Complete Me (Stark Trilogy, #3)(17)

Despite myself, I grin and wave back.

He lifts his phone, and I see him typing another message. A second later, my phone buzzes.

Hey, lady. Can I buy you a drink?

I can’t help it—I laugh. A little early, isn’t it? I type, but the message doesn’t send because my phone is dead. Shit. I think back and remember that I forgot to plug it in when we got back from the lake last night.

I hold it up so Ollie can see it and then, with an exaggerated gesture, I drop it from two fingers into my purse, as if I’m discarding something useless and slightly gross. Then I start walking toward him. He goes in ahead of me, and when I enter, I find him already sitting at the bar. The bartender comes up to us and slides a martini in front of Ollie and a bourbon on the rocks in front of me.

“Thanks,” I say, speaking both to the bartender and to Ollie. “It’s a little early.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” he says. “Not today.”

I take a sip of the drink. “No,” I agree. “It doesn’t.”

He stirs the martini with the olive-skewered toothpick. “I’m glad Stark’s in the clear. I am. I swear.”

I study his face, because I do not understand where this is coming from. But it is like a bright shiny sparkle of welcomeness in a shitty day that should have been an incredible one. So I do the only thing I can do—I smile and tell him thank you.

“I figured you’d be locked away celebrating,” he says.

“Damien’s asleep.”

“Must be exhausted,” Ollie says. “I am. It’s been a hell of a wild ride.”

This is small talk, and I can’t stand it. “Do you know?” I demand. “Do you know why they dismissed the charges?’

He tilts his head as he studies me. “Is that really a line you want me to cross?”

I think about it. About how shattered Damien seems. I’ve refused to hear what Ollie’s had to say about Damien in the past, but now I’m afraid that if I don’t know exactly what is in those photos, I can’t help.

“Yes,” I say firmly. “I want to know.”

He exhales loudly. “Oh, hell, Nikki. I don’t know. For once, I can’t tell you a damn thing. I’m sorry.”

The wave of irritation I expect doesn’t come. Instead, a swell of relief washes over me. Whatever is in those photos, I don’t want Ollie to know. “It’s okay,” I say, then close my eyes. “It’s okay.”

He takes a long sip of his martini. “So, you want to go grab a late lunch? Hang out? Make up conversations between the folks at the other tables?”

My smile is tremulous. Part of me wants to say yes—wants to try and mend whatever has gone wrong between us. But the other part . . .

“No,” I say with a shake of my head. “I’m not ready yet.”

The muscles of his face seem to tighten in what might be a flinch. “Sure,” he says. “No problem. We’ll do it when we get home.” He runs his fingertip idly around the rim of his martini glass. “So, have you been talking to Jamie?”

“Not a lot,” I admit. “I’ve been preoccupied.”

“I guess you have. She tell you that f*ckwad Raine got her fired from the commercial?”

My shoulders sag. “Shit,” I whisper. “When?”

“Right after you left.”

“She didn’t tell me.” I know that she didn’t want to bother me with it, what with Damien’s trial, but I still feel like I’ve made a major best-friend blunder. “So, how’s she doing?” I ask. “Has she been auditioning? Any other bites?”

“Don’t know. I haven’t seen her since. I’m staying away from temptation.” He doesn’t quite meet my eyes.

“There shouldn’t be temptation,” I say. “Not if Courtney really is the one.”

“Is that really true?” He looks hard at me. “Or is that just a romantic myth?”

“It’s true,” I say, holding an image of Damien tight against my heart. “It’s the truest thing in the world.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he says, and my heart breaks a little because those words shouldn’t make him sad. Not when he’s about to get married.

He shakes his head as if clearing out cobwebs, then polishes off the rest of his drink. “I’m going to go lay on my bed, close my eyes, and feel the earth rotate. How about you?”

I think of Damien. If I go back, I’ll want to touch him, if only to reassure myself that he is there and real. But he needs to sleep, and right now that is the only thing I am capable of giving him.

“I’m going out,” I say. “I’m in need of some retail therapy.”





Chapter Five

I exit the hotel and turn left, then wander aimlessly down this polished street that I have walked so many times with Damien. Like Rodeo Drive and Fifth Avenue, Maximilianstrasse has its own rhythm, its own pace. And like those equally famous streets, it also has the pristine sheen of money. Last week, I held Damien’s hand as we strolled and shopped. This street was like a magical place, banishing the dark gloom of the trial and giving us a few moments of light all wrapped up with a bright, shiny bow of luxury.