The Careless Boyfriend

by Erika Kelly

  She watched the crowd grow more energized. “Can we get him out of here? Maybe we could—”

  “Knox. Short of binding his arms and legs with duct tape, I can’t force him to leave. He wants this, you get that right? He had a choice. He could be dancing with you or partying like this. It’s his choice.”

  As Robert spun like a top, the energy in the suite changed. Gray didn’t want to be here when things went sideways—and they would. With Robert, they always did. “Knox…I don’t want to be part of this. Are you coming with me or not?”

  He could see the struggle play across her beautiful features, and he wished so damn hard she’d get it. She was strong, fierce; she didn’t let anyone mess with her. Robert was her one weakness.

  Her brow creased with concern as she watched her boyfriend slam into people, turning the living room into a mosh pit. “Should we turn off the music? Tell everyone the party’s over? We have to do something.”

  “You can’t control him or the situation. You get that, right?”

  “Of course.” Her tone lacked conviction. “But I have to do something.”

  “Why? So you can clean up another of his messes?”

  “So I can make sure he doesn’t get hurt.” She gazed up at him with an urgency he understood. Help me fix this before something terrible happens.

  His features hardened. No.

  “He doesn’t have anyone else, Gray. Just us.” She let out an exasperated huff of breath just as someone screamed.

  Gray whipped around to see Robert and two other guys holding onto each other as they spun around at a dizzying speed, knocking down everyone in their path.

  And then Robert let go, reeled back, and slammed into the sliding glass door. An explosion of glittering safety glass rained down on him.

  “Oh, my God.” Knox ran to him.

  Gray moved a little closer—just to make sure no one was hurt—but held back. He didn’t see blood, just three completely wasted guys on their backs, laughing and moaning.

  For the first time, he had perfect clarity. It wasn’t just Robert who was messed up. She was, too. They were locked in a dysfunctional relationship, and there was no room for him.

  There never would be. She would never see him, because she was focused so completely on saving Robert.

  Chaos erupted in the room. The hysterical chatter, “Call nine-one-one,” and “Oh, my God,” reminded him how much these people loved drama.

  Gray stalked toward Knox and knelt beside her. “I’m leaving.”

  “You can’t go now.” She sounded appalled at the very idea. “He’s hurt.”

  “The cops are on their way. Hotel security will be here any minute.”

  And I’m done.

  Completely, irrevocably done.

  Gray leaned in. “Think about your scholarship. You get in trouble with the police, and they could take it from you.” Dammit, how did he make her see?

  “Babe?” Robert moaned, covering his face with his hands. “I fucked up, didn’t I? I’m sorry.”

  She brushed bits of glass out of his hair. “Are you okay?” She glanced up at Gray. “Help me get him on the bed. We have to make sure he’s not hurt.”

  “No.” He knew what he had to do, but the consequence—losing her, possibly for good— had his pulse banging out of control and perspiration popping out on his forehead. One more chance. “Knox, I’m leaving, and I want you to come with me.”

  Ignoring him, she crawled around Robert’s sprawled form to grab under his arms. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t lift or drag him. “Damn you, Robert.” Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Somebody help me.”

  He couldn’t leave her like this. Fine. He’d get Robert onto the bed, and then he’d go. But, just as he reached for his friend’s arm, a whole new level of clarity hit with a force that made him lose his balance.

  It wasn’t just Knox and Robert who were messed up. He was, too. It was the three of them, locked in this twisted relationship.

  Gray let go of his friend’s arm. Jesus, I’m as messed up as they are. His need for Knox was no different than Robert’s need for drugs. Or her need to fix her boyfriend.

  He stood up, taking one final glance at his heart.

  And then he turned and walked out the door.

  Chapter One

  Today

  Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up.

  As the ocean roared through the open bathroom window, Knox Holliday snatched the towel off the rack and quickly rubbed her body dry. Wrapping it around her head turban-style, she eyed the line of surfers waiting for the next set.

  She could feel it—the grip of her toes on her waxed board, the churning of the sea under her feet, and the slap of salty water on her skin. Her body yearned to be out there.

  A storm somewhere in the Pacific had delivered massive waves to the island—rare for September—and she hated having to miss it. Her cell phone trilled from her nightstand. Crap.

  Hurry.

  Padding into the bedroom on bare, damp feet, she picked it up and accepted the FaceTime call. Setting the screen so it faced the ceiling, she said, “Hey, Luc. Just give me one second.” She bent over, unwinding the towel and shaking out her hair.

  “Are you all right?” he asked in his thick, French accent. “What is going on?”

  She reached for the red satin underwear in the top drawer of her dresser and stepped into them. “Just running a little late.”

  “Why? Is there a problem?”

  She could hear the panic in his voice. Such a diva. “Everything’s perfect.” Hitching up her panties, she eyed the line of dresses and blouses in her closet and yanked off a crepe mini dress with spaghetti straps. She stepped into it at the same time she shoved her feet into high heeled sandals.

  “Why am I looking at your ceiling and not you?”

  Her boss checked in every day at the same time. Normally, she’d be ready to show him the progress she’d made, but she’d had to make an alteration to one of the gowns, which had her running late.

  “What is that…why is your ceiling bumpy?” He gasped. “Is it warped?”

  She’d rented the cheapest house she could find on this stretch of beach in Maui. Of course, Luc had offered her his homes in the Maldives and Portofino and his flat in London, but she still hadn’t gotten over what he’d done to her, so she needed boundaries.

  Mostly, though, she wanted to keep him from feeling any sort of ownership in her collection. “It’s called a popcorn ceiling, and what do I care what it looks like when I’m getting the place for a steal?” As if she hadn’t lived in much worse conditions. She’d learned as a child to create beauty in her mind and with her own hands.

  She slicked her hair back into a high ponytail and grabbed the phone. His handsome face came into view from his bright and airy Paris office, seventy-five hundred miles away “Well, hello, there. Nice to see you.”

  “Bonjour, ma chère.” His features pinched. “Why is your hair wet? You showered, when you knew I’d be calling?”

  Maybe she couldn’t get over what he’d done to her, but she still hated to let him down. “Yeah, sorry about that. I’m a little late this morning.” She had a show in six weeks, so she’d barely been getting five hours of sleep a night as it was. Last night, she’d gotten even less.

  “Hmph. Every day for one year I have called you at ten o’clock in the morning.”

  That was because he didn’t finish his day until at nine or ten at night. His assistant brought him a baguette, some smelly cheese, and a bottle of wine, and he caught up on all his phone calls.

  “And for three hundred and sixty-four of them, I’ve made it right on time,” she said. “Ready to get started?”

  She turned the phone around and headed into the living room, panning the sea of taffeta, silk, organza, chiffon, and tulle. Even after all this time, she still got a rush of happiness from seeing all that frothy gorgeousness.

  “Stop, stop. Oh, dear God, what is that?”

  Of course, of all th
e beauty in the room, he’d notice the one problem. A low beat of anxiety pulsed through her. Please don’t freak out. “What’s what?”

  But he ignored her teasing tone. “On the floor. What is that?”

  “It’s nothing to worry about.” She lifted the puddle of charmeuse and lace. “I made a slight alteration.”

  “To La Danseur? There was nothing wrong with La Danseur.”

  “Luc, I promise, it’s all right. I tried it on my neighbor, and I didn’t like the drape, so I’m redoing it.”

  “No, no, no. Does your neighbor have a portfolio with Elite? Is she a Ford model?”

  Her sixty-two-year-old neighbor was fit and tall but not what Luc would consider a model. “Trust me, it wasn’t working. It’s going to be much better.”

  “It’s in pieces on the floor. And Martine is coming on Monday to pack up the gowns. Ach, I’m growing a migraine. Stop this nonsense right now. We’ll do all the tweaks when you arrive in the city.”

  A thrill shot through her. Thanks to Luc’s support, she’d debut her haute couture wedding gown collection at October’s Bridal Fashion Week in New York City. A big deal for a twenty-five-year-old, just four years out of college. In return, she’d had to create a year’s worth of collections for him.

  “I’ll have everything ready by the time Martine gets here, I promise. When have I ever let you down?”

  “When you left me.” For a fifty-eight-year-old man, he had the pout of a two-year-old.

  “I guess you shouldn’t have stolen from me.”

  His eyebrows shot up into his thick, gray hair. “Take that back. I did not steal from you. Everyone who works for me signs the same contract. I own everything you create while under my employment.”

  Technically that might be true, but he’d devastated her. He’d swiped her sketchbook out of her apartment, designs she’d done on her own time. “Luc, you broke my heart.” Since she didn’t give her heart to many people, that was an even rarer occurrence than a storm in September. It had been scary to quit her job, but she’d believed if she was good enough for Luc Bellerose to steal from her, then she was good enough to go out on her own.

  “And now I have healed it. Trust me, ma chère, you will take the world by storm with this show.” He gave her a smile heavy with pride. “In my four decades in this business, I have never fallen so in love with someone’s style. You are magic, Knox Holliday, and I’m going to make you a star. Ah. That’s it.” He reached for his laptop and his fingers went to town all over the keyboard.

  “What’s it? What’re you doing?”

  “Emailing Victoire.”

  “Why?” What did his publicist have to do with this conversation?

  “I’ve been looking for just the right tagline.” He tapped the final letter with a flourish, then shoved the laptop back. “You are the white-hot wedding gown designer.” He grinned, obviously pleased with himself. “The hottest star in the bridal galaxy.” His smile faded. “I mean that sincerely, you know. They’re not just empty words.”

  Often, he drove her crazy—like when he stole from her—but sometimes she loved him. “Thank you, Luc. Your opinion means the world to me.”

  Tires squealed on asphalt. A shout pierced the air. Knox spun around to look out the bay window of her living room but couldn’t make sense of what she was seeing. Her house, situated on a sharp bend in the road, saw a lot of traffic. It sat close enough that she could catch a glimpse of the drivers’ faces as they whizzed by. But this car…this dark green Jeep…it was driving across her front yard.

  Holy shit, it was careening toward the house.

  Toward her. “Oh, my God.” She dropped the phone and bolted into the kitchen, seconds before the car crashed into her living room. Glass shattered. Wood splintered. The Jeep sheared off wallboard.

  The engine idled, and an Eddie Van Halen guitar riff screeched in the air.

  “Knox? Knox?” Her boss’s tinny voice got her moving toward the phone. She had to call nine-one-one. Brushing debris off her phone, she picked it up. “Luc? I have to call you back.” She didn’t give him a chance to respond, just hit End. Seeing no movement through the tinted windows, she called, “Hello? Are you all right?”

  Swirls of dust filled the room. In her sandals, she made her way across glittering glass and chips of wood to the driver’s side, focusing on her keypad as she dialed.

  Someone answered right away. “Nine-one-one, what’s your emergency?”

  She had to shout over the music. “A car just crashed into my living room.” As she gave her address and answered questions, her heart squeezed at the sight of crystals and beads and strips of delicate—filthy—lace under the big black tires. That lace…it was handmade. Literally irreplaceable. She tried the passenger side door, but it was locked. “Are you okay?” Peering into the tinted window, she made out several bodies.

  The radio snapped off. The driver’s door opened, and a woman got out. Wearing a bikini top and jean shorts, she looked dazed.

  “Hey, are you all right?” Knox lifted the phone. “I just called nine-one-one. They’ll be here in ten minutes.”

  “I’m fine. I just…” The young woman covered her mouth with a hand and took in the scene. “Oh, my God.” She turned back to the car, pumping on the back door handle. “Guys? Open up.” When it popped open, she stepped aside to let several large men out.

  Knox moved toward them, her ankle twisting in her stupid heels. “Is anyone hurt?” Three of the men were shirtless, one wore a thin white tank top, all wore board shorts. Five surfboards were strapped to the roof of the car, the front edges snapped off by the wallboard that covered the windshield.

  “What the hell?” one of them said.

  “Whoa, man,” another one said.

  Her phone chimed, and she glanced quickly at the screen. Luc. Not now. She silenced the ringer. “What do you guys need?” She could grab some kitchen towels if anyone was bleeding.

  “Knox?”

  She’d know that deep, gravelly voice anywhere, even after all these years. A shock of recognition had her looking over to see—"Gray?”

  What the hell was Gray Bowie doing in her living room?

  “This is your house?” He scraped his fingers through his hair. “Jesus. Of all the people…” Fear twisted his features. “Did we hurt you?”

  “No.” At least not in the way you’re thinking. “I’m fine.” She deliberately didn’t look at her gowns. It was the only way to keep her panic at bay. That…and she’d need her full attention to assess the damage. “What about you guys?” She gestured to his friends.

  His gaze lingered for a moment, as if he couldn’t believe he was seeing her. Believe me, I feel the same way. It had been seven years since she’d last seen or talked to him.

  His choice.

  With a slight shake of his head, he turned to the driver. “You okay, Amelia?”

  “Yeah.” The woman wrapped a hand around the back of her neck. “Shaken up, but I’m okay.”

  She looked disoriented, so Knox wasn’t sure about that. Grabbing a kitchen chair, she said, “Maybe you should sit down.”

  For a moment the woman looked confused. Then she pulled her hand off her neck. “No, it doesn’t hurt. I guess I’m just expecting it to.” She tipped a chin to the others. “You guys?”

  The passengers all spoke at once, clearly stunned.

  “I’m good.”

  “Fine.”

  “Jesus, man.”

  Hands cupping the sides of her head, Amelia turned to survey the damage. “Oh, my God. How did this even happen?” She blew out a breath, glancing at Knox. “We were just so stoked, you know? He”—she pointed to Gray—“literally got the call ten minutes ago. And we’ve got to head to the airport right now.” She scanned the room, her attention zeroing in on the white tulle. “What is all this?”

  With everything in her, Knox did not want to look at her beautiful, perfect gowns, wasn’t ready to see their condition, dreaded that feeling of total devastatio
n…but she had no choice, did she? Slowly, she turned to take it all in.

  The three draped over the dress forms she’d placed in front of the living room window lay trampled under the wheels. Terror sliced a vein, and she bled pure adrenaline. She went light-headed, her vision narrowing.

  Her showstopper gowns were destroyed. They couldn’t be salvaged. Not a chance.

  She drew in short, shallow breaths.

  You don’t have time for a panic attack. She forced herself to rally. It’s only three dresses. The others might be okay. She could still show twenty-two dresses. She dropped to a crouch, and the world spun and teetered. She blinked away the wall of tears, fingering the sheer organza with handmade petals that overlaid her favorite gown.

  A hand came down on her shoulder with a firm grip. “Knox?” Gray knelt beside her, wearing nothing but bright blue board shorts. He smelled of coconut oil and ocean breeze. She could even see a trace of dried salt on his skin.

  It was enough—the destruction of one year of her work—she didn’t need him, of all people, compounding it. “Just…give me a second.” Some of these could be salvaged. Right? She could fix anything. But, no matter how hard she blinked, the room was still a blur. It made her frantic, so she swiped at her eyes. She needed to see, to assess, but the damn tears wouldn’t go away.

  There’s still some fabric left. Plenty of embellishments.

  I can fix anything.

  The fist gripping her throat eased. She drew in a deep, calming breath. First, she had to get these people out of here. She couldn’t think with them in her living room. She’d assess the damage the minute they left.

  It’ll be fine. Promise.

  Everything felt surreal. The Jeep in the middle of her living room, the glorious dresses she’d hand-sewn lying beneath it, and…Gray Bowie right here talking to her. Especially since he looked so much bigger, broader, more masculine than the eighteen-year-old boy she remembered. The only thing that remained the same were his startlingly blue eyes.