What she wouldn’t give to have one hour alone with him. Tonight.
She and Davie watched Damien settle on to a recently vacated barstool and order a drink.
“I’m going to introduce myself,” Ella announced, setting down her unfinished gin and tonic.
Davie smirked. “As yourself or as a journalist?”
“If I could get his story . . . his real story . . .”
“You’re serious. Now?”
Ella bit into her lower lip and nodded. “Do you mind?”
Davie waved her hand, brushing aside Ella’s question. “Oh, my god, not at all. If I had the chance to talk to a guy like that . . .” She shook her head. “There are days when I envy you. The people you meet. Luxe Avenue will put your byline on the cover with that one.” Davie offhandedly wagged a finger in Damien’s direction.
It would be her first cover byline, something she’d been dreaming about since Luxe Avenue hired her. That and landing the Senior Features Writer position she’d been vying for. The magazine had a wide female readership. Damien Russell’s face on the cover would be a gold mine of issues sold.
Ella grinned and Davie sighed, but she couldn’t contain the smile that followed. “I’d love to be a fly on the wall, but guess I’ll have to settle for the article. It’s late; I’m turning in.” She finished her cocktail and stood.
Ella rose and hugged her friend. “I’ll make it up to you tomorrow,” she promised.
“You can buy me breakfast. I’d say ‘good luck’ but I don’t think you need it.”
Ella watched Davie sashay toward the elevators and laughed. “You look gorgeous tonight,” she called over the noise of slot machine winnings.
Davie blew her a kiss. Ella sent one back, then turned toward the bar. The patron beside Damien paid his bill and vacated his stool.
Lucky her.
She settled on the warm seat, her arrival going unnoticed. Damien was watching the Warriors game. She, on the other hand, was all too aware of him. His scent, discreet and classy yet modern, was enticing. She would bet his cologne was something from Tom Ford.
Capturing the bartender’s attention, she ordered a drink.
“Bourbon on ice.” Damien’s drink of choice. She’d watched the bartender prepare his cocktail and was pleased when her drink order made Damien finally look her way. He took her in, from her coiffed sandy-brown hair to her Helmut Lang slip dress, with an expression that bordered on disinterest. But she smiled, undeterred, and he flagged the bartender.
“Put her drink on my tab.”
“Yes, sir.”
Damien’s attention returned to the game.
When her drink arrived, Ella lifted her glass. “Thank you,” she said to Damien.
Damien raised his. “Of course.”
“I’m Ella Skye,” she said, setting down her drink and offering her hand.
He shook her hand. “Damien Russell. I suspect you already know that.”
Her nose wrinkled. “You do? How?”
“Your drink order. And your name. It sounds familiar.”
Ella’s face lit up. She couldn’t help it. He’d read her work. How else would he know of her?
“Maybe you’ve read one of my articles. I write for Luxe Avenue.”
His head tilted back and he smirked. “You’re a reporter.” He shook his head and went back to watching the game.
“Ouch. Blacklisted already.”
“You’re all the same. Yes!” He shook a fist when Curry scored.
“I beg to differ,” Ella said, trying not to take offense.
“You all ask the same questions. ‘Why’d you leave CyberSeal? Why are you still single?’ That’s a foul,” he blasted the screen when Durant tripped and there was no call.
“Why are you single?” she dared, her tone teasing. She stroked a finger along the edge of her cocktail napkin.
He remained focused on the game, nursing his cocktail, and said, “‘It is not a lack of love, but a lack of friendship that makes unhappy marriages.’ That’s all you’ll get out of me. My personal life isn’t up for discussion.”
Ella arched her back, brows lifting. “Did you just quote Nietzsche to me?”
Damien set down his drink. He turned so that he fully faced her. “Impressive. Not many people know of him.”
“Or have studied him. I spent a semester abroad in Germany.”
“Where did you study?”
“University of Freiburg. But I graduated from San Francisco State. You got your bachelor’s in computer science at Berkeley and master’s in business from Stanford,” she said, reciting facts from his public bio. “Serious question, though.” She tapped the bar beside his elbow.
He smiled, unsure. “What’s that?”
“On which side of the stadium do you sit for football games?” His two alma maters were longtime rivals.
He exhaled a long stream of air. The corner of his mouth pulled up in a lopsided grin. “It’s a tough call. Depends who I watch the game with.”
They shared a smile and Ella sipped her drink. Damien hadn’t glanced once at the screen since she cited the philosopher. She took it as a good sign.
“You know, your quote is telling.”
“Is it?”
“Your ex-wife hurt you,” she said, intentionally being direct. It was a gamble, but he quoted Nietzsche. The political philosophy class where she’d studied the German philosopher had nearly put her to sleep. But Nietzsche’s personal life had always stuck with her. Nietzsche had been betrayed twice, in life and postmortem. The woman he loved and proposed to had married his friend, and after his death, his sister, who inherited his estate, misinterpreted his literary work to her advantage and political gain.
Damien’s face went blank. “You get right to the point.”
She shrugged. “It’s the reporter in me. Bad habit. We can talk about your relationship with your dad instead.” She stroked her leg, let her Christian Louboutin slip off her heel.
“Or . . .” His chin dipped, his gaze following her hand. “We can talk about why you’re in Vegas.”
“Girls’ weekend.”
“Yet here you are. Alone.”
“Davie’s upstairs.”
“And Davie is . . . ?”
“My best friend from college. She went up to our room when I told her I was going to introduce myself to you.”
“So I was a target from the beginning.” He sounded disappointed.
Ella swirled the stirrer. She tapped the straw on the lip of the glass and set it aside. He was going to lose interest real fast if she didn’t come up with something more interesting than the game that had his attention. She needed his trust or else he wouldn’t open up to her. Honesty wasn’t always the best policy, but honesty gained trust. And this was one instance where honesty would pay off to her advantage. It would land her an interview and, with that, a cover feature.
“I’ll be up-front,” she started.
“Haven’t you been already?”
“True, but . . .” She took a deep breath. “You’re seriously good looking, and I’d be dead if I wasn’t attracted to you. I’m really attracted to you, and I’d like to spend time with you. I’d love the chance to get to know you.” Her cheeks warmed from her boldness. She’d never been so direct about her feelings when she’d met a man. It was too revealing. It made her feel vulnerable, exposed. But she wanted this man to know exactly how she felt, that her fascination with him was more than professional. She dared to touch him and traced her finger down the lapel of his sport jacket. The hard muscle underneath flexed and Ella had to force her hand away. She could touch him all night. “But in all seriousness, I also want to interview you.”
A discerning laugh escaped him. He shook his head. “Here I thought we were having a good conversation.”
“We are. But I bet you’d love to sit down and have another conversation with me, on the record and off.”
“You’d bet, huh?” He stroked a finger over his mouth. “We are in
Vegas.”
“Yes, we are.”
He lifted his glass and took a deep drink without taking his eyes off her. He slowly set it down and wiped the corners of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger. “All right.”
She blinked. “All right? You’ll do it?”
“On two conditions.” He showed her two fingers. “We don’t talk about my father and you let me buy you another drink.”
“Deal.” She beamed, already plotting how she’d get him to tell her everything.
Damien bought her another bourbon on ice and told her what had brought him to Vegas. He was the keynote speaker at a network security conference. Ella gushed about KÀ, the Cirque du Soleil show at MGM Grand she and Davie saw that evening. They talked about their favorite restaurants in San Francisco—Ella insisted Fog Harbor Fish House had the best clam chowder, hands down—and where else they’d traveled. Damien owned a flat in London. One cocktail led to another, which led to an elevator ride to his suite after Ella sent a good night text to her friend.
Ella: Don’t wait up for me.
Davie: Girl, I want deets in the AM. Have fun.
Her and Damien’s conversation in the bar was charged, stoked by a look here and a touch there. He kept a possessive hand on her lower back in the elevator, and the instant he closed the door to his suite, his lips landed on hers. He kissed her, a lingering kiss that quickly became more demanding.
It wasn’t the first time Ella had charmed a potential interview subject into sharing secrets in between the sheets, but she wondered if Damien would be the last. There was something about him she was drawn to that she couldn’t quite pinpoint. Maybe it was because she felt like he was a kindred soul. She wasn’t positive and she didn’t have proof. The feeling was more instinctual. But when you’d been abandoned more than once like Ella had, a certain element of loneliness set in. Because she sensed that, Ella didn’t just want the scoop on his relationship with his parents or what happened with his ex-wife. She wanted him.
They fucked hard that night and in ways Ella hadn’t allowed another man. He pushed her limits, leaving her drunk on arousal. When daylight broke, she sat up in bed, sore and savoring every ache. The thought of leaving him made her a little sad. But she owed Davie breakfast and Ella was never one to overstay her welcome the morning after. She expected they’d exchange phone numbers and the promise of an interview, but Damien grasped her wrist before she climbed out of bed.
“Stay.”
Ella hesitated. She looked at him, sleep rumpled and sexy. He could break her heart if she wasn’t careful.
“I have a rule,” he said in a gravelly voice. “Never fall in love again.”
“You fell in love with me after one night?” She winked when his face paled. Then he laughed.
“No, but I wouldn’t mind having you as a friend.”
“Oh, so you’re friend-zoning me.”
“God, no,” he barked with laughter, giving her hand a sharp tug. She collapsed on his chest. “Remember my quote?” Ella nodded. He cradled her face and softly kissed her lips. “I think friendship is a good place for us to start.”
Ella couldn’t have agreed more. Because she was already falling for him.
CHAPTER 5
Ella received the promotion to Senior Features Writer, but she earned it with a profile on Charlize Theron, not a feature on Damien Russell. She never interviewed him. Instead, she fell in love with him and realized his private life didn’t belong on the glossy pages of magazines or splashed across media websites. Besides, she’d be his biggest news if there was a new profile on him.
We’d had several wonderful years together before this happened, Ella thinks, her hand gingerly rubbing the tender area around her scar. How does a couple bounce back from a late-term miscarriage, especially when the wife can’t remember being pregnant? She doesn’t have the answers, but she wants to talk with Damien, about them, the baby, the accident, and what else she can do to retrieve her memories.
She finishes her coffee and goes in search of her husband.
In their room, she listens for the shower but hears only the rain. Obese drops splatter the window, sliding down the glass like tears. She calls for Damien. He doesn’t answer.
Did he leave the condo while she was zoning out in the kitchen, lost in memories of when they met? Thank goodness she didn’t forget that night. She’d feel more lost than she already does if she forgot her husband, too. It would be like living with a stranger.
Ella returns to the hallway. She finds her home office empty, but the guest-room door is ajar. She eases the door wider and stops up short. Her fingers touch her parted lips. In place of the queen bed and dresser is a half-finished nursery. Paint cans and tools sit on a plastic tarp in one corner. A cherrywood crib in another, the mattress still encased in plastic. Two adjoining walls are painted in a buttery yellow, and on one wall, a name has been stenciled: Simon.
Ella weaves, slammed by a wall of dizziness. She grasps the doorjamb, steadying herself. The pregnancy, the accident, the loss of Simon. It hasn’t felt more real to her than in this moment. The nursery waiting to be filled with love and laughter, to smell of talcum powder and diaper rash cream, will remain empty.
Her throat burns around a knot lodged just below her voice box. Tears bead and she swipes them away with the backs of her hands, sniffling as she desperately wishes she could remember what it felt like to carry her son. Did she talk to him? She wonders if she read aloud or sang to him. Did she play him music?
A rustle of fabric draws her attention to the corner of the room. Damien sits on an antique rocker, gripping a stuffed blue bunny. He stares stonily at Ella, eyes glistening.
“Damien.” His name is a breathy whisper, heavy with sadness.
He kneads the bunny’s ear.
She comes into the room and kneels at Damien’s feet, her movements stiff and cautious. She rests her hands on his knees. “Talk to me.”
He pinches off tears collecting in the corners of his eyes and roughly clears his throat. “It’s just hitting me there won’t be a baby.”
Tears well in her eyes. “I’m so sorry.”
“I never thought . . . I didn’t realize you’d forget every—” He swallows hard.
“Forget every what?” she prompts when he doesn’t finish. “Forget everything?” Is that what he meant to say? As if she had a choice in the matter. Like that’s even possible.
With a long, tired sigh, he stands, dropping the bunny on the chair.
“I’ll be in the shower.” He touches her shoulder and leaves the room.
Ella watches him go, her mouth agape. He’d walked out on her. Again. Earlier, he’d said the accident wasn’t her fault, but he sure isn’t acting like it. Obviously, he’s grieving, yet he’s doing so alone.
Why?
She lost Simon, too. Just because she can’t remember him doesn’t mean she isn’t capable of feeling for him. Ella lost her parents at six, her best friend Grace at fifteen, and her great-aunt Kathy at eighteen. If anyone knows how to grieve, she does. She loves Damien too much to let him do so alone. And she especially isn’t going to let him bottle up his pain. She did that more than once, and it’s its own worst sort of hell. Exorcising grief takes that much more of an effort the longer it’s contained.
Rising to her feet, Ella leaves the nursery and enters the master bedroom to find Damien toweling off from a shower. He pulls on sweatpants and a white T-shirt. With a glance in Ella’s direction, he folds back the bedcovers. She goes to him and holds his smooth jaw so that he must look at her. He smells of shaving cream and soap, his skin damp to the touch.
“I’m sorry.” The apology doesn’t seem enough. It won’t return their son. It won’t help her remember. And it won’t take away her husband’s pain. But saying the words makes her feel better. Maybe they’ll soften him, too.
Damien gently holds her hand and plants a kiss on the inside of her good wrist. “Don’t beat yourself up. It’s not your fault.”
“You think the memory loss is,” she challenges.
He looks down at the bed. “Take a nap with me. I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“Why did you have to work all night?”
“Had some things to take care of. I was worried about you, too. Made it hard to sleep.”
“Okay. But please don’t shut me out. I want to be here for you.”
He wraps his arms around her, holds her to his chest, right where she wants to be. “You are.” He kisses her forehead. “Get into bed. You need to rest.”
Ella crawls under the covers. Damien slides in behind and spoons her. She yawns, murmuring, “I love you.”
Damien doesn’t reply. He kisses her shoulder. Too exhausted to read into it, Ella slips into the darkness of sleep.
The lobby buzzer wakes Ella. She glances at the bedside clock. Teal numbers glow 7:00 p.m. and she blinks in surprise. She slept for three hours. Muted light drapes the room in charcoal grays. The rain has let up, allowing the familiar sounds of the city to reach her. Taxicab drivers punch their horns in irritation and police sirens blare. There’s the occasional sound of people shouting and the shrill brakes of a cable car traveling down Hyde. Off in the distance, the foghorn. Light reflects off low-lying clouds, and below, the city sparkles. Clean and wet, the street filth washed away for at least the night.
Ella slowly eases from bed, stiff from sleep and still aching from her injuries. The large contusions on her left shoulder and ribs have deepened to a Halloween purple. She finds Damien in the great room. He’s dressed in dark wash jeans and a fitted black T-shirt, his feet bare. She watches him for a moment, wondering how he feels after his rest, as he scans Pandora stations on the iPad they have linked to their Sonos speaker system. Then she comes up behind him, wraps her arms around his waist, and presses a kiss to his spine. He startles but quickly recovers and pulls her into his side.
“How’d you sleep?” he asks.
“Good, thanks. Who rang?”
“Davie. She’s on her way up.”
“That’s right.”
“She’s brought lasagna.”
Last Summer: A Novel Page 4