving.
Ten full seconds elapsed. Then he threw up a hand. “Spit it out.”
“You’re in denial.”
“Now you’re a shrink.”
“You’re not that complicated. A monkey could diagnose you.”
He smirked. “You said it, I didn’t.”
She jabbed him. “I know this is uncharted territory for you. You haven’t given a woman a second thought since I’ve known you. But normal people get their hearts broken long before thirty-five, and they move on. So will you. But first you have to admit you’re in love with her.”
“Get real.”
“I’m serious. It’s the first step on the road to recovery.”
“Now it’s a twelve-step program?”
“I don’t know how many steps there are, but until you admit you fell in love with her and she hurt you, you’ll be stuck in this funk.”
“I’m not in a funk.” He squealed into Peter’s driveway, slamming on the brakes six inches from a Lexus. “And we’re done talking about it. I got real problems, like this Levi’s deal. Peter’s expecting me to sign on.”
“I thought you already decided to do it.”
He turned off the engine and stared out the windshield. “It’s a three-year deal. I don’t know if I want to commit.”
She half-turned in her seat to study him. “This is new. What’s going on?”
He shrugged. As much as he hated to give Christy credit for anything, she’d gotten him thinking about vet school, and he couldn’t stop. In fact, it was the only thing he had enthusiasm for anymore.
Em poked him. “Out with it.”
He wasn’t quite ready to announce a career change. “I’m taking some time off.”
She goggled at him. “But you’re a workaholic.”
He shrugged again.
“Okay.” Em could roll with the punches. “You’re burnt out. You’ve had a shock to your system, and you’re reevaluating. I get it. But, Kota, October isn’t the best time for big decisions.”
“It’s got nothing to do with October. Or Christy.” He threw open the car door. “Don’t piss me off, Em. I’m not a fucking idiot.”
She sprinted around from her side to block his march toward the house. “Maybe not.” She used her voice of reason. “But you can be impulsive. If you blurt this out in there”—she waved at the house—“it’ll be all over town by dinnertime. You’re committed to three films. People will pull out. The studios will lose millions—”
He took her slender shoulders. “Chill.” And he moved her gently aside.
Peter met him at the door, a beanpole with shaggy blond hair and slate blue eyes. They’d been together since Kota’s breakout role; Peter was agent, friend, and trusted advisor, all in one. And he would shit a brick when Kota broke the news.
Peter made the intros. “Kota, this is Nancy Rhodes.” She’d be the senior VP, sent by the company to seal the deal. “And this is her assistant, Ashley Ames.” She’d be the hot chick, expected to employ her wiles if he balked.
Kota knew his part. He complimented Nancy’s suit, eyewalked Ashley, and generally played the mega–movie star graciously deigning to mix with mere mortals.
It wasn’t his favorite role, but it was expected. As Peter liked to say, a sprinkling of stardust turned millions into more millions, since corporate types got endless mileage out of telling friends and colleagues how they’d lunched with Hollywood royalty.
Peter herded everyone poolside, where a table for five was set out under a green awning. A waiter brought Kota a microbrew. Em asked for Chardonnay. It was early in the day for her to have a drink. He raised an eyebrow at her. She scratched her cheek with her middle finger.
Small talk ensued, continuing as the caterer served an “informal” three-course lunch.
Em was usually a pisser at these kinds of events, dropping inside jokes for his benefit that slid under everyone else’s radar. But today she was quiet, which made the hour feel like two.
She did rouse herself to run interference when Nancy tried to pin him down over dessert. And when Ashley sidled up to him over coffee, Em faked an incoming call that required his immediate presence elsewhere.
All in all, it was tiresome, and probably a waste of time, because over steamed mussels in garlic butter, his fuzzy notions about quitting had solidified into a concrete plan for the future.
It was the boring lunch and the prospect of thirty more years of boring lunches that convinced him.
Seeing Christy on the sidewalk had nothing to do with it.
Peter walked him to the door. “Well played,” he said quietly. “They’ll throw another million into the pot now. I’ll hammer out the details and call you later.”
Kota hesitated. He was Peter’s biggest client. The commissions on Kota’s deals had paid for this house and put Peter’s daughter through Stanford. He’d earned every penny.
Now Kota owed him honesty more than anything else. “Things have changed,” he said. “I’m not ready to sign.”
Peter blinked, a strong show of emotion for him. Stepping outside, he pulled the door closed behind him. “What’s wrong? Is it your folks? Are they okay?”
“Everyone’s fine.” Kota couldn’t drop the safe on Peter’s head while they stood on the stoop. So he hedged. “Three years is too long. See what they’ll offer for one.”
Peter was no dummy. He looked at Em, who pokered up, then back at Kota. “You’ve been on edge since the wedding. What’s going on?”
“Call me later and we’ll talk. But for now, one year, okay?”
“It’s your call. But they might back out of the whole deal.”
“I know. And I know you put a lot of work into it.” Kota clasped Peter’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. But one year’s all I’ll give it.”
Peter nodded, slowly, his eyes sharpening as his brain went to work on recalibrating the deal. “I’ll call. We’ll talk.”
In the car, Em blasted Kota. Gone was the voice of reason. “You are not allowed to make this decision in October. You’ve lost your mind. You’ll be sued out the ass by three major studios. They’ll take your house, your cars . . .”
He tuned her out.
She punched his arm. “Quit ignoring me. And why are you going this way?”
“I’m taking the scenic route.” Lookout Mountain Avenue. He hadn’t been tempted before, but now that he’d seen Christy again, something inside him had shifted.
“She looked sick,” he said, more to himself than to Em.
“Oh Jesus, you’re looking for her house.” She bounced her head off the headrest. “What are you, sixteen?”
“I’m just wondering what the wages of sin buy you these days.” He spotted the stone lion. “That’s it on the right.”
“Shit. Someone’s in the driveway.” Em slid down in her seat.
He kept his face pointed forward, raking the house with the side of his eye. “It’s not her.” The skinny blonde had nothing on Christy. “Must be her roommate.”
“Who probably knows the whole story. And right now she’s telling Christy you’re stalking her.”
RAY STEPPED IN front of CSI. “Guess who just drove by in his shiny black Porsche pretending not to case the joint.”
Chris’s pulse shot from zero to sixty.
She throttled it back. “His agent lives on Willow Glen. He was probably visiting him.”
“Nobody takes Lookout to get from Willow Glen to Beverly Hills. He drove by here on purpose.”
Chris gave up on CSI. She wasn’t following the story line anyway. How could she, when the street-corner scene played an endless loop in her mind?
God, he’d looked good. Maybe a little pale, but she might be projecting. Otherwise, as gorgeous as ever.
Seeing him unexpectedly had swamped her with memories. His precious face in her hands. His hot body in her arms.
Thank God he’d worn shades today. One look into his eyes and she’d have fallen to her knees.
Ray stomped her foot. “Don’t you care that he’s stalking you?”
“He isn’t stalking me,” Chris said definitively. Unless it was to kill her, but even he wouldn’t go that far. Probably.
“I bet he wants you back. I bet he thinks you’ll jump at the chance.”
Chris dropped her head in her hands. Why, oh why, had she told Ray the whole sordid tale?
Because she’d been desperate to talk about it, that’s why, and who else could she tell? Her handful of real friends were back east, consumed with husbands and play dates. Ray wasn’t ideal, but she was handy.
“Trust me, Ray. Kota might want me dead, but he doesn’t want me back.” Tossing the remote on the coffee table, she hoisted her ass off the couch and marched for the stairs. “Do me a favor,” she called over her shoulder, “and quit scripting a happy ending, okay? Because it’s not gonna happen.”
It’s not gonna happen. The words attached themselves to the street-corner loop like a sound track.
It’s not gonna happen. She stripped down and dragged herself into the shower. It’s not gonna happen. She leaned a shoulder against the wall and slid down to the cold tile floor. It’s not gonna happen.
Tears dripped from her chin. She wept like a lost child.
And once more, she recycled the recriminations. Why had she agreed to the assignment? Why had she gone to the island? Why, oh why, had she put off confessing to Kota until it was too late?
The answer stared her in the face: She’d done each of those things because at every fork in the road, she’d taken the path of least resistance. Guilt might have gotten her into this mess in the first place, but once she was in it, rather than face the consequences of her actions, she’d taken the easy way out at every turn.
It was the story of her life. For years she’d done what Zach or Emma wanted her to do because it had been easier than choosing her own path and making her own way. Easier to blame them for controlling her life than to take control of it herself.
She loved them, and there was nothing wrong with wanting them to be proud of her. But how could they respect her—how could she respect herself—if she didn’t figure out what she wanted, and then do the work to get it?
That’s why she’d failed with Kota. Even after she realized she wanted him, even after she had him, she didn’t do the work to keep him. Instead of sucking it up and telling him the truth, she postponed it again and again, hoping for an easy way out.
Now she was at it again. Holing up in the house. Cowering in the shower like a kid hiding in the closet during a thunderstorm instead of dealing with the shambles she’d made of her life.
She’d truly hit bottom. Her mother couldn’t help her. Neither could her friends. Even her unflappable father was mildly annoyed that she’d used him to further her nefarious ends.
There was no easy way out. It was sit on the floor dripping snot on her chest for the next fifty years, or get up off her ample ass, make amends, and figure out what to do with the rest of her life.