“Oh, no,” I say. “You are so not getting away with that. Whatever you were going to say, just say it. I already know I’m a head case, so it’s not like you’ll be telling me something I don’t already know.”
“Jamie.” Her voice is soft and a little sad. “I just worry about you, that’s all.”
I shift my position on the bed, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. “I know you do,” I say as the cat gets up, yawns, and then pads out of the room, apparently uninterested in my drama. “Just like I worry about you. But you’ve got Damien for that now.”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t need my best friend,” she says, and I must be more fragile than I thought because a tear escapes and trickles down my cheek.
“Listen,” she says gently. “We both know what a mess I am, but I’m not the only one with scars, and I worry about you. I like Ryan,” she says again. “But I don’t want you getting hurt. For that matter, I don’t want you hurting him.”
“Not a problem on either count,” I say. “In case you missed the major talking point of this conversation, he blew me off.”
“Just don’t push it, okay. Go home. Get your head on straight. Don’t—”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t go after him like sex is a weapon or something. Promise me.”
“I won’t,” I say. “It’s not.” I’m not lying—I’ve never used sex as a weapon, not really. Instead, I’ve used it as a shield. Keep the control, keep the guys on a leash. Keep it fun, keep it play. Never serious. Never deep.
Because if you don’t let them past the barrier, they can’t break your heart.
“I love you,” Nikki says, and in those three little words, I hear perfect understanding.
“I know,” I say. “And I swear I’m not going to do anything except go home to Dallas. So I don’t need the lecture or the reminder or whatever you want to call it. Really. Now go be married or something.”
“That,” she says, “is a great idea.” I laugh, then give her a quick rundown on what happened on the beach after she and Damien left, and she promises to text me from Paris so I’ll know they arrived safe and sound. I tell her not to bother. I’ve already seen their wedding photos on Twitter. I’m sure the paparazzi in Paris will be tweeting, too.
And then the call is over and I’m left lying on the bed looking out at that damn beach and wondering why the hell Ryan walked way.
Yes, I am just that pathetic.
I sit up, annoyed with myself. It’s over. It’s done. Ryan’s long gone—I’d stood on the beach and watched as he walked back to the house. I hadn’t wanted to follow. Call it embarrassment or pride, but I hung out for at least an hour before I finally dragged my ass back to the house, every step requiring a major effort.
Funny, despite working so hard yesterday to pull the party together—and then dancing and partying and drinking through the night—I hadn’t felt tired before. Certainly not when Ryan had showed up and walked me down the beach, or when he’d leaned in close, or when he’d set my body to tingle.
On the contrary, just being near him was like sucking down an energy drink, leaving me breathless and recharged and just a little edgy.
Or it had felt that way until he’d gone. Now I want to crash. I’m bone tired and lost and, although I was so glad to have heard from Nikki, I’m now feeling more than a little melancholy. And very much alone.
When I’d first returned to the house, I’d thought I would see him. But the house was empty and silent, and though I checked the front drive, there was no sign of a car, and I’d gone back inside and stomped my way to my guest suite feeling both relieved and annoyed. Relieved, because I apparently made a fool of myself earlier. Annoyed because as far as the wedding went, Ryan and I had the joint responsibility of dealing with the reception and the house guests. We’d been working closely for almost forty-eight hours now, and at the very least he should have checked with me before leaving to make sure there wasn’t anything still to do.
There isn’t. But he should have checked.
I tell myself I don’t care, and I’m just feeling touchy because I’m exhausted. I need a nap. Some R&R. I’ll lay out by the pool, then take a swim. Maybe this afternoon I’ll go into town and prowl the little shops. I should take something fun back to my parents—maybe a painting for the entryway or something cute for the kitchen.
Then I’ll grab some takeout and crash for the night. I’ll get a good night’s sleep, get in the car, and get my ass back to Texas. Away from California, temptation, and Ryan Fucking Hunter.
It’s a good plan, and I go to change into my bathing suit and find something to read. I recently started to reread Rebecca, but right now I’m not in the mood. Instead I grab a copy of Cosmopolitan. I smile wryly. Maybe this month’s article on how to make a man feel awesome in bed will come in handy if I ever see Ryan again.
As with everything in this house that Damien built, the backyard pool area is a little slice of heaven. The pool itself is huge, falling off to an infinity edge that gives the illusion that it extends into the Pacific. There’s a hot tub, of course, as well as a waterfall and a swim-up bar.
The water is warm—and it feels nice to walk in until it hits my shoulders. Then I close my eyes and sink under, losing myself to the eerie quiet of this empty pool.
I’m not in the mood to swim, though, and so I emerge, then lightly towel off. I like the sensation of being damp, of lying back and feeling the breeze brushing over my moist skin.
The lounge chair is padded, with a nice cup holder built right in. And since I’m planning on napping anyway, I detour to the small refrigerator and take out a wine cooler. I pick a chair under the pergola so that I’m at least a little bit out of the sun. And then, finally, I settle down to read and relax.
I make it only a few pages into the magazine before my eyes start to droop. I drop the magazine to the tiled decking, then close my eyes. Just a short nap, I think, as sleep beckons and I’m pulled down, down, down into my dreams.
He is there.
Ryan.
I am standing in a wide green field, and though I cannot see him clearly, I know that he is the man in the distance. Hunter, I think. And I am his prey.
He stalks toward me, jeans slung low on his hips. He wears no shirt, and the sun beats down on broad shoulders and a lean, sculptured chest. I move toward him, drawn to him by some unassailable compulsion.