The Wedding Band

by Cara Connelly

  She half-­turned in her seat to study him. “This is new. What’s going on?”

  He shrugged. As much as he hated to give Christy credit for anything, she’d gotten him thinking about vet school, and he couldn’t stop. In fact, it was the only thing he had enthusiasm for anymore.

  Em poked him. “Out with it.”

  He wasn’t quite ready to announce a career change. “I’m taking some time off.”

  She goggled at him. “But you’re a workaholic.”

  He shrugged again.

  “Okay.” Em could roll with the punches. “You’re burnt out. You’ve had a shock to your system, and you’re reevaluating. I get it. But, Kota, October isn’t the best time for big decisions.”

  “It’s got nothing to do with October. Or Christy.” He threw open the car door. “Don’t piss me off, Em. I’m not a fucking idiot.”

  She sprinted around from her side to block his march toward the house. “Maybe not.” She used her voice of reason. “But you can be impulsive. If you blurt this out in there”—­she waved at the house—­“it’ll be all over town by dinnertime. You’re committed to three films. ­People will pull out. The studios will lose millions—­”

  He took her slender shoulders. “Chill.” And he moved her gently aside.

  Peter met him at the door, a beanpole with shaggy blond hair and slate blue eyes. They’d been together since Kota’s breakout role; Peter was agent, friend, and trusted advisor, all in one. And he would shit a brick when Kota broke the news.

  Peter made the intros. “Kota, this is Nancy Rhodes.” She’d be the senior VP, sent by the company to seal the deal. “And this is her assistant, Ashley Ames.” She’d be the hot chick, expected to employ her wiles if he balked.

  Kota knew his part. He complimented Nancy’s suit, eyewalked Ashley, and generally played the mega–movie star graciously deigning to mix with mere mortals.

  It wasn’t his favorite role, but it was expected. As Peter liked to say, a sprinkling of stardust turned millions into more millions, since corporate types got endless mileage out of telling friends and colleagues how they’d lunched with Hollywood royalty.

  Peter herded everyone poolside, where a table for five was set out under a green awning. A waiter brought Kota a microbrew. Em asked for Chardonnay. It was early in the day for her to have a drink. He raised an eyebrow at her. She scratched her cheek with her middle finger.

  Small talk ensued, continuing as the caterer served an “informal” three-­course lunch.

  Em was usually a pisser at these kinds of events, dropping inside jokes for his benefit that slid under everyone else’s radar. But today she was quiet, which made the hour feel like two.

  She did rouse herself to run interference when Nancy tried to pin him down over dessert. And when Ashley sidled up to him over coffee, Em faked an incoming call that required his immediate presence elsewhere.

  All in all, it was tiresome, and probably a waste of time, because over steamed mussels in garlic butter, his fuzzy notions about quitting had solidified into a concrete plan for the future.

  It was the boring lunch and the prospect of thirty more years of boring lunches that convinced him.

  Seeing Christy on the sidewalk had nothing to do with it.

  Peter walked him to the door. “Well played,” he said quietly. “They’ll throw another million into the pot now. I’ll hammer out the details and call you later.”

  Kota hesitated. He was Peter’s biggest client. The commissions on Kota’s deals had paid for this house and put Peter’s daughter through Stanford. He’d earned every penny.

  Now Kota owed him honesty more than anything else. “Things have changed,” he said. “I’m not ready to sign.”

  Peter blinked, a strong show of emotion for him. Stepping outside, he pulled the door closed behind him. “What’s wrong? Is it your folks? Are they okay?”

  “Everyone’s fine.” Kota couldn’t drop the safe on Peter’s head while they stood on the stoop. So he hedged. “Three years is too long. See what they’ll offer for one.”

  Peter was no dummy. He looked at Em, who pokered up, then back at Kota. “You’ve been on edge since the wedding. What’s going on?”

  “Call me later and we’ll talk. But for now, one year, okay?”

  “It’s your call. But they might back out of the whole deal.”

  “I know. And I know you put a lot of work into it.” Kota clasped Peter’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. But one year’s all I’ll give it.”

  Peter nodded, slowly, his eyes sharpening as his brain went to work on recalibrating the deal. “I’ll call. We’ll talk.”

  In the car, Em blasted Kota. Gone was the voice of reason. “You are not allowed to make this decision in October. You’ve lost your mind. You’ll be sued out the ass by three major studios. They’ll take your house, your cars . . .”

  He tuned her out.

  She punched his arm. “Quit ignoring me. And why are you going this way?”

  “I’m taking the scenic route.” Lookout Mountain Avenue. He hadn’t been tempted before, but now that he’d seen Christy again, something inside him had shifted.

  “She looked sick,” he said, more to himself than to Em.

  “Oh Jesus, you’re looking for her house.” She bounced her head off the headrest. “What are you, sixteen?”

  “I’m just wondering what the wages of sin buy you these days.” He spotted the stone lion. “That’s it on the right.”

  “Shit. Someone’s in the driveway.” Em slid down in her seat.

  He kept his face pointed forward, raking the house with the side of his eye. “It’s not her.” The skinny blonde had nothing on Christy. “Must be her roommate.”

  “Who probably knows the whole story. And right now she’s telling Christy you’re stalking her.”

  RAY STEPPED IN front of CSI. “Guess who just drove by in his shiny black Porsche pretending not to case the joint.”

  Chris’s pulse shot from zero to sixty.

  She throttled it back. “His agent lives on Willow Glen. He was probably visiting him.”

  “Nobody takes Lookout to get from Willow Glen to Beverly Hills. He drove by here on purpose.”

  Chris gave up on CSI. She wasn’t following the story line anyway. How could she, when the street-­corner scene played an endless loop in her mind?

  God, he’d looked good. Maybe a little pale, but she might be projecting. Otherwise, as gorgeous as ever.

  Seeing him unexpectedly had swamped her with memories. His precious face in her hands. His hot body in her arms.

  Thank God he’d worn shades today. One look into his eyes and she’d have fallen to her knees.

  Ray stomped her foot. “Don’t you care that he’s stalking you?”

  “He isn’t stalking me,” Chris said definitively. Unless it was to kill her, but even he wouldn’t go that far. Probably.

  “I bet he wants you back. I bet he thinks you’ll jump at the chance.”

  Chris dropped her head in her hands. Why, oh why, had she told Ray the whole sordid tale?

  Because she’d been desperate to talk about it, that’s why, and who else could she tell? Her handful of real friends were back east, consumed with husbands and play dates. Ray wasn’t ideal, but she was handy.

  “Trust me, Ray. Kota might want me dead, but he doesn’t want me back.” Tossing the remote on the coffee table, she hoisted her ass off the couch and marched for the stairs. “Do me a favor,” she called over her shoulder, “and quit scripting a happy ending, okay? Because it’s not gonna happen.”

  It’s not gonna happen. The words attached themselves to the street-­corner loop like a sound track.

  It’s not gonna happen. She stripped down and dragged herself into the shower. It’s not gonna happen. She leaned a shoulder against the wall and slid down to the c
old tile floor. It’s not gonna happen.

  Tears dripped from her chin. She wept like a lost child.

  And once more, she recycled the recriminations. Why had she agreed to the assignment? Why had she gone to the island? Why, oh why, had she put off confessing to Kota until it was too late?

  The answer stared her in the face: She’d done each of those things because at every fork in the road, she’d taken the path of least resistance. Guilt might have gotten her into this mess in the first place, but once she was in it, rather than face the consequences of her actions, she’d taken the easy way out at every turn.

  It was the story of her life. For years she’d done what Zach or Emma wanted her to do because it had been easier than choosing her own path and making her own way. Easier to blame them for controlling her life than to take control of it herself.

  She loved them, and there was nothing wrong with wanting them to be proud of her. But how could they respect her—­how could she respect herself—­if she didn’t figure out what she wanted, and then do the work to get it?

  That’s why she’d failed with Kota. Even after she realized she wanted him, even after she had him, she didn’t do the work to keep him. Instead of sucking it up and telling him the truth, she postponed it again and again, hoping for an easy way out.

  Now she was at it again. Holing up in the house. Cowering in the shower like a kid hiding in the closet during a thunderstorm instead of dealing with the shambles she’d made of her life.

  She’d truly hit bottom. Her mother couldn’t help her. Neither could her friends. Even her unflappable father was mildly annoyed that she’d used him to further her nefarious ends.

  There was no easy way out. It was sit on the floor dripping snot on her chest for the next fifty years, or get up off her ample ass, make amends, and figure out what to do with the rest of her life.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  SISSY BROUGHT HER swimsuit. “This weather.” She fanned herself. “I figured we’d be better off running lines in the pool.”

  Em made a face, but Kota waded right in. It was hardly a hardship. Sissy got her start as Miss November. She could rock a bikini.

  Being obstinate, Em parked herself at a table in the shade and went to work on her laptop.

  Sissy pouted pillowy lips. “Can’t you send her to Malibu or something?”

  Kota played dumb. “What’s in Malibu?”

  Sissy tossed golden curls. “Just get rid of her so we can . . . you know.” She jiggled her eyebrows, and more.

  All that jiggling persuaded him. “Hey, Em, take the afternoon off.”

  She curled her lip and stuck like a tick.

  He climbed out of the pool and dripped his way to her table, leaning on it with both hands. “You’re chaperoning me now?”

  “She’s a short step up from a porn star.”

  “When did you turn into a prude?”

  “You used to have standards.”

  “When?”

  “Since you hit thirty-­five.”

  “Maybe I’m regressing.”

  “No, you’re in denial. That’s different.” She tipped her head at Sissy. “Send the bimbo home. We need to talk.”

  He stood up straight and curled a lip of his own. “I haven’t gotten laid in two weeks. The last thing I want to do is talk. And the thing about Sissy is, I don’t think she’s looking for conversation.”

  He reached over and closed her laptop. “Skedaddle, Em.”

  She left scowling.

  Which left him alone in the pool with Sissy.

  He waded into the shallow end and leaned back against the side, stretching his arms along the edge.

  She breaststroked toward him, a slender raft floating on jumbo pontoons. Green eyes made emerald by contacts raked his chest. “I’ve heard about you, Kota. Girls talk, you know.”

  “Is that so?” His lids lowered to half mast, his sexy squint. “What did you hear?”

  She stood up, the water chest deep on her five-­foot frame. Her breasts bobbed like buoys.

  With one fingertip she traced a line from his throat to his waistband. “I heard you’re a stallion.” She tucked her finger inside. “I wanna go for a ride.”

  He’d heard worse come-­ons. He’d delivered a few himself. But maybe Em was right, maybe he’d raised his standards, because Sissy, with her centerfold tits and blow-­me lips and Barbie-­blond hair, wasn’t getting a rise out of him. Not even a twitch.

  As she’d quickly discover if she gave his waistband a tug.

  He couldn’t let that happen. His reputation was at stake.

  He needed a boner, and fast.

  Catching her questing hand in one of his, he reached behind her neck with the other and tugged the string that tied up her halter. Out popped her double Ds, the nail-­hard nipples pierced with solid gold rings.

  As if it was scripted, she cupped one, offering it up. He made himself take the ring in his lips. He flicked it with his tongue, and she threw back her head like a . . . well, like a porn star.

  His dick shriveled to pinky-­sized.

  “Kota,” Tony called from the doorway. “Your ma’s on the phone.”

  Thank God.

  Kota spit out the ring, leaped out of the pool, and had the phone in his hand before Sissy could do more than gape. Throwing her an apologetic wave, he darted inside.

  “Hi, Ma. How you doing?”

  “I’m fine, your father’s fine, everything’s fine.” She blew past the small talk. “I just got the nicest phone call from Christy.”

  “What?” He exploded out of the chair he’d sunk into. “Did you hang up on her? I can’t believe she’s harassing you. I’ll call the cops, get a restraining order—­”

  “Kota.” Her shut-­up-­and-­listen-­to-­me tone. “It was a nice call, and I was very happy to talk to her.”

  “About what? Was she pumping you for information? I hope you didn’t tell her anything—­”

  Verna cut into his rant. “She called to apologize to Roy and me for misrepresenting herself.”

  He bit his tongue to keep from calling bullshit at the top of his lungs.

  “She explained the situation. Mind you, she wasn’t making excuses. She only wanted us to understand that she was under some pressure from the higher-­ups at the newspaper, and she made some bad choices—­”

  “Bad choices?” He couldn’t hold back. “Ma, she snuck into Tana’s wedding, planning to spread it all over the paper. She lied to everybody, including her father. Including you. And if that wasn’t bad enough, she snuck into my house, taking notes for her story—­”

  “Hold it right there. Don’t stretch the truth, young man. I have it on good authority that you lured her to the house.”

  Damn Em’s big mouth.

  “I also know,” she went on, “that Christy’s computer had no notes of any kind on it.”

  “She was taking mental notes,” he said stubbornly. “And she hitched a ride to the island to keep spying.”

  “Invited herself, did she?”

  He set his jaw. “If I knew who she was, I wouldn’t have asked her.”

  “But you did, and I very much doubt your motives were pure, my boy.” Verna was taking no prisoners. “Can you tell me you didn’t plan to take advantage of her?”

  Heat rolled over his skin. His face burned like fire. “At least I didn’t hide my intentions. She knew what was what, which was more than I knew. I thought she was interested in me, not Tana.”

  “I’m sure that stung.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He forked a hand through his hair. “I don’t like being made a fool of.”

  “So she took advantage of you? She used her time on the island to insinuate herself with your brother and Sasha?”

  He paced the room. “Not really.”

 
“She pumped you for information about them?”

  “No.” She’d never asked one question about them.

  “You’re telling me she relinquished a golden opportunity to dig up information on the bride and groom?”

  “I guess.” He stopped at the window. Outside, Cy belly flopped into the pool and doggie-­paddled toward Sissy, who fled up the steps, aghast.

  “And what about your life?” Ma was relentless. “Did she pry into your secrets? Press for juicy details?”

  “Not exactly.” He’d volunteered everything. “But she pretended to care. About the animals. About me.” Humiliation made him squirm. “She . . . she said she loved me. And I thought I loved her. So I told her stuff. Stuff I don’t usually talk about.”

  Ma softened. “And when you did that, dear boy, what did she do?”

  “She . . . ” She listened. She wept. She told him where she lived.

  And then she called her boss and quit her job so she wouldn’t have to betray him.

  He rested his forehead on the window. “What do you want from me, Ma?”

  She laughed lightly. “I only wanted to tell you I got a nice call from Christy. The rest, my boy, is up to you.”

  LEGS SHAVED, BROWS tweezed, clean hair curling over her shoulders, Chris shimmied into a flirty-­skirted sundress boldly splattered with fuchsia and black flowers.

  The mirror said it flattered her bottom-­heavy shape. She decided to agree with it.

  When she walked into the kitchen, Ray’s eyes bugged.

  “Be nice,” Chris said. “It’s a fragile illusion.”

  “It’s working.” Ray pouted. “I want your legs and your ass.”

  “The ass you can have. I’ve got twice as much as I need.” She found her keys on the counter where she’d tossed them two weeks ago.

  Ray perked up. “Where to?”

  “The Apple store.”

  “Boooor-­ing.”

  “I need a new laptop.”

  “You should make him give yours back.”

  And wouldn’t that be a fun phone call? “Not worth it. Everything was in the cloud anyway.”

  “He’s a dick.”