by Lila Monroe
The car slows, coming close enough for me to see who’s behind the wheel. Suddenly, I might just take my chance on the snakes.
Wes.
I can’t hold back a groan, barely managing not to stomp my foot on the pavement. “You,” is all I say.
“Me,” he agrees cheerfully, then nods at the bike. “What happened to your ride?”
“Air pocket,” I say immediately.
“Ah.” Wes nods. “Gotta watch out for those; they’ll get you every time.” He gestures toward the back of the SUV. “Throw it in the trunk. I’ll drive you back.”
I shake my head like an instinct. “That’s OK,” I tell him. “I can walk.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. Which, right now, I probably am. “Seriously?”
“I’m fine,” I insist.
“I’m sure you are,” Wes says, in a voice that pretty effectively communicates how utterly ridiculous I’m being, “but it’s like three miles. And I don’t know if you noticed this, but it’s getting dark.”
His exasperated tone just makes me double down. “I love nighttime walks.”
Wes snorts. “Suit yourself,” he says, smirking, like he doesn’t buy my act for a minute. “I’ll see you back there.”
“OK.” I gulp.
“Here I go,” he says, gunning the engine.
“Have a great night.” I fold my arms and start walking.
“I will.”
He pauses then, like he’s giving me one last chance to change my mind, but I keep a bland, even smile plastered resolutely on my face.
He’s just putting the car in drive when I hear a rustling coming from behind us. My head whips around. What’s out there?
Dammit.
“Wait!” I call. Wes stops again. He looks at me expectantly. “Are there snakes around here?” I ask, swallowing hard.
Wes considers that for a moment. “I wouldn’t worry as much about the snakes as I would about the wild coyotes,” he says pleasantly.
Wild coyotes?
I sigh in defeat. “Pop the trunk,” I tell him.
Wes grins. “Say please.”
I glare, and he laughs out loud. “Your chariot awaits.”
I pile in, and we ride back to the house in silence, just the sound of the breeze rushing through the open window and the quiet croon of the radio turned down low. I can’t keep myself from stealing quick curious glances at him out of the corner of my eye, taking in the line of his jaw in the light of the dashboard, his long eyelashes and rumpled hair.
This would be a whole lot easier if he wasn’t so damn attractive. But then, something about him has always been catnip to me, right from when we first met. You know how some people just smell delicious, and it’s the most natural thing in the world to wrap them up in your arms? That was Wes to me, and dammit if my body doesn’t still remember how good it felt.
Chemistry, I remind myself. Nothing but pheromones and molecular reactions.
Still, those reactions haven’t faded, not one bit. I can feel the heat radiating off his body. I can smell him, soapy and warm. It feels like the air in the car is getting thicker and thicker, until eventually there’s not enough oxygen to breathe properly. It’s all I can do not to reach over and grab him.
Three miles, he said? More like three hundred. But finally we reach the turnoff for the ranch. Wes keys in the code and pulls down the long winding driveway, pulling up outside the guesthouse.
He turns the engine off, and then we’re just sitting there, side by side in the dark.
I swallow hard, wiping my sweaty hands on my thighs. “Well,” I say brightly, trying to sound like someone who hasn’t been drooling all this time. “Thanks for the ride.”
Wes nods. “No problem,” he says casually. “Have a good night.”
I turn to go, put a hand on the door . . . and then stop. Something makes me turn back to look at him. “So,” I blurt, the sound of my own voice surprising me, “are we just never going to talk about the fact that you ghosted me like a total asshole?”
Welp. So much for being chill and over it.
I’m expecting him to laugh it off or make some pathetic excuse, but Wes is quiet for a moment. “No,” he says at last, “we should definitely talk about the fact that I ghosted you like a total asshole. And honestly, I’ve been trying to figure out a way to bring it up since I saw you back in New York.”
I frown, surprised. “You have?”
Wes gives me a regretful smile. At least, it looks that way in the glow of the security lights. “I could say that I was young and stupid and didn’t think it through, and all of those things would be true, but . . . None them are an excuse.” He sighs. “I acted like a total dick, and I’m really, really sorry.”
I blink. It’s the apology I’ve been waiting five years to hear. It should feel like a victory, but that knot in my chest isn’t going anywhere.
“For what it’s worth, you definitely got the last laugh,” Wes adds in a rueful voice.
“How do you figure?”
“I mean, look at you, Katie,” he says, no hesitation at all. “You’re doing amazing for yourself. You’ve got this awesome career, this great life. And you’re more gorgeous than ever, obviously.” His smile turns bashful. “I should have reached out and apologized to you sooner, and that’s on me. But I figured you wouldn’t want to hear it.”
“You figured wrong,” I tell him tightly. “If only so that I could have stopped wondering what I did wrong. Why I meant so little to you, you couldn’t even tell me goodbye.”
“It wasn’t like that,” Wes says immediately. His expression turns pained. “I was a dumb kid. You didn’t do anything wrong. I should never have ended things that way.”
I’m quiet for a moment as I gaze at him, close enough to touch after all this time. The truth is, I don’t know what to say. He certainly sounds sincere. More than sincere, he sounds . . . full of regret? It doesn’t compute.
What is managing to get through to me, though? How good he looks in the moonlight. How natural it feels to be sitting here in the dark beside him.
And how badly I want to kiss him right now.
Danger, Breakup Artist.
My sense of self-preservation finally kicks in. Because the longer I sit in the dark with him, the easier it is to remember just why I fell for this guy in the first place. “I should go,” I blurt, shoving the passenger side door open with such force that I nearly go sprawling to the ground for the second time today. “Uh, see you around.”
“Right now?” Wes asks, looking disappointed. “I was thinking maybe we could go rustle up some dinner. Catch up for real.”
Catch up. Sure, all the way to the bedroom. Or the couch. Or the kitchen counter—
I shake my head quickly. “Can’t,” I tell him, wracking my brain for an excuse. “I’ve, um, gotta be up early for sunrise yoga with Brooke. I make it a policy not to eat for twelve hours before.”
Wes looks amused. “Really?”
“Oh yeah,” I tell him, knowing full well how ridiculous I sound. “You should try it. Really helps clear the head!” I scramble out of the car and slam the door behind me, then realize my jacket is stuck and nearly tear the thing in half trying to rip it free. “Goodnight!” I holler behind me, then take off across the property in the direction of my guesthouse.
“Katie?” Wes calls after me, like I’ve forgotten something.
But this time I don’t look back.
8
Wes
I’m sprawled on a lounge chair in the sunshine, watching as Katie swims a lazy, elegant lap across the ranch’s enormous pool. She reaches the edge, taking her time climbing the steps . . . her full, pink lips slightly parted . . . water dripping from her hair, collecting in beads along the curves of her perfect breasts inside a bright red bikini.
“What are you looking at?” she asks, following it up with a flirtatious, megawatt smile to let me know she’s only kidding. Then, as if to demonstrate, she reaches back behind her and
tugs loose the knot keeping the swimsuit up. I stop breathing altogether as the flimsy crimson fabric flutters to the pool deck, revealing a pair of full, round, incredible—
BEEP BEEP BEEP
Fuuuuck! I groan out loud as the dream dissolves and the loud wail of my alarm comes crashing in, instead.
So close, and yet, so far . . .
The alarm on my phone keeps blaring, so I fumble around on the nightstand until I can find the damn thing, set it to silent, and hurl it across the room. It’s still dark outside the window of the guesthouse, and I drag myself up with a groan, wondering whose idiotic idea it was to wake up at such a gruesome hour.
Oh, yeah.
It was mine.
Putting in a surprise appearance at Katie’s early-morning yoga class felt like a great plan last night, but as I haul myself out of bed and shuffle off to the bathroom to brush my teeth, I can’t help rethink this genius idea. What kind of dummy wakes up in the middle of the night just to try to get some face time with an ex who’s been pretty clear that getting dumped by him was the best thing that ever happened to her?
Then I think of the way Katie looked at me in that dream.
Coffee. I’m going to need lots of coffee.
Besides, I remind myself as I pull on a pair of basketball shorts and a T-shirt, it’s not just in my dreams that something is going on between Katie and me. We definitely had a Moment in the car last night: an invisible current lighting up between us, a light switch flickering back on after all these years.
Before she basically dove into the bushes to get away from me, that is.
Still, something makes me want to chase that feeling. Even if it leads up to the top of some godforsaken hill to sunrise yoga.
I grab a travel mug full of extra-strong coffee and head for my Jeep, driving out to the scenic hilltop where Brooke told me her friend runs her class. She looked at me a little funny last night when I told her I was thinking of going, and as I roll my borrowed mat out at the back of the group, I see why: I’m the only dude here except for one other guy who’s dressed entirely in neon green spandex, his shorts so tight you can see the entire outline of his twig and berries. His man bun bounces proudly at the top of his head.
I scan the rest of the crowd, until finally I spy Katie unrolling her mat near the middle of the pack. She looks gorgeous despite the early hour, wearing a deep blue tank top and a pair of cropped yoga pants that cling deliciously to her every curve. Her hair is braided into a long rope down her back and before I can stop myself, I imagine wrapping it around my hand as we kiss.
She stretches for a moment, dropping into what I think is called a downward dog pose before catching sight of me through the V of her own spread legs and straightening up so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t get dizzy. She whirls around to face me, her eyes wide.
“Are you following me?” she demands, sounding significantly less charmed than she did in my dream.
“What?” I shake my head and hold my palms out, all innocence. “Not at all.”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Getting limber.”
Katie shoots me a look. “Seriously?”
I shrug. “When in Ojai,” I say with a grin. “I’m going to follow this little session up with an acai bowl and a little wheatgrass, if you’d care to join me.”
“I’ll pass,” Katie says flatly. She looks like she’s about to say something else when the instructor—a wispy looking twenty-something with purple hair and a tank top that reads Namaslay, Bitches—hits play on a portable boom box, the sound of bells and gongs filling the air.
“Are you ready to greet the dawn with purpose and intention?” she asks, beaming at us.
I guess?
The class gets started with some warm-up stretches, and then we’re into it. Whatever “it” is. I’ve never done yoga before in my life, aside from some particularly ambitious sex. I try to pay attention—standing on one leg and pretending I’m an oak tree, waving my arms this way and that—but the truth is, I’ve got a perfect view of Katie’s ass in her Lululemons from this angle, and it’s hard to concentrate on anything else.
Not that I’m staring. That would be creepy. She just happens to be directly in my eyeline, that’s all.
“Good!” the instructor trills. “Now really reach up. Feel the energy of the sun radiating through you!”
I reach obediently, but the only thing I feel is hungry for some breakfast. Up ahead of me, Katie wobbles and nearly falls flat on her face. I hear a snort of laughter, and when she maneuvers back into position, I can see, she’s trying not to crack up.
I smile, too.
It’s been a trip, spending time with her again after all these years. Some things are the same as they ever were—her smile, and, OK, that truly spectacular ass—but in a lot of ways she’s a completely different woman than I remember. The way she argues with me, her eyes flashing, her cheeks flushed with irritation . . . She’s gained a new confidence and a wicked sense of humor, a kind of straightforward, no-nonsense bullshit-detector that I’d be lying if I said I didn’t find irresistible. Back when we were dating, I felt like I was always chasing shadows, fighting to get to know her, and I couldn’t get over the sneaking suspicion that no matter how hard I tried to peel back her layers, she was always just telling me what she thought I wanted to hear. Even in bed, stripped completely naked, she never quite took her armor off.
In the end, I figured, we just weren’t a good match. But now . . . ?
Now I wonder if she’s been this person all along, and I was just too dumb and impatient to see it.
Because if so, then I lost out. Big-time.
The sun creeps up over the horizon just as class is ending, filling the wide swath of California sky with brilliant Technicolor streaks of pink and blue and gold. It’s romantic as all hell, and I’m thinking I’ll pull Katie aside and ask her if she wants to grab breakfast al fresco. After all, there’s got to be at least one restaurant in this town that serves something other than chia seeds. But by the time I’ve got my mat rolled up—and sidestepped Man Bun, who spent the last hour twisting himself enthusiastically into a sweaty pretzel and frankly smells like it—Katie is gone. I just barely catch a glimpse of her dark hair as she hurries down the hill.
So much for breakfast, then.
I head back to the ranch, swallowing down a yawn as the sun climbs higher in the sky—I’m going to need another cup of coffee, stat. I’m pulling down the driveway and wondering if possibly there are any more of Brooke’s blueberry muffins lying around in the kitchen when my phone rings.
“Hey, Tripp,” I say, grimacing as I hit the button to answer. “What’s up?”
“My blood pressure,” he reports. I can hear him chomping Tums on the other end of the phone. “The movie’s tracking like garbage.”
The movie is garbage, I think and don’t say. “Well, it’s early yet, isn’t it? That could change.”
“Or not,” he says darkly. “We need to change the story here, and quick. How are things going with the lovebirds?”
“Ah, good,” I say slowly. “I think we’re really making progress.”
“Then why am I not seeing paparazzi photos of them canoodling?” he wonders crankily. “Frolicking in the surf in their altogethers? Chewing the same piece of gum, for God’s sake. Something.”
“Well,” I protest weakly, “to be fair, they are adults.”
Tripp snorts. “Hardly.”
“I’m doing my best out here, but if they do actually want to call it quits, it’s not like I can just handcuff them together.”
“Now there’s an idea,” he says. I think he’s kidding, but I’m not actually 100% sure.
“I need them together on that red carpet,” Tripp continues. “I need them holding hands, I need them kissing, I need to want to rip my own face off from how much they are in love, do you understand?”
I swallow hard. “I do,” I say, holding back a sigh. “You’re very clear.”
&nb
sp; “Good,” he says. “They tolerated each other once, right? All you’ve got to do is remind them of that.”
Tripp hangs up without the benefit of a goodbye, and I sit in the driver’s seat of the Jeep for a few moments. So now Katie’s the Breakup Artist and I’m . . . who? Cupid?
I ask myself, not for the first time, if this job is really worth it. When I left corporate law to come work for the studio, I loved the idea of being even a small part of bringing a movie to life. The idea that some ten-year-old kid would sit in a movie theater feeling the way I felt the first time I saw Jurassic Park or Indiana Jones, in part because of me . . .
I just never pictured myself trying to play matchmaker for a couple of twenty-something millionaires.
Sometimes I think about handing in my resignation, maybe opening up a practice of my own in a field where I could really make a difference.
Then I check my student loan balance from law school and think again.
I guess I better get that Cupid’s bow ready.
I head inside and find Ryder in the gym, where he’s watching himself in the mirror with great interest as he lifts a set of free weights. “Hey, dude,” he says when he sees me. “Need a spot?”
I shake my head. “Just got back from a workout, actually,” I tell him. “How’s it all going?”
Ryder sighs theatrically. “Selena spent two hours talking to Ed Sheeran at her event last night,” he says mournfully. “Ed Sheeran! Of all people! What does that ginger fuck have that I don’t have?”
“The voice of an angel?” I suggest before I can stop myself.
Ryder’s expression darkens. “I have the voice of an angel!”
“No, no, of course you do,” I amend quickly. “I really enjoyed that rap album you put out a couple of years ago.”
“Thank you,” he says primly. Then he sags. “I don’t know what I’m going to do, man. I thought if I just went along with this whole Breakup Artist thing, eventually she’d see how silly it was. But what if I really lost her this time?”