by RC Boldt
“Yes, Jedidiah.” Wide eyes meet mine, and she frantically tugs her dress up over her breasts with one hand, the other smoothing down the bottom portion. “Just…stubbed my toe.”
There’s a pause. “Do you need me to get anything for you? An ice pack?”
She ducks her chin, hair falling around her face in a curtain. “No, no. That’s quite all right, thank you.”
“Okay. Well, if you change your mind, just let us know.”
With her hair still hiding her face, she offers a muted, “Thank you.”
Heavy silence engulfs us, and I step back to lean against the opposite wall, giving her space.
This can easily go sideways. She might be trying to figure out how to let me down gently. Tell me she was caught up in the moment, in the excitement of her birthday. Tell me that she—
“Hey.” Voice husky, she peers up at me.
“Hey,” I echo softly.
With hesitation written on her features, she steps forward, expression guarded. Then she reaches out, dragging the pad of her thumb across my lower lip, her eyes tracking the movement before rising to meet mine.
Voice still hushed, she says, “Got you a little messy. Sorry about that.”
“Don’t be.” I lick my lips, and damn if her lingering taste doesn’t send another surge of arousal rocketing through me. “Not complainin’ one bit.”
That hesitation I noticed a moment ago ebbs from her expression. “Yeah?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Then it happens. A slow-forming smile spreads on her face. A real one. Except this is the kind that not even Matthias has managed to elicit.
This one’s all mine. It’s filled with intimacy and so much heat.
It’s enough to nearly bring me to my knees.
24
Simone
Look, I’m not a virgin, but I’m also not the heinous slut the press likes to make me out to be. I’ve literally been with four guys in my twenty-eight years.
The first was Will, the guy who sold me out to tabloids once I had my first hit song. He’d been paid a few grand for dishing the details of our breakup and his story of woe about how overshadowed he’d felt by my career and his distress over my alleged frigidness.
Second was Luke. After getting the news that my album had sold forty million copies, he got spooked because he couldn’t handle my success when his own album flopped.
Then Taylor bailed on me after I took home four American Music Awards. He’d been butthurt since the film showcasing his directorial debut didn’t make the cut for the Cannes Film Festival.
And, of course, there’s Jackson. Jackson Diaz was the worst of them all simply because not only had he not even tried to pretend to be happy for me when I’d been chosen to star in The Last Love Letter, but I also discovered he’d been cheating on me for a while. It’d been right under my damn nose with someone I’d actually considered a friend: Emily Harmon.
Then he’d spun the breakup story to the media, painting me as a villain and spouting off lies of how Emily had been there to comfort him when I’d abandoned him for my true love: my career. Of course, the press wholeheartedly gnashed their teeth into his melodramatic diatribe, and Jackson was once again thrust into the coveted spotlight, exactly the way he prefers.
No man I’ve ever been with, no man I’ve ever dated has been comfortable sharing the spotlight with me. With cheering me on, same as I would them. And I can understand it might be tough for a man to come to terms with his girlfriend or fiancée out-earning him financially, but one would think mindsets would—should—have shifted by now.
Sadly, this isn’t the case. At least when it comes to the men I’ve dated.
But something about Kane is different. And I get it, he’s working for me, so maybe I’m not the best judge. Even so, when paparazzi are snapping photos, he never angles his head to enable them to capture more than just his side profile. Nothing has been leaked to the press—aside from my own mother blabbing about how terrible of a daughter I am for turning her away—since he’s been here.
Maybe I’ve veered into the realm of delusions and bought into my own lyrics about love and passion. Either way, something deep within spurs me on. It urges me to take that leap with this intriguing man.
I reach for his hand, linking his fingers through mine, and give a tug in silent demand that he follows me down the short hallway. But when I reach the end, where I turn in the direction leading to my room instead of his, he resists.
My chest grows tight; the pressure of embarrassment making it difficult to breathe. I let my fingers go slack, eager to rush off and find safety behind the closed door of my room, but he won’t release his hold on me. Stopping, he tugs on my hand, steering my now stiff body toward him.
“Simone.” The gentleness in his tone nearly undoes me, but I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes. Instead, I find the third button on his shirt immensely fascinating.
“I can’t—won’t—sleep with you. Not like this.”
At his words, I’m unable to suppress the flinch and pray he doesn’t notice.
Of course, my prayer goes unheard. It becomes clear with his next words.
“Simone, please look at me.” He lets out a frustrated sound when I don’t move. “It’s not that I don’t want to.”
I finally work up the nerve to lift my eyes to his. “But?”
His gaze is searching, eyes more expressive than I’ve ever witnessed. “I don’t want you to do somethin’ you’ll regret.” He swallows hard. “I don’t want you to regret this.”
I hear what he’s not saying, and my heart aches for him. I don’t want you to regret me.
He won’t let this go any further tonight. I know that as surely as I know my mother will sell yet another shitty story to the tabloids. And, sure, my out-of-control hormones might be pissed as hell, but every other part is feeling dangerously swoony.
Kane brings his forehead to rest lightly against mine. “I don’t wanna be just a birthday…” He trails off as if unsure how to describe it.
I can’t resist snickering. “A special birthday kiss?”
A faint smile touches the edges of his lips. “Yeah.”
I think on this for a moment before I decide to forge on. “I don’t really want to call it a night just yet…”
His voice is a deep timbre, bewitching me with its sound. “What do you have in mind?”
“I’ve gotta be honest,” Kane murmurs. “This isn’t what I expected.”
I choke back a laugh. “It’s not?”
His eyes narrow, but they contrast the upward hitch of his lips. “You said you wanted to talk.”
I shrug and grin. “And then I got the brilliant idea to do this.”
Let it be known that former Green Berets are the ones to call when you get a wild hair up your butt and decide it’s completely necessary to build a blanket fort a few feet away from the row of windows in the living room area of your hotel suite. Resourceful would be a vast understatement.
“I haven’t done this in years,” I admit quietly.
“Same.” The slice of moonlight shining through the small opening of the blankets partially illuminates Kane’s face.
Music plays softly in the background, my mellow playlists including Coldplay and Dave Matthews Band. We lie inside the blanket fort, freshly showered and in our pajamas. It’s far more comfortable than I could have anticipated.
Tonight marks a lot of firsts for me. The first time I’ve truly felt comfortable enough to be myself with someone aside from my best friend. The first time in far too long that I’ve let my guard down in front of a man.
The first time a man has actually been willing and seemingly content to be with me and just talk.
“When I was little, I used to make blanket forts and pretend it was my own little world. A place where nothing bad ever happened. Where secrets were safe. Where you could be honest and apologize for things you did—for bad choices—and be forgiven.” My hushed voice carries a tinge of mela
ncholy in it as I recall those days.
“Wanna play a game?” I turn on my side, propping my head in my hand to peer at him.
“Sure.”
“Fact or fiction: I’m secretly pregnant with Matty’s love child.”
Kane shifts to mirror my position, and in the shaft of moonlight illuminating him, I can’t help but notice how the material of his well-worn T-shirt stretches over his bicep muscle.
Stop ogling him, I reprimand myself, tearing my eyes away hurriedly to meet his gaze. Once I do, my stomach gives a little flip at the presence of those tiny creases at the corners of his eyes. The knowing laugh lines are present even though his lips remain relaxed.
“Fiction.”
I let out a little laugh. “Point for you.”
Then sobering, something makes me grow braver. Or more reckless, perhaps. Because although this scares me—this intimacy between us—testing it with raw honesty seems like a necessity. Maybe because, right now, it feels too good to be true.
“Fact or fiction: I threw a party that got out of hand, and the drummer from The Stripes cheated on his girlfriend with me.”
An odd expression crosses his face as he studies me for a long moment. It drags on so long that I find myself holding my breath.
When he murmurs, “Fact,” I exhale with a wince.
“I was an asshole at that point. Early on. Young and stupid. I made out with him and didn’t give a thought to the repercussions.” Eyes averted, I trace an invisible design on the large blanket cushioning the floor of the fort. “It was a shitty time for me, but that’s never a valid excuse to hurt other people.”
I heave out a breath before lifting my gaze to his. “I apologized to Lilly, and she was far more gracious than I deserved.” A sad smile tugs at my lips. “She thanked me for showing her the real him.”
“It takes two to act on somethin’ like that,” he remarks quietly.
“Doesn’t make me any less guilty.” I clear my throat and get us back on track. “Fact or fiction: I wrote the song ‘North Star’ about one of my former boyfriends.”
His brow knits, and he appears to ponder this before answering. “Fact.”
“Fiction.” Everyone—both fans and the press—has assumed this, and I’ve never made it a point to deny it. It’s more romantic for them to believe it’s about someone I once loved.
“Really?”
I nod and lie on my back, staring up into the shadowed blanketed area. “I once overheard this older man at a café in Boston talking to his daughter. I couldn’t help but eavesdrop because their conversation was just…compelling and heartfelt. The daughter told him that she hoped someday he’d be able to move on from the grief and maybe even find another love like he had with her mom.
“He said, ‘Sweetheart, your mother was so much more than just the love of my life—she was my North Star. Always bright and beaming, always there to light the way, to guide me. Always there by my side. And now it’s gone. She’s gone. And I know that I can still find my way—I do. But it’s more difficult without her and so much darker.’”
Silence hangs between us as I recall the heartfelt emotion overflowing from the man’s words. When I finally speak, I can’t disguise the mix of sadness and yearning in my voice.
“It’s a pipe dream, I know, but if I could have that with someone, if I could find my North Star, if I could be someone’s North Star, I think that would be the most magical kind of love.”
With a little laugh, I duck my chin, embarrassed. “Sorry. Guess I got a little carried away.”
“Don’t be sorry.” The sound of Kane’s raspy voice seems to skitter against my skin in a sensual caress. “That’s the way it should be.”
There’s a brief pause before he whispers words that could be filler, could be just placating, but from him—from Kane Windham—I’m unable to regard them as anything less than heartfelt.
“I hope you find that, Simone. Hope you find someone who makes you their North Star.”
We don’t speak after that, and at some point, I fall asleep.
When I wake in the morning, I’m still beneath the fort, snuggled under one large blanket.
The spot beside me is empty, without a single trace of evidence that Kane had been there the night before. As if he’d been an apparition. As though everything that transpired between us had simply been a figment of my imagination.
Perhaps that’s the magic of birthdays.
25
Simone
LATER THAT MORNING
“Get ready! We’ve got to pick up your birthday present!”
I squint at Matty suspiciously. “But you already gave me my present.”
He grins. “That’s because I just found out about this late last night.”
“And you can’t tell me what we’re doing or where we’re going because?”
His toothy grin grows even wider. “Because it’d ruin the surprise.”
I heave out a sigh. “Fine.” With a nervous glance at the closed door to Kane’s room, I hitch the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder.
“Relax,” Matty says softly. “Already cleared this with the big guy.”
I narrow my eyes. “He knows about this?”
“Yep.” Matty’s gaze turns mischievous. “Speaking of the big guy, did you…you know?” He wiggles his eyebrows comically.
My expression remains deadpanned. “No. I don’t know.”
He does some hip gyrations and grunts a few times. “Oh, yeeaahhhh. Aww, yeah, ba-by!”
I just stare. “You are. So weird.”
Matty just continues, starting to slap his own ass. “Is this what happened?”
“No.”
“You sure?” More hip thrusts and overly dramatic grunts and moans. “No deep thrusts or moaning like that?”
A deep, masculine voice suddenly offers, “Might need to see a doctor for that.”
My head whips around in surprise to find Kane standing there watching us. Or rather, watching Matty act like an idiot.
Of course, my best friend doesn’t even bat an eye. His smug smile widens. “I was just asking Simone if she got birthday nookie.”
Kane’s lips remain in a flat line, expression blank, exuding that all-business mode. He ignores Matty and says to me, “We’re all set.”
I perk up and address Kane since I got nowhere with Matty. “All set to go where?” I ask casually.
It’s there and gone in the blink of an eye, but I swear I catch a glimpse of the edges of his mouth twitching the slightest bit. “Afraid that’s a surprise, ma’am.”
I scowl and narrow my eyes on him. Not only for refusing to clue me in, but also for that “ma’am.” I get it, I do. We’re back here, back to where we were before. Employer and employee. Returned to our respective sides.
It doesn’t mean a certain hollowness isn’t created in the center of my chest, however.
Matty slings an arm across my shoulders. “Come on. Let’s head out. Guarantee you’ll love me more after this.”
Matty’s right. I love him even more once the surprise is revealed to be a trip to a tucked-away bookstore which holds a signed copy of my favorite novel with a rare cover.
“Wow,” I breathe out on a sigh. I run my fingers over the worn brown leather hardcover, noting the embossed lettering for the author’s name. I trace my thumb along the large capital A in the center.
The Scarlet Letter.
It’s my favorite written work and not simply because it’s a classic in its own right. It’s a depiction of social stigmatizing. Of a woman judged so harshly. A story of redemption.
I’ve never mentioned it to Matty, but I’m certain he knows why it’s my favorite book. Because I feel an odd sort of kinship to Hester Prynne. She’s cast out in society, forced to wear a symbol representing her act of adultery, and subjected to scorn from her peers.
Don’t get me wrong, I never got myself knocked up by a preacher while married to another man, but the way the press has made me out to be s
omething I’m not and the way they sling nasty insults or post egregious commentary about me hold some loose parallels to Hester’s experiences.
“It’s beautiful.”
“You don’t have one like this, do ya?” Matty asks.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t.” Raising my eyes to meet his, I smile. “Thanks for this surprise.”
He slings an arm around my shoulders and tugs me in to drop a loud, smacking kiss to the top of my head. “Love you, Diva. Now, let’s pay for your book and get going.”
The shop owner, an older woman, has continued to dart worried glances between the front windows where a crowd has begun to gather, and Kane like he’s some rabid pit bull about to lunge in for the kill. After Matty pays her, she carefully places the book, already in a protective plastic covering, in a small bag.
Kane approaches us, speaking in a low tone. “A few people have caught wind of this. Just be aware. I’ll get you to the car as quickly as possible.”
Matty tosses a worried glance in my direction before telling Kane, “Appreciate it, man.”
I tug at my best friend’s sleeve as Kane leads us to the exit. “Thank you so much for this,” I say softly.
His eyes crinkle at the corners. “Anything for you, Sim.”
We draw to a stop at the door, and Matty pulls his ball cap on, tugging it low, and dons his dark sunglasses. My eyes meet Kane’s expectant ones. I nod, and when he opens the door, a flurry of flashes greets us as we quickly step to the car waiting at the curb.
Kane’s palm hovers at the base of my spine in a protective manner I’ve become accustomed to. His hand never quite makes full contact, merely poised there, but the comfort in the gesture is undeniable.
Jed and Vance are nearby, along with a few other members of our security team, barricading us from the crowd of fans already gathered. They call out my name, apparently dismissing the other men and not noticing Matty even though his disguise is at the bare minimum.