Holding Her Close

by Lexi Ryan

  “Absolutely not.” I point to my phone. “You saw that, didn’t you? He delivered dead flowers to my brother’s house trying to get to me. I’m not going to put his children in danger by going back there.”

  “He sent flowers here too,” he says. “Live ones to be delivered to this room with a note with your name. She loves me, they say. They just never made it past the front desk.”

  A sharp chill, like a shard of ice, scrapes up my spine. “I thought no one knew I was here.”

  “No one but Tom?”

  I flinch—not because I believe for a second that Tom has anything to do with this, but because of the venom in Cade’s voice. As if I’m responsible for this on some level. “You think Tom sent those flowers? Broke into my apartment? Kidnapped Courtney? Seriously?”

  “I’m just stating the facts. He knew where you were staying, and so did the person who sent the flowers.” His face softens a little. “I don’t know if Tom’s behind this. I only know it would be easier to keep you safe at home.”

  There’s that word again. Home. “I’m staying in LA.”

  “Can you at least be honest and admit why you’re staying here?” He takes a step toward me, then seems to reconsider and stops, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Tom wants you back.”

  “So he says.” I lift one shoulder in a shrug.

  “You’re going to stay in LA,” he says. “You’re going to sit and wait for him to divorce his wife so he can break your heart all over again.”

  Something inside me snaps, and I stride across the room to stand in front of him until we’re inches apart. Craning my neck, I stare up at him and harden with every passing second. “You think you know me? Because, what, you lived in LA once? Because Cara Fray’s a selfish bitch who broke your heart? And now you think you can sit there and play judge and jury to my life and my decisions?” I poke him in the chest. “Well, you don’t. You don’t know shit about me or my life or my mistakes. I already apologized for getting you involved in this, and I didn’t ask you to come here. That was your choice. Staying was your choice. I’ve never asked anything of you, so you can just leave now.”

  I don’t know what I expect—for him to grab his bag and head out the door, for another lecture about Tom or my decision to stay in LA—but it isn’t this. I don’t expect his lips to crush against mine or his hands to tunnel into my hair. I don’t expect a kiss that is more teeth than tongue or for him to yank my body hard against his and hold me so tight I might actually believe he’s afraid of losing me.

  The moment my brain seems to register all of this, he releases me. He’s breathing hard, and there’s something in his eyes I want to believe is torment.

  “I know it was my choice,” he says softly. “And it was the right one.” His thumb skims over my bottom lip and his eyes follow it. “Take your shower. We’ll talk after.”

  * * *

  Cade

  “Well, fuck,” Gormong says. He folds his arms and stares at the bouquet of daisies in Patterson’s office. Patterson just left, giving us the room so we could discuss the case freely. “Is it a threat? Healthy and happy is LA, and the dead flowers are in New Hope? Is he trying to say something bad is going to happen to her if she goes back there?”

  “Wouldn’t he want her to think that? What better way to keep her here?” I exhale slowly. “Fuck if I know, but I hate the idea of her staying in this fucking town.”

  “We’ve got officers interviewing people at the flower shop now, and we’re working with New Hope PD to interview the florist there. How often do people buy bouquets of daisies? Someone will remember something about this guy.”

  Something tells me our perp didn’t show his face that foolishly, but I don’t say so. “You need to call in Tom Comer. Question him about this.”

  Gormong is shorter than I am, but he manages to give the impression of looking down his nose. “Pardon me?”

  I set my jaw. “These were delivered to the front desk, and the guy gave our room number. Nobody but Tom knew where we were.”

  “I knew. Davis knew. Patterson knew.”

  “That’s different.”

  Gormong shakes his head. “You want me to question an acclaimed actor for stalking a woman who clearly wants him back?”

  Those words are a punch in the gut, and I have to set my jaw against the blow. “I do. Don’t treat me like some irrational civilian. He’s the most likely suspect here.”

  Gormong’s face softens. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a dick, but you have to look at this from my perspective. You’re asking me to believe that the guy who happens to be the biggest threat to your relationship is also a suspect in this case? Tom Comer? A psycho. A stalker. A rapist.”

  I flinch. “I know how it sounds, but this isn’t about jealousy.”

  “The fuck it isn’t. Cade, you hate the man. It’s all over your face when his name comes up.”

  “I hate him,” I say. I’d gladly shout it from the rooftops. “But that’s not what this is about.”

  “Really? You’re going to tell me you don’t hate him because of what he did to Janelle. You don’t hate what he means to her?”

  “I don’t like him, but this is simple logic. The person who sent these flowers knew what room we were in. Tom knew what room we were in.”

  “And Tom kissed your girl.”

  “She’s not my girl,” I grumble.

  Gormong lifts a brow. “Say what now?”

  “She isn’t mine.” I sigh. Gormong needs to know the truth. “Our relationship is a convenient cover-up for her mistake with Tom. She was up against a morality clause in a contract and at risk of losing a role. There is absolutely nothing between us.” The last part feels like a lie, but I don’t take it back. I shouldn’t have kissed her, but I loved the way she stood up to me. I loved that she lifted her chin and told me, in so many words, to fuck off.

  “Well, you could have fooled me.” His eyes wrinkle in the corners as he studies me. “Pardon me for saying so, but a fake relationship to fool the media? That doesn’t sound like you.”

  I have to agree with that. Letting jealousy fuck up an investigation doesn’t sound like me either, but my gut tells me Gormong might be right about that. “Faking a relationship gave me an excuse for me to stay close while this investigation plays out.”

  His face goes sad as he studies me. “This is about Cara. When are you going to forgive yourself for that?”

  I ignore his question along with the pity in his eyes and circle back to the subject at hand. “I’m not claiming to be objective, but if Tom wasn’t a celebrity, you’d have him in there in an instant.”

  “I’ll speak with him,” Gormong says reluctantly. “But we’re talking about a suspect who has hacked into surveillance systems and broken into a high-security condo. I don’t think it’s out of the realm of possibility to think he might have been able to find your hotel room.” Gormong’s phone rings and he holds up a finger, indicating for me to wait as he takes the call. “Yeah? . . . When? . . . Fuck. No. Send someone over there. I’ll be back soon. Okay. Thanks.”

  I arch a brow as he hangs up. “So?”

  “Jo and Courtney each got a bouquet of daisies this morning as well.”

  “Dead or alive?” I ask.

  “Both. Each woman received one of each.” Gormong exhales heavily and snaps his phone back into the clip at his belt. “I need to get going. Are you still planning to head back home today?”

  “She won’t go. After the flowers were delivered to her brother’s house, she’s too worried that going back there will put her family in danger.”

  Gormong tilts his head and studies me. “What are you going to do?”

  “I’m staying.” It’s not a question for me. I can’t go back to New Hope while she’s here.

  “You’re staying in LA with your fake girlfriend? Don’t you have to get back for work? Your real life?”

  I sigh heavily. “I made arrangements for some time off. I can’t leave her.”
/>   I can practically hear him mentally questioning how “fake” my relationship with Janelle really is, but he’s smart enough not to do it out loud. “You have a place to stay?”

  “I’m working on it. I’ll let you know.”

  When Gormong leaves, I head back to the room. Janelle is out of the shower and dressed in the same clothes she wore the morning I arrived. The hotel laundry services must have brought them back to the room, and I feel like a world-class dick for not thinking about getting her some clothes and basic necessities the day I picked her up from the station. Asshole ex-husband: 1, Asshole fake boyfriend: 0.

  “I’m done in there,” she says, motioning to the bathroom. “If you need it.”

  Her hair hangs in wet locks down her back, and I have to fight the urge to comb my fingers through it, to hold it in my fist as I lower my mouth to hers again. I still can’t believe I kissed her earlier. I thought my injured pride would prove useful for something, but nothing can help me resist the irresistible.

  But fuck, I can’t stop thinking about what she said to me the morning after our first night together. I all but accused her of being an adulteress and she said, “He was my husband first.” Those words have haunted me through every second of our time together here. “He was my husband first.” That sentence was proof to me that I needed to stay away from her. It was as if she believed she had some right to him because she’d been his wife before Bella, and I told myself she was all the worst things that come out of Hollywood. It was what I needed to believe. But my reaction to those words was more than that. There was also such a great sense of loss in them that I knew just how much he still had a hold on her. Or I should have known. But apparently, I let myself forget.

  “What did you tell Tom this morning?” I ask.

  “What?”

  “He came here because he wants you back. What did you tell him when I left?”

  “I . . .” She tilts her head, studying me. “Why do you care? Because if you’re still trying to convince me that he’s the one who sent those flowers—”

  “I just want an answer, princess. It’s not so hard.”

  She swallows, her pink tongue darting out to wet her lips. “I told him we could talk once his divorce was final.”

  “You’re going to go back to him.” It’s not a question. It’s me trying to come to terms with a reality I never should have forgotten. She didn’t deceive me like Cara did. She told me up front. “He was my husband first.” I shouldn’t care. But I do.

  “I didn’t say that.” She rubs her arms, as if this conversation is making her cold. “I told him he needed to make a decision about his marriage independent of what happens between us.” She stands and walks over to the kitchenette to make herself a cup of coffee.

  “Are you still in love with him?”

  She freezes, one hand on the coffee pot, and turns back to me, pain all over her face. “Does it matter?”

  “Yes.” I take a step forward and then stop myself. I can’t go to her. Even if her answer is no, I have to put an end to what we started last night, and what I foolishly continued by kissing her this morning. Being with her muddles my thoughts, and if I’m going to protect her I need to be on my A-game.

  “He was my husband,” she says. “I did love him. Maybe part of me still does. But it’s not the same.”

  “Because he’s married?”

  She studies me for a long time before abandoning the coffee pot and turning to fully face me. “Because when someone hurts you, they change you.”

  “But you didn’t tell him no? You didn’t refuse his request to have you back.”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?”

  “No and not right now aren’t the same thing.”

  She tears her gaze from mine. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”

  I want to know why she didn’t tell him to fuck off. I want to know why she didn’t slam the door in his face and tell him there wasn’t a chance of reconciliation. I want to understand why she would even consider letting him hurt her again. But I don’t say any of that because I’ve already pried more than I have the right to. So I say, “I want you to go back to New Hope with me.”

  “I can’t. And I’ve already made arrangements with Nate to use his house here. He’s almost never there, but Jamaal’s still on retainer and will help with security.” Wincing, she motions to the door. “But don’t let me slow you down. Go catch your plane or whatever.”

  “I’m not going back without you.”

  “Cade . . .” She blows out a long breath. “Listen, I appreciate that you want to protect me. Though I may not understand it completely, I do appreciate it. But I’m a grown woman, and I get to make my own decisions. Today, my decision is to stay as far away from my family as possible. I don’t expect you to understand that, but it’s what I have to do.”

  “I do understand,” I say. I fist my hands at my side to fight the instinct to go to her, to touch her. “I still think we’re being manipulated, that this guy wants you to stay in LA and sent those flowers to Nate and Hanna’s for that reason, but I do understand why you don’t want to be close to them while you wait this out.”

  “You do?”

  I nod and shove my hands into my pockets. “I would do the same thing.”

  “Oh.”

  “You still need a pretend boyfriend, right? To keep your part in the film? I’ll stay with you at your brother’s, get Davis to help with security, and we’ll take it one day at a time.”

  “You’re staying with me? As my boyfriend?” The confusion on her face threatens to tear my gut in two, reminding me again what a mistake it was to kiss her.

  I swallow hard. “This isn’t about sex or what happened between us last night. In fact, last night was—”

  “Please don’t call it a mistake.”

  My stomach pitches. She says she doesn’t understand what I want from her, but I have to say that goes both ways. She just admitted that she’s considering going back to her ex-husband, and yet she stands there and tells me not to call last night a mistake.

  “If you call it a mistake,” she says, lifting her eyes to meet mine, “it will make me feel like trash.”

  I shove my hands deeper in my pockets, fighting an internal war between not hurting her and not leading her to believe our relationship is anything more than an arrangement. But the vulnerability in her eyes begs me for the truth, and I hear myself say the words before I can decide if I should. “Touching you was only a mistake because it makes not touching you that much harder.”

  Chapter 12

  Janelle

  It seems like there are a thousand loose ends to tie up before we can leave the hotel, and the sun hovers low on the horizon as we ride to my brother’s Hollywood home.

  Davis drives, and Cade and I sit in the backseat along with our new constant companions, Tension and Awkward Silence. Only, this is Cade, so I can’t decide if this companion is Sexual Tension or her asshole doppelgänger, Angry Tension.

  Cade’s hands grip his knees, and his gaze is fixed on some point beyond his window. He offered to make arrangements with Officer Gormong so I could get back into my condo and get some clothes, but I told him that wouldn’t be necessary. I lived at Nate’s house for a while after my divorce, and when I bought my condo, I left more in my room at Nate’s than I took with me.

  When Davis pulls past security and into the circle drive, I’m filled with the bittersweet emotions I’ve come to associate with this monstrosity. This is Nate’s house now, but before that it was my father’s. He left it to Nate when he died, and my brother and I have filled it with good memories—laughter, friends, the memories of his epic fall into love with Hanna. Before that, it was a symbol of the life our father chose over us—the new wife, the new children, and the career that was forever and always prioritized over his “old” life.

  “Are you okay?” Cade asks, and I realize I’m still just staring and Davis has turned off the car.

  “Yeah.” I for
ce a smile. “I’m great.”

  “Are you sure about that? You’re looking at that place like it’s haunted and you’re terrified of ghosts.”

  That’s not so far from the truth. “This was my father’s house. He left it to Nate when he died.”

  “You lost your father?” He draws in a ragged breath. “I’m sorry. I had no idea. But I guess I should have. Your father was . . .” He pauses, as if searching his memory for the name. “Dritts Crane, right? The producer?”

  “That’s right.” I stare at the front door as if he might appear there. We didn’t visit often, but when we did, we always left feeling like his two greatest disappointments. He’d stand in that doorway, watching the car as his driver took us back to Mom’s. Son-of-a-bitch rarely bothered to drive us himself. “Don’t apologize,” I tell Cade. “My father was an asshole. Our relationship was so screwed up, I’m not even sure I have the right to grieve.”

  Cade settles his hand on my thigh, and I distract myself from my thoughts by memorizing the way the heat seeps through the denim of my jeans, how small I feel under his touch. “Sure you do. You have every right to your grief. And if your relationship with him was troubled, you need it that much more.”

  When I lift my eyes to his, I see a sadness there that can only be explained by a common understanding. Cade’s so strong—so solid and steadfast—it’s easy to forget that he’s a man who bleeds like any other, who’s been hurt like any other. At least I hope that’s easy to forget, because if I could, maybe, just maybe, I could resist him.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs, his gaze dropping to my lips. He grazes a thumb over the bottom one. It seems like his favorite spot, as if it’s the one part of me he allows himself to touch.

  “Look at you like what?”

  “Like you want me to kiss you.”

  My tongue darts out to wet the spot he just touched and catches the corner of his thumb. “Why not?”

  “Because, princess.” He pulls his hand away and puts on that bodyguard face I’ve come to hate. “When I kiss your mouth, I like it. Then I remember how much I like kissing you in other places.”