~ Corbin
Blinking back tears as my eyes dance across the phone number he also provided below, I close the book and set it on the table with the other mail I’ve yet to pay attention to. Penny nudges my thigh as I sit in the silence and just look at the present. How did he even get my address? Questions swirl around my head, leaving my gaze blurry and my stomach twisting.
He signed it Corbin, not Ryker. There’s a significance to that. Like even though the character he portrays gets his happy ending, Corbin isn’t willing to settle. But he has to. Can’t he see that? Unless something changes, there won’t be anything more to the story he’s so determined I write a continuation to.
Just last week, pictures of Corbin and Lena surfaced in front of the bluest ocean I’ve never had the opportunity to see. The article had to mention the images of me and him at the drugstore, making light on how their marriage is strong despite the rumors. And as much as I wanted to throw my phone when I saw them plastered on my newsfeed, I know what a genuine smile from Corbin looks like. The one spread on his face in each picture taken by who knows is fake.
And I’m sick for being happy about it.
Brushing off the image of his arm around his wife’s bare waist in her tiny bikini, I stand and forget about what rests on the coffee table. If I were smart, I’d throw it away or stick it in the box with my other notebooks.
I’m not smart though.
Walking into the kitchen and digging through my stash of candy on the counter, I greedily rip open the package of Twizzlers and bite down onto one. As I make my way to the home office set up by my bedroom, my face scrunches at the sudden nausea sweeping through my system. Staring down at the strand of licorice that’s almost gone only makes it worse. Before I know what’s happening, I’m diving toward the white wastebasket positioned by my large desk.
The sweet smell of artificial sugar scattered on my laptop by my face causes me to lurch more into the bucket. My knees dig into the carpet as I kneel helplessly on the floor. The burn of my throat makes my eyes water as I come up for air, gagging over the horrid smell of vomit.
Penny stands by the door, tail twitching, watching me with a cocked head. When the sugary smell that I usually indulge in hits my nose again, I grab the candy and throw it into the hall far away from me. Offended, Penny darts into our room.
Resting my forehead against the edge of my desk for a moment, I force myself up and toward the bathroom attached to my bedroom. Cleaning out the waste basket, I set it on the floor and then splash cold water on my face. When I examine myself in the mirror, I’m greeted with flushed cheeks and red eyes.
Shaking my head, I rinse out my mouth and brush my teeth to get rid of the putrid taste that's lingering. When I grab a towel to dab my mouth, I notice something sticking out of the vanity cabinet below.
Mouth gaping, I shake my head to myself and begin counting back in my head. Penny’s demanding yowls are drowned out by the math I’m trying to do mentally. Panic courses through me as I plop down on the closed toilet seat and stare at the tile floor.
Choking on air, I whisper, “No.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kinley / Present
My fingers tighten around the Celebrity Access magazine, crinkling the flimsy cardstock-like cover until the familiar image of America’s Most Desired Man is as flawed as the headline. It’s the signature side smirk teasing a narrow slit of perfectly white teeth and a deep dimple in the dark stubble patch of his cheek that makes everyone pick up the latest edition. The brazen silver eyes framed with dark lashes against clear olive skin is almost as deadly as the charming wink he shoots to the cameras.
Corbin Callum oozes the kind of sex appeal that could get him out of anything. It’s proven by the bolded white headline hanging over his unkempt black hair. Messy in a I-spend-an-hour-achieving-this-look kind of way. Gelled but not too gelled. Unruly but not too unruly. They portray him as anything but a cheater. A rumored cheater. An adulterer.
My free hand goes to my stomach, the feel of my cotton purple tunic soft beneath my touch. What’s not soft is the rounded skin underneath the layer of clothing. It’s new. Always changing. A reminder.
The headline doesn’t give away the feminine name now attached to his, but the article doesn’t shy away from using it eight times in the three-column exposé. A grainy picture of a chestnut-haired woman smiling too wide, standing too close, and angled too intimately saddles the accusation. They say a picture is worth a thousand words.
My hand twitches.
The picture they’re bound to get in just over seven more months will be worth even more.
Corbin Callum rumored to be involved with bestselling author on set of his latest movie. Pictures inside.
I close my eyes and absorb the heavier pitter-patter of droplets of rain outside the window of my master bedroom. My grip of the magazine loosens until it hits the carpeted floor with a soft thud. I do nothing about the bent pages despite the money I spent.
I remember it all—the way our lips sounded when they tasted each other’s. How our teeth clashed in desperation and our hands roamed with urgency. The ghost sting of pulled hair and rewarded groans linger in my awareness, branded with a scorching steal rod in the front of my mind. Gentle lips against a ticklish throat. Wandering fingertips against sensitive flesh.
He was there.
Everywhere.
Taking. Giving. Offering. Sacrificing.
Remember, Little Bird?
Remember what it felt like?