It was all the proof he needed to know she was as into him as he was into her.
And the best part was, Tommy had the pics to prove it.
He tossed the pillow, rolled onto his side, and reached for the phone he’d abandoned on the floor. He was about to check his camera roll when a long chain of texts popped onto the screen.
How the hell—?
He quickly scrolled through them, staring in disbelief at the numerous pics of the Ryan, Madison, and Aster drama. Including pictures of him with his arm secured around Madison as he led her through the Vesper’s back door, shooting a cautious look over her shoulder as the door closed behind them, his expression promising serious consequences to anyone who dared follow.
But clearly someone had followed. And they’d made sure his hookup with Madison had gone viral.
He raced toward his grime-covered window, only to discover a swarm of photogs camped right outside. Most likely waiting for him to leave so they could shout their questions and insults and record his reactions.
He raked his fingers through his hair, unsure what to do. It wasn’t exactly the way Tommy had hoped to make a name for himself, and yet he couldn’t hide out in his apartment and wait for the vultures to move on to some other scandal.
Fact was, his fridge was empty, his cupboards were bare, and he had a serious need for coffee.
He shook his head, moved away from the window, and made for the shower. If he was going to make his tabloid debut, he might as well look his best.
FORTY
WAKE ME UP WHEN SEPTEMBER ENDS
The driver pulled away with a loud crunch of gravel and a judgmental look (though she might have imagined that last part), as Aster punched the code for the electronic gate on the keypad and began the long walk up the driveway.
Her house loomed large in the distance. Probably because it was large, one of the largest on the block, which was really saying something, considering the high level of affluence in the neighborhood. But on that particular morning the Mediterranean manse seemed almost too large, sort of ominous and foreboding. Like the red-clay-tiled roof and sloping archways might turn on her at any second, become less of a luxurious sanctuary and more of a prison.
She wob
bled uncertainly, her heels skidding against the uneven stones, until she slipped off her shoes and walked the rest of the way in bare feet. Her eyes darted wildly, looking for signs of Nanny Mitra, the maids and gardeners who came every day, anyone who might spot her lurking in her own front yard, looking as guilty as she’d surely be charged.
Normally she’d sneak into her house via the door in the garage that led straight to the back hall, but the remote to open the garage was in her car, and her car was no longer in the Night for Night parking lot. It’d either been stolen or towed. Either way she was screwed.
Sometimes, though, Javen left the French doors that led from the backyard into the den unlocked, mostly on the nights he snuck out. She could only hope he’d thought to do so again. Funny how their campaign to fool Nanny Mitra had made them closer than ever.
She crept around back, twisted the knob, and exhaled in relief when the door eased open and she stepped into a darkened den with the drapes still drawn. A good sign the maids had yet to arrive, which meant Nanny was probably still in her room, maybe even asleep. Aster slipped up the stairs, unable to so much as breathe until she’d made it safely to her room with the door closed behind her.
Tossing her shoes and bag toward the overstuffed chair in the corner, she sagged against her bed and stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She felt like crap. She looked even worse. And with the Sunday meeting scheduled for early afternoon, she doubted she’d make it, doubted she could pull it together by then, and had no plans to try. Despite what had happened—or maybe even because of it—she was still well in the lead, and there was no way Ira would take that away just because she failed to show at an obligatory event with a predetermined outcome.
What she wanted—no, actually needed—more than anything was a long, hot shower, if for no other reason than to scrub every remaining trace of Ryan Hawthorne from her flesh.
Scrubbing him from her memory was a whole other problem that wouldn’t be remedied anytime soon.
She pulled the elastic from her hair and shook out the strands. After casting one last searing glance at her pathetic image in the mirror, she heaved herself off her bed and started to make for the bathroom, when her bedroom door sprang open, and her mother and father stood in the doorway.
FORTY-ONE
BLOW ME (ONE LAST KISS)
The last thing Layla wanted to do was attend Ira’s Sunday meeting, but short of dropping out of the contest, what choice did she have? She made a list of things that were markedly worse. Things like: alligator wrestling, skydiving without a parachute, crime-scene cleanup—but compared to the prospect of facing Tommy, Aster, Ira, and the undeniable chaos she’d unleashed by posting their pics on her blog, suddenly all those things seemed not only more favorable but also maybe even downright pleasurable if she’d only give them a try.
The second she’d sent her post into the world, she was overcome with the dueling emotions of absolute triumph and overwhelming regret. Reader response was immediate—the number of hits escalated in a way Layla had never seen, and the comments section was overflowing. But once the reality of coming face-to-face with two of the people she’d turned into unsuspecting internet celebrities began to sink in, she couldn’t help but wonder if she should’ve eased up on the tone.
Then again, as a Hollywood blogger, wasn’t it her duty to report those kinds of stories?
She backed her bike from the garage, nearly jumping out of her skin when someone snuck up beside her and said, “Hey.”
“Mateo! Omigod, you scared the crap out of me.” She pressed her hand to her heart as though to keep it from breaking free of her chest.