by Lizzie Shane
She cringed at the memory. “I loved my art classes. I didn’t want to have to fill my schedule with things I didn’t care about. I was ready to defy my parents and declare as an art major. I planned to figure out some way to pay my tuition myself, because I knew I was meant to be an artist. On some fundamental level, I knew that was who I was. But there were all kinds of forms to fill out and I didn’t have the chance to declare before fall semester, so I wasn’t technically eligible for some of the major-only art classes. I couldn’t fit the Painting for Non-Majors class that I’d taken freshman year into my schedule again, so I registered for one of Billy’s just-for-majors advanced painting courses.” She was looking at Cross, but no longer seeing him, seeing only that studio, the easels in rows. “It was the first week of classes and I hadn’t realized how tight my schedule was. I had to run from one side of campus to the other to get to my painting class on time and by the time I got there it was already starting so I grabbed a space and set up. I had all my materials. I was so ready. So excited to be there with the real artists. Not just the dabblers from the non-major class. These were my people. I felt like it was happening, I was finally becoming the person I was meant to be.” Stupid, stupid girl.
“But then when class was breaking up, Billy asked me to come see him in his office.” She shook her head at the memory. At her incredible naiveté. “I thought he was going to advise me to declare as an art major. Maybe offer to be my advisor.”
She’d been so incredibly wrong.
Not everyone has what it takes. You can’t just decide to be an artist.
“Did he do something?” Cross asked, his expression dark—and she was so deep in the story it took her a moment to realize what he meant. The professor inviting the young student to his office. She hadn’t even thought of that.
Bree shook her head. “He told me I was presumptuous,” she said, the words low.
“What?” Cross frowned, visibly confused.
“He said I’d disrespected him by assuming I could join the class without his prior permission.” She shook her head ruefully. “Billy always said everyone was an artist—that we all had it inside us—but that was in the non-major class. He didn’t really mean it. He was angry at me for presuming to think I could be a painter. I would hold the real artists back, he told me. I didn’t have the training. I didn’t have the technique. I didn’t belong.” She grimaced, quoting, “‘You can’t just decide to be an artist. That isn’t how this works, Bree. Not everyone has it.’”
“Ouch.”
She laughed without humor. “Yeah. I was destroyed.” God, it had killed her. She’d been so sure and then the rug had been yanked out from under her. “It was embarrassing—sitting there in his office and I couldn’t stop crying. I told him I couldn’t fit the non-major class into my schedule and he suggested photography.” She would never forget it. The patronizing tone. The consolation prize. “Anyone can take a picture. That’s what he said. And I’d never felt so worthless in my life. But I did take the photography class. And I was good at it. But nothing felt the same.”
School. Her dreams. She’d been broken. Feeling like she would never be good enough.
“It wasn’t just that I didn’t want to paint anymore. I didn’t want to be there. It felt like the soul had gone right out of me—so when an art dealer I met online said I should come out to LA for a show because my photos showed real talent, I jumped at it. And when he turned out to be a scam artist who just wanted to sleep with me and steal my rights and claim my work as his own, it kind of felt like a fitting end to the whole saga. Except I loved LA. I loved Venice. I met some artists selling their work on the beach and they were everything I wanted to be. They were doing it. It felt right. So I stayed. And my friends told me I was good, that I shouldn’t give up, that I should keep learning—but from life not from classes, because art professors were sanctimonious assholes who were just bitter because they hadn’t been able to make it as artists themselves. At least that’s what they said. And that’s what I did. I stayed and I learned and I worked. But now…”
“Now?” he prompted.
She looked at him and for the first time since she’d started her story she saw him again—and the reality of this moment in her life sank in. “What if I never make it? What if I really don’t have what it takes to have a career as an artist? Did I just waste the last ten years of my life?”
“No.” His denial came without hesitation. “You were chasing a dream. That’s never wasted.”
“Even if you fail?”
“Especially if you fail.” He sounded so certain.
She eyed him skeptically. “Especially? How’s that work?”
“You had to keep going without the validation of success. That takes a ton of bravery.”
“Or stupidity.”
“Bravery,” he insisted. “I’m serious. I couldn’t do it.”
“Fail? I believe that.”
“Try,” he said. “Let myself do something I’m not one hundred percent positive I can master. I don’t do anything unless I know I can be the best—which means sometimes I watch opportunities pass me by.” He grimaced. “There’s a job opening at my company. A junior partner position. More administrative, less time in the field—Candy put my name in for it. The bodyguard who’s with Maggie? She thinks I can do it.”
“And you don’t?”
“No. I do. I think I’d be great at it, but I don’t…I don’t try for things I’m not sure of and there are too many reasons my boss would pick someone else. I don’t know how to fail.”
She snorted. “You should take a page out of my book. I’m amazing at it. Years of practice.”
“You can’t be an artist without putting yourself out there, though.”
“I thought athletes had to overcome all sorts of adversity and tryouts and stuff.”
“Yeah, but I felt like I could control all that. If I trained the hardest, if I made sure I was the best, there was never any risk. The only failure I felt like I couldn’t control was my divorce.”
Divorce. She didn’t know why she was so shocked—maybe because she’d been making out with him and that felt like a pretty big thing not to know about someone who’d had his hands on your ass. He’d said he was married to his work—and never mentioned that he used to be married to someone else.
“You were married?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
He hadn’t realized he hadn’t told her. It felt like Bree knew everything there was to know about him now, but from the shocked expression on her face, he’d failed to mention his ex.
“It was over a long time ago,” he explained. “Pretty much as soon as it became apparent I wasn’t going to make a triumphant comeback to the NFL. We got engaged right before I got drafted and divorced as soon as I could no longer provide her with the football wife life she wanted.”
“Ouch.”
He shrugged. “We’re both better off. I’m better at being single. Though my coworkers and their wives seem to find that hard to believe. There’s been a marriage epidemic at Elite Protection in the last few years and now they’ve all become matchmakers.”
She made a face. “As if we have to be paired off to be complete. My best friend is exactly the same way. She just got married and the happy hormones have clouded her brain and she can’t seem to stop insisting that I need to date more.”
“Exactly,” he agreed. “I’m perfectly happy on my own. And I’m sure as hell happier than I was when I was married.”
“You don’t think you’ll ever do it again?”
“Honestly?” He shook his head. “I doubt it. I don’t think I’m wired that way. I mean, I love women, don’t get me wrong, and I’m not a player. I’m not just looking to get laid, but that forever love bullshit—I haven’t seen a lot of examples of that working out.” He cocked his head. “What about you? Why don’t you like to date?”
At any other time it might have been a strange thing to ask, but the last few minutes seemed to have brok
en down all the rules around what was and wasn’t safe to say.
“I don’t know.” Bree shrugged. “I guess I always felt like I was waiting to be successful first.” She bit her lip, twisting a loose thread on the ottoman. “Every time I go on a date and the guy asks what I do and I say I’m an artist and then they ask what I really do for a living since I couldn’t possibly be making a living that way…I guess I just wanted to be able to say this is who I really am, that it was my only job—and once I could say that then the right person would magically appear. Like once I’d made it as an artist I would be worthy or something. Which I know is silly, but that’s why I don’t date.”
“You are an artist, you know. Even if you aren’t making a living yet.”
She rolled her eyes. “Says the man who’s never seen my work.”
“I see you. I see the way you see the world.”
*
Bree blinked, startled.
It was a strangely erotic statement. That he saw her. And he saw the artist in her. She shivered in spite of herself and looked away from the man seated across from her, forcing her gaze away from the arm porn he was displaying with his forearms braced on his knees. He was too dangerous. Too sexy by half and there he was telling her the one thing she’d always wanted to hear. She couldn’t let herself get swept away by the words.
“We’ll see,” she said to the wall. “When this is over, if I haven’t screwed up again and I actually come away with the money, I’ll have bought myself a couple years to try to make it. After that…”
“You had no way of knowing Kaydee would take that picture,” he argued, defending her, and she looked back at him. “I didn’t know and it’s my job to be aware of my surroundings.”
“We still shouldn’t have done it.” Even if she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret it.
“True,” he agreed. “But we’re still doing what we were sent here to do. Creating a distraction. We definitely have the attention of the press now.”
She snorted. “That we do.”
They’d been getting reports all day from the hotel’s security desk. About photographers being caught on the property and did Maggie want the hotel to press trespassing charges on her behalf? It was surreal.
“I kind of thought she was overreacting,” Bree admitted. “When Maggie first talked to me about using me as a wedding decoy. I thought the entire plan sounded like something out of a movie with a particularly thin plot, but now I can see why she wanted me here. I can’t imagine the kind of scrutiny she lives with every day—millions of people obsessing over who she’s kissing and why.”
“It’s a crazy world,” Cross agreed.
“Do you think they’ll make it?” Bree asked. “Maggie and Demarco? I mean, they barely know each other and they can’t hide out forever. Once they come back, their lives are going to be under constant examination. It would be one thing if she were marrying someone who wasn’t famous in his own right, but Demarco Whitten?”
Cross shrugged. “I can see the appeal.”
“Athletes stick together?”
He shook his head. “He’s probably the first person she’s met in a decade whom she was sure wasn’t using her.”
Bree blinked. She hadn’t thought of it that way. All she’d seen was the emotion. The impetuous, emotional, I-always-get-what-I-want-when-I-want-it actress marrying a man she’d only known for a few weeks. She’d dismissed Maggie’s perspective.
“When you’re as famous as Maggie Tate—and as rich,” Cross added, “it can feel like everyone in your life wants something from you. That they’re only there because they want to use you to get what they need. My wife was like that. She was good at hiding it, but she tied herself to me because she liked me well enough and thought I had a chance to make it to the pros. I liked her because she wasn’t from Iowa and she didn’t know who my father was, but she knew my stats better than I did. We met in college, but she majored in being supportive of my career. She conditioned me to think of her as the one who had stuck by me in college when my schedule was ridiculous, so I would be the asshole if I didn’t stick by her when things started going well. Of course I didn’t see any of that until the door was hitting her ass on the way out of our marriage.”
“She used you.”
“Oh yeah. And I knew it on some level the entire time, even if it wasn’t obvious until the end. Like this hum, you know? Always in the background? And Maggie has that too. Probably louder than mine since she’s a much bigger star. Even when she’s dating other famous actors, that’s no guarantee they don’t want to use her to raise their capital. But with Demarco—he’s already a multi-millionaire in his own right, so he’s not after her money. His contracts aren’t based on popularity—at least not solely on popularity. His stats matter the most. Being with Maggie might get him an extra endorsement deal or two, but the bulk of his life is something she can’t help with—other than to cheer him from the sidelines. She knows he isn’t using her. Not the way most people do. So yeah, I’m not surprised she fell for him so fast. That’s intoxicating shit.”
“You really think they’ll make it?” Bree asked softly. She’d never been the type to believe in fairy tales, but she wanted that for Maggie, wanted the starlet to find someone who made her feel like she was valuable, just for herself.
Cross shrugged. “Who can say? I’m not really the love-conquers-all type,” he said, echoing her thoughts, “but after all we’re doing to give them a clean start, I hope they work.”
She met his eyes and a moment of understanding passed between them, seeming to stretch and tighten in the air around them. His brown eyes were so soft beneath their fringe of blond lashes.
The door opened and Bree jumped in guilty reflex as Mel’s head popped through the opening, followed by her entire body when she saw them. “There you are.”
She looked back and forth between them, as if puzzled to find them in the same place—though maybe she was more puzzled that they weren’t sitting closer to one another after the make-out session that had been caught on candid camera the other night.
“What’s going on? Anything I need to know about?”
Bree blushed as Cross shook his head. “Just talking. What’s up?”
Mel’s face brightened. “I have an idea.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Mel’s idea, it turned out, was a romantic evening for Maggie and Cross. Candlelit dinner on the patio. A moonlight walk along the private beach, hand-in-hand, gazing sappily at one another.
Apparently the early reaction to the Cross kiss and the breakup statement was…less than favorable toward Maggie.
Which Mel volubly cursed herself for not predicting when they’d agreed on the damage control plan yesterday. The “DeMaggie” fans had been vicious in the wake of the press release, labeling her a cheater and a whore, and Mel wanted to shift the narrative. Maggie was in love. This was emotional, not sexual—or at least not entirely sexual. And Demarco had broken up with her before anything happened with Cross.
Mel was still working out how to make that last part public in a subtle way—and working up a script for Bree’s next conversation with Kaydee—but holding hands on a moonlit beach was supposed to help with the rest of it.
Mel had insisted on full Maggie hair and make-up—which involved nearly two hours and four different applications before it met with Mel’s approval. It was, apparently, vitally important that she glow. Mel repeatedly encouraged her to be glowing with happiness. Bliss, if she could manage it.
So as Bree slipped her hand into Cross’s for the moonlit walk portion of the performance, she tried to do her best to project bliss…and to hide her discomfort.
They weren’t just playing at being lovers anymore. They were playing at love. And her stomach churned nervously at the thought. She’d never actually been in love before, but after their afternoon in the media room everything already felt different. More intimate somehow. As if knowing him better made all of this more real. And that was dangerous t
hinking.
Especially when he squeezed her hand and she looked up, getting lost in his eyes, and needed to remind herself this was an act.
“You know those reality dating shows?” she blurted. “The Bachelor and Marrying Mister Perfect and Shot at Love and all those?”
Cross’s brows arched. “I haven’t seen them, if that’s what you’re asking, but I know they exist. My boss’s sister went on Marrying Mister Perfect and we did security for one of their dream wedding special things.”
“One of my old roommates used to be obsessed with those shows—” She froze. Shit. She was supposed to be careful about what she said. Had Maggie had roommates? Before she hit it big in Hollywood? Oh well. She’d already put her foot in it now and it would only make it look suspicious if she backpedaled, so she pressed on. “Anyway, all of these shows have these dream dates. Elaborate set ups with candlelight and champagne and string quartets. Formulaic just-add-water-for-romance dates—and every time someone faced the camera and talked about how romantic it was, I wanted to scoff because it felt so forced. So fake.”
And here they were, walking barefoot on a beach in the moonlight, holding hands and trying to convince the cameras they couldn’t see that this was romantic. Just add water.
“They’ve been doing those shows for years,” Cross murmured. “You’d think they would have figured out that romance isn’t about where you are or what you’re doing.” He glanced down at her. “It’s about the person you’re with.”
Her heart thudded hard at the words. They came to the edge of the water and he stopped, turning to face her at the edge of the waves. Then he slid his hands into her hair, cupping her head and she gazed up at him, helpless to look away even if she had wanted to as his eyes grew heavy-lidded and his lips lowered slowly to hers.
The kiss was sweet. Delicate. Lazy and delicious, with none of the balcony’s heat and frantic rush. His mouth moved slowly over hers, as if they had nothing but time—and she grew more and more uneasy the longer the slow, sensual kiss lasted. Fast and frantic was easy. It was safe. It was getting swept away and losing your head. This…this was something else and she wasn’t braced for it.