by Celeste, B.
After a book signing at a store twenty minutes from my little townhome, I come home to a wrapped package in my mailbox. When I pull it out with the rest of the bills and assorted mail, my lips part at what I’m seeing.
A rectangular package.
A silver bow.
Staring at the slightly torn blue wrapping paper, I brush the pad of my thumb across the hard item under it. Déjà vu hits me as I distractedly walk into my house.
Penny jumps on the couch where I sit down, nudging the gift that rests on my lap. Her purrs pull me away from the unknown just inches away. I rub between her ears and listen to her rumbles grow louder, finding myself smiling at the ball of fluffy love sniffing the mail.
The label on the back tells me what I already know, but my eyes don’t stray from the name regardless. I’ve received many things from California, but never from him. His name is the last thing I expect to cross while going through my private mail.
Penny paws the bow, tearing one of the sides with her claw. “No, Pen.” Part of me debates on giving in and letting her have it, but another remembers the few others identical to it that rest in a box in my office.
Swallowing past an emotion that I’ve been trying hard to avoid since boarding the plane at LAX airport, I begin tearing open the paper until something black with gold lettering is revealed underneath.
I blink down at the Girl Boss notebook with golden edges. My fingers run down the cover, tracing the small words in utter silence.
Penny yowls.
I notice something else in the package, trapped in the wrapping paper I tore. Pulling out a piece of paper, I study the two words written in familiar handwriting that covers hotel stationary.
Open it.
Hesitantly, I lift the notebook and peel open the cover. The soft crack of a new spine greets my ears. Eyes scanning the pages in front of me, I notice more of the same black handwritten words written on the inside of the cover.
A blank notebook for the start of something new, because our story isn’t over yet.
Fly with me, Little Bird.
~ Corbin
Blinking back tears as my eyes dance across the phone number he also provided below, I close the book and set it on the table with the other mail I’ve yet to pay attention to. Penny nudges my thigh as I sit in the silence and just look at the present. How did he even get my address? Questions swirl around my head, leaving my gaze blurry and my stomach twisting.
He signed it Corbin, not Ryker. There’s a significance to that. Like even though the character he portrays gets his happy ending, Corbin isn’t willing to settle. But he has to. Can’t he see that? Unless something changes, there won’t be anything more to the story he’s so determined I write a continuation to.
Just last week, pictures of Corbin and Lena surfaced in front of the bluest ocean I’ve never had the opportunity to see. The article had to mention the images of me and him at the drugstore, making light on how their marriage is strong despite the rumors. And as much as I wanted to throw my phone when I saw them plastered on my newsfeed, I know what a genuine smile from Corbin looks like. The one spread on his face in each picture taken by who knows is fake.
And I’m sick for being happy about it.
Brushing off the image of his arm around his wife’s bare waist in her tiny bikini, I stand and forget about what rests on the coffee table. If I were smart, I’d throw it away or stick it in the box with my other notebooks.
I’m not smart though.
Walking into the kitchen and digging through my stash of candy on the counter, I greedily rip open the package of Twizzlers and bite down onto one. As I make my way to the home office set up by my bedroom, my face scrunches at the sudden nausea sweeping through my system. Staring down at the strand of licorice that’s almost gone only makes it worse. Before I know what’s happening, I’m diving toward the white wastebasket positioned by my large desk.
The sweet smell of artificial sugar scattered on my laptop by my face causes me to lurch more into the bucket. My knees dig into the carpet as I kneel helplessly on the floor. The burn of my throat makes my eyes water as I come up for air, gagging over the horrid smell of vomit.
Penny stands by the door, tail twitching, watching me with a cocked head. When the sugary smell that I usually indulge in hits my nose again, I grab the candy and throw it into the hall far away from me. Offended, Penny darts into our room.
Resting my forehead against the edge of my desk for a moment, I force myself up and toward the bathroom attached to my bedroom. Cleaning out the waste basket, I set it on the floor and then splash cold water on my face. When I examine myself in the mirror, I’m greeted with flushed cheeks and red eyes.
Shaking my head, I rinse out my mouth and brush my teeth to get rid of the putrid taste that's lingering. When I grab a towel to dab my mouth, I notice something sticking out of the vanity cabinet below.
Mouth gaping, I shake my head to myself and begin counting back in my head. Penny’s demanding yowls are drowned out by the math I’m trying to do mentally. Panic courses through me as I plop down on the closed toilet seat and stare at the tile floor.
Choking on air, I whisper, “No.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Kinley / Present
My fingers tighten around the Celebrity Access magazine, crinkling the flimsy cardstock-like cover until the familiar image of America’s Most Desired Man is as flawed as the headline. It’s the signature side smirk teasing a narrow slit of perfectly white teeth and a deep dimple in the dark stubble patch of his cheek that makes everyone pick up the latest edition. The brazen silver eyes framed with dark lashes against clear olive skin is almost as deadly as the charming wink he shoots to the cameras.
Corbin Callum oozes the kind of sex appeal that could get him out of anything. It’s proven by the bolded white headline hanging over his unkempt black hair. Messy in a I-spend-an-hour-achieving-this-look kind of way. Gelled but not too gelled. Unruly but not too unruly. They portray him as anything but a cheater. A rumored cheater. An adulterer.
My free hand goes to my stomach, the feel of my cotton purple tunic soft beneath my touch. What’s not soft is the rounded skin underneath the layer of clothing. It’s new. Always changing. A reminder.
The headline doesn’t give away the feminine name now attached to his, but the article doesn’t shy away from using it eight times in the three-column exposé. A grainy picture of a chestnut-haired woman smiling too wide, standing too close, and angled too intimately saddles the accusation. They say a picture is worth a thousand words.
My hand twitches.
The picture they’re bound to get in just over seven more months will be worth even more.
Corbin Callum rumored to be involved with bestselling author on set of his latest movie. Pictures inside.
I close my eyes and absorb the heavier pitter-patter of droplets of rain outside the window of my master bedroom. My grip of the magazine loosens until it hits the carpeted floor with a soft thud. I do nothing about the bent pages despite the money I spent.
I remember it all—the way our lips sounded when they tasted each other’s. How our teeth clashed in desperation and our hands roamed with urgency. The ghost sting of pulled hair and rewarded groans linger in my awareness, branded with a scorching steal rod in the front of my mind. Gentle lips against a ticklish throat. Wandering fingertips against sensitive flesh.
He was there.
Everywhere.
Taking. Giving. Offering. Sacrificing.
Remember, Little Bird?
Remember what it felt like?
Exhaling shakily, I open my eyes and stare down at the ultimate plot twist in a story that’s taken nine years to develop. Nostrils twitching with oncoming emotion, I lick my chapped lips and let the metallic taste bring me back to reality.
“I remember,” I choke out, curling up on my side and cradling my barely-there stomach, all while wondering if the baby will have his eyes or mine.
My agent call
s.
I let it go to voicemail.
To be continued in Where the Little Birds Are…
Acknowledgments
Where the Little Birds Go was created from a Screenwriting course I took in grad school. The urge to write a Hollywood Romance was one I couldn’t ignore after proposing the story to my professor, so I opted to expand it from a screenplay to a full-length novel. Then I thought … why not two? Thus, the Little Birds duet was born.
I first want to shoutout my Momager, Micalea Smeltzer, for always supporting me and telling me what to do because I continue to forget how to adult. I love you, Kris.
To my betas Jessica, Alicia, Micalea, and Melissa, you ladies always help me better my books and I am so thankful to have you in my corner.
Thanks to my PA Jessica for running my groups so I could shut myself away and get this book written. You are a Godsend.
These gorgeous covers are all thanks to Letitia Hasser from RBA Designs. She has brought all my books to life with her amazing talent and brilliant imagination and I cannot be more proud to have such breathtaking, original covers to represent my stories.
The beautiful teasers are all thanks to Emily Wittig who I could not be more thankful for, for helping me create something gorgeous when I had no time between school, work, and writing.
It always takes a village to make books happen, and I am thankful for every single person who takes a chance on me and my stories. Thank you to the readers for all you've done and continue to do to make this dream a reality.
Until book two,
B. Celeste
Also by B. Celeste
Check out other books by B. Celeste!
The Truth about Heartbreak
The Truth about Tomorrow
The Truth about Us
Underneath the Sycamore Tree
About the Author
B. Celeste’s obsession with all things forbidden and taboo
enabled her to pave a path into a new world of raw, real,
emotional romance.
Her debut novel is The Truth about Heartbreak.
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