by Addison Cole
She turned her big, tear-filled baby blues on him, making him sorry he’d come by to get the final measurements for the railing. “Bert was the best man on the planet. He was—” Tequila spilled over the top of the glass. “Oh, gosh! Darn it! I…”
“I’ve got it.” Grayson pushed to his feet, needing to put distance between them anyway, because regardless of his not wanting to still be attracted to her, every fiber of his being had been consumed with her for months. He found a towel behind the bar.
Christmas lumbered over, sniffed the spillage, and went back to lying on the pile of clothes, leaving Grayson to mop up the mess—and scrub out his urge to be a jerk and walk out the door, leaving her alone to deal with her breakup woes. Hearing about some guy—other than him—that she thought was the best man on the planet was nowhere on tonight’s agenda.
“Maybe you’ve had enough.” He tossed the wet towel on the bar, grabbed another and wet it down.
“Oh no.” She shook her head, waving a finger at him. “No amount of tequila is enough right now. I’ve never had tequila before, and you know what? I like it. It’s delicious. Numbing. Truly helpful right now.”
He wiped down the coffee table with the clean, wet towel and tried to keep the distaste from coming out in his voice. “I’m sure there are plenty of other guys to take his place.”
Her mouth gaped.
He turned away and tossed the towel on the bar, having no patience for women who pretended they didn’t know they were pretty. “You’re Parker Collins. Tons of guys want y—” He turned around and nearly bowled her over. His arm circled her waist to keep her from falling. “Whoa. You okay?” Apparently she wasn’t only a skilled actress, but she also had wicked ninja skills.
Tears slid down her cheek, conflicting with the anger in her eyes.
“Bert Stein wasn’t a guy. You shouldn’t assume. You’re…infuriatingly male.” She twisted from his grip, downed another shot, and sank down to the couch again. More tears fell, turning the anger in her eyes to sadness and filling him with guilt.
Grayson’s compassion overpowered his hatred of drama. He had a younger sister, and if she was this sad and a guy was with her but didn’t try to help, he’d pummel the guy. He sat beside Parker and gave himself over to five minutes of torture. “All right, I’ll bite. Who was he?” And by the way, why didn’t you tell me you were here? I wouldn’t have barged in.
She reached for the tequila, and he reached for her hand. Their eyes connected. Hers were so full of conflicting emotions—heat and sorrow—it stirred all the affection he was trying to push aside. He kept ahold of her hand and guided her back from the edge of the couch, taking her emotions more seriously, unwilling to let her fall any further into the blankness alcohol had to offer. He knew about that crutch all too well, having dealt with his father’s alcoholism a few years ago.
“Tell me about Bert,” he said in a softer tone. At Bert’s name, Christmas’s head popped up. The dog surveyed the room, then lowered his chin to his paws again and closed his eyes. At least Bert knew she had a dog.
“He was my…everything,” she said just above a whisper. “And now he’s gone.”
His heart ached at the sadness in her voice, pushing the jealousy in him to the pit of his stomach. When she lifted her eyes, another tear slid down her cheek, forcing that ache a little deeper.
“Gone, as in he went somewhere?” Grayson asked, hoping she hadn’t lost her lover forever. “Or gone as in, gone?”
“Gone. He was like a father to me, and two weeks ago he passed away.” She swallowed hard, more tears spilling from her beautiful eyes.
His breath hitched in his throat. A father? They’d emailed for nearly a year. How could he not know about someone so important to her? Now he was not only an idiot, but a jerk for assuming she was overreacting to a rough breakup.
She turned away, causing a torrent of emotions in him. The desire to pull her in to his arms until her sadness subsided obliterated every other thought. He gathered her close, soothingly stroking her back, remembering the gut-wrenching devastation he’d experienced after he’d unexpectedly lost his mother to an aneurysm. He closed his eyes with the memory, pushing his own painful past aside, and pressed a kiss to the top of Parker’s head.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. He held her until her breathing evened out and her tears stopped. He wiped her tears with the pads of his thumbs, wishing he could do something more and knowing time and compassion were the only things that would help.
“You came here to grieve?”
She nodded. “Flew in this morning.”
“What about your family? Don’t you want to be with them?” When he’d lost his mother, he’d needed family as much as he’d needed air to breathe. “Friends?” he asked hopefully.
“There’s only me.” Her eyes shifted to the dog. “And Christmas.”
You’re going through this alone? I should have known you had no family. As painful as that thought was, he realized she’d had no reason to include family in their email conversations. Maybe he hadn’t misinterpreted everything after all. Despite his waffling on the meaning of their interactions, his protective urges surged forth, driving his need to ease her heartache. He slid his hands to either side of her neck, brushing his thumbs over her jaw as he lifted her face so she had no choice but to meet his gaze. She was vulnerable and hurting, so different from the strong, sunny actress the world knew her to be. But grief didn’t care about social status, and neither did he. All he saw was the woman he’d spent almost a year thinking about night and day looking at him with sad, soulful eyes. Despite the warning bells going off in his head about their professional relationship and his potential misinterpretation of their emails, he wanted to hold her all night, to kiss her until her pain subsided, and to protect her from ever being hurt again.
He fought the urge to kiss her and said what remained true regardless of whether he’d misinterpreted their relationship or not. “And me, Parker. Now you’ve got me, too.”
Chapter Two
PARKER AWOKE SATURDAY morning to Christmas’s wet tongue slurping her face. She groaned, and the sound vibrated in her skull, making her regret turning to her new friend, Tequila, last night. She rolled over, and Christmas pressed his nose to her cheek, urging her to get up and feed him. She blinked a few times and realized they were no longer in the media room, but on her bed. She couldn’t remember coming upstairs. In fact, she couldn’t remember much past—Oh no! Grayson.
She bolted upright, sending a rush of blood throbbing behind her eyes. Groaning again—and immediately regretting it—she closed her eyes and reached beneath the covers, praying she wasn’t naked. Whew. Her eyes flew open with relief. She still had on her sweats and tank.
Oh no. My sweats? The ice-cream, chocolate, tequila-stained sweats? Images from the night before snuck into her mind: Grayson looking like sin and pleasure all wrapped up in more than six feet of deliciously rugged man. His eyes filling with amusement as he plucked candy from her hair, and a minute later, brimming with heat. The kind of heat that made her feel sexy and feminine. She closed her eyes again, hoping she hadn’t acted on those feelings.
She remembered telling him about Bert, and on the heels of that memory was the recollection of being in his arms and his soothing voice and reassuring words making her feel a little less lonely. If only I could remember if he made me feel less lonely in other ways, too. She’d never actually had drunken sex, but she’d been so wrapped up in Grayson’s emails soothing her for all these months, who knew what she would do when her brain was drenched in tequila and grief.
Christmas shoved his nose into her thigh, jerking her from her thoughts.
“Sorry. I know you’re hungry.”
Forcing herself to her feet, she waited for the pounding behind her eyes to settle, then padded down to the kitchen to get Tylenol and coffee and to feed Christmas. While Christmas ate, she meandered through the house looking for signs of drunken debauchery.
The li
ving room cushions hadn’t been moved, and the hardwood floors were free of naked butt prints. Whew! At least we didn’t christen this room. Only about fifteen more to go. She looked up at the high ceilings and sent a little thank-you to the powers that be. She hadn’t expected to come to Wellfleet to grieve for the most important person in her life. She’d planned on returning to LA after she finished filming, spending a week or two with Bert, and then coming to Wellfleet to see…
Oh no. She’d been so upset over Bert, she’d forgotten she’d sent Grayson an email a few weeks back asking him to return to Wellfleet and make a railing for the house. She wanted a prettier railing, that much was true, but she’d really looked forward to spending time with him to see if what she’d felt for him all these months had been real and whether there might be something more between them. After last night, she might as well kiss those thoughts goodbye.
She made her way down to the media room, searching for clues about last night. The pit of her stomach went hot at the thought of having sex with the gorgeous, confident man who wrote lovely emails—and saw her looking like a mess, heard her rambling, and wiped her tears. What a mess. She was never a mess. Ever. She was organized, on top of her lines, and she rarely took time off from acting, going from one film to the next with just enough time to prepare. Acting was a good distraction from the life she wasn’t living. People in her circles were more interested in what she brought to the table or what being seen with her could do for their careers, making friends and relationships transient at best. But while she had acting and hiding in her whirlwind life down pat, she had no experience with grief. She’d been only a year old when she’d lost her mother. Bert’s unexpected demise had thrown her completely off-balance, and poor Grayson had witnessed it.
She touched her cheek, remembering the feel of his rough thumb as he brushed away her tears. The intimate gesture had taken her by surprise. But it was the memory of the caring look in his eyes that had her frozen in place now, standing just a few feet from the media room. Had he really looked at her like that, or was the alcohol skewing her memory? What was worse than thinking she’d seen a caring look in his eyes, was suddenly remembering wanting desperately to kiss him. What if she had kissed him but couldn’t remember it? What if she’d tried to do more and he’d had to fight her off? Or worse. What if he didn’t fight her off?
No more tequila. Ever.
Christmas bounded down the stairs and nudged the back of her knee, sending her stumbling into the media room. Her eyes widened at the spotless room. She blinked a few times, wondering if she’d dreamed up the whole night. Maybe Grayson hadn’t even been there. She took in the pristine hardwood floors and leather couches, the clean wooden bar where the nearly empty tequila bottle sat square in the center. Nope. She hadn’t made up that part. She remembered the towels Grayson had used to clean the coffee table and looked for them behind the bar. No dirty towels. She must really be losing her mind.
My suitcase! Her heart slammed against her ribs. She definitely remembered her clothes and candy strewn around the room. Shootshootshoot. She tore upstairs to her bedroom and found her suitcase sitting on the armchair by the windows. She opened it, hoping and praying he hadn’t—Oh no. He’d folded her clothes. She tipped open the hamper, melting a little when she saw two soiled bar towels. But that moment of reveling in his thoughtfulness was shattered when she realized there was only one reason a man would ever go to so much trouble.
She must have slept with him.
She didn’t know what upset her more, the embarrassment of having probably attacked him, or not remembering one single second of it. That thought made her want to crawl back into the tequila bottle and get on the next flight out of town.
How could she ever face him again?
She couldn’t. There was no how involved.
Chastising herself for being so reckless, and for being too drunk to remember what was probably the best sex she’d ever have in her entire life, she showered, dried her hair, and began the process of becoming Parker Collins.
Foundation, blush, eyeliner, lipstick—sigh—fake eyelashes. She hated fake eyelashes. So what if hers were too blond? Couldn’t she just go back to being Polly Collins for a little while? Her agent had chosen Parker as her Hollywood name. It wasn’t like she tried to hide her true identity, but the world knew her as Parker Collins, and she had never publicly talked about being Polly. Polly had become her reference to living a normal life. Not that her life had been normal before. But being Polly meant living life as a non-celebrity. How many times had she told Bert she wanted to go back to being Polly? When she was sick of the paparazzi, or had cramps, or was too exhausted to care if she went to the grocery store looking good enough for anyone other than herself.
Bert’s voice sailed into her mind. The world adores Parker Collins, and that makes it possible for you to give back to the children of the world. Polly’s the strength and courage that drives you, but she has the power to undermine Parker in the eyes of your fans. Polly is yours forever, but she can never be theirs.
Swallowing past the lump in her throat, she put on the stupid eyelashes and grabbed her keys. Time to buck up and visit Bert’s jerky brother.
GRAYSON WALKED ALONG Parker’s side yard carrying the new designs for her railing he’d drawn up late last night, trying to get his thoughts together before knocking on her door. He’d told himself he needed to catch up with the beautiful, leggy blonde to try to nail down the final design for the railing. But while that might be true, it wasn’t what had kept him up all night wishing he could reverse time and rewrite the last ten months. If he could, he would darn well make sure he knew about Bert well before he passed away, and that she had no family, and a great dog, and all the other personal things she’d probably kept hidden. And he would have been with her immediately after she’d lost Bert so she didn’t have to deal with that loss alone.
She’d put up a tough front last night, even with the tears she’d shed. Grayson had suffered grief, and he knew how it could knock a person to their knees. She’d fallen asleep with her head on his shoulder while they were talking, or rather, while she mumbled and he tried to follow along. Little of what she’d said made sense, but then again, not much of what he’d felt since then had made sense either. He tried to convince himself it wasn’t his place to try to be there for her, especially knowing he might have misinterpreted their dealings for nearly a year. Besides, shouldn’t she have an entourage of people caring for her? But she didn’t, and Grayson had never been good at being dissuaded from something he wanted. And regardless of whether it made him a fool or not, he wanted to be there for Parker.
Christmas bounded around the corner of the house, favoring his right paw, and woofed with delight at the sight of Grayson.
Grayson knelt to love him up. “Hey there, buddy.”
The dog licked his cheek. Then the big lug buried his snout in Grayson’s crotch.
“Nice to see you again, too.” Grayson redirected the dog’s nose. “Where’s your mama?”
Christmas plopped down on his butt by Grayson’s feet, giving him a chance to inspect the dog’s giant paw. He picked a piece of what looked like taffy from between the pads, and the dog licked his cheek again.
“Christmas!”
At the sound of Parker’s voice, Grayson and Christmas looked toward the front yard. Parker came around the corner of the house and stopped cold at the sight of Grayson. He preferred the dog’s eager reaction.
Christmas, obviously used to seeing Parker looking like a million sexy bucks, woofed and sprinted over to her. Grayson wasn’t quite as quick to collect himself. He rose to his feet, mouth dry, trying not to gawk as he took in her high heels and long, tanned legs, which disappeared beneath a pair of expensive-looking navy shorts. She wore a demure white blouse, and her long blond hair lay sexily over one shoulder. The whole ensemble was topped off with a floppy white sun hat and enormous sunglasses.
“Hi,” he said, having trouble reconciling this priml
y put together actress with the dressed-down, grieving woman he’d been with last night.
She shifted her large designer bag to the crook of her arm and nervously petted Christmas. “I…I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“I probably should have called.” I was worried about you. “I thought we could take a few minutes to go over the design ideas for the railing.”
Her eyes darted nervously to the water, the house, the dog, everywhere but at him. “I…I can’t. I have to…um…go into Brewster.” She turned and hurried toward the front of the house.
Grayson fell into step behind her, admiring the view of her perfect rear end and mulling over the brush-off she was clearly giving him. Assuming she was pissed at last night’s unannounced intrusion, he said, “I’m sorry about barging in last night.”
“I’m sorry about last night,” she said with her back to him as she let Christmas in the house.
“You have nothing to be sorry about. I didn’t realize you were in town. Otherwise I wouldn’t have used my key.”
She didn’t respond. He’d obviously been mistaken last night when he’d thought the heat between them was more than just drunken lust. He should give her the designs to review and leave. But he couldn’t shake the feeling that behind those sunglasses she was hurting, and if what she’d said last night was true, she was suffering alone. Plus, she’d said something about meeting a jerk today, and that wasn’t sitting well with him.
“Parker, about last night…”
She clicked the remote to the garage, revealing a shiny silver Lexus. He hadn’t thought to check the garage last night. The house had been pitch-dark when he’d arrived to recheck the measurements for the railing, and then he’d heard a noise downstairs and he’d thought someone had broken in.
This no-eye-contact thing she had going on was beginning to annoy him. He’d gone ten months without eye contact, which had made the design process more difficult. But he’d resisted the urge to ask her to Skype or FaceTime, because he had a feeling if they did, all those emotions he was feeling would come tumbling out. He’d proven he sucked at reading her without eye contact, and he wasn’t about to take a chance of being wrong about anything else where Parker was concerned. Without a word, he lifted the sunglasses from her face.