Hollywood Heir (Westerly Billionaire #4)(5)

Sage’s cell phone ringing brought her back to the present. “Hi, Dad.”

“Miranda will be in London tomorrow. She wants to take you shopping.”

“I don’t need anything, but I could do lunch—”

“Don’t talk to her about your mother.”

“I would never.”

“Or Sylvia.”

“Why would I—”

“Or Caroline.”

“Dad. I get it. I’ll pretend she’s your first wife instead of your fourth.”

“I don’t appreciate your tone, Sage.”

Breathe. “Will you be in London as well? I’d love to see you.”

“You know I can’t get away right now. Just give me your assurance that you won’t do anything to upset Miranda.”

“What is it you’re afraid I’ll do?”

“Caroline and I were fine before she went out to visit you.”

“Oh my God, Dad, she was fucking her makeup guy and bragged about it in front of me. Should I not have mentioned that? Because I thought that was something you’d want to know.”

“It was none of your business, Sage. Marriage is complicated. You’re not a child anymore. You need to learn to keep your mouth shut.”

Sage threw one hand up in the air. “Fine. I won’t tell you even if I find out Miranda’s hosting an orgy on your dollar.”

Her father sighed. “I can’t deal with you right now. I’ll tell Miranda you’re traveling.”

“You don’t have to lie to her, Dad. I can—”

“It’s probably for the best. She already thinks you should be involuntarily committed for your own protection. I thought shopping together might help the two of you bond.”

“Hold on. I’m trying to wrap my head around this conversation. Why the hell would she think I need to be committed?”

“Let’s not have this conversation again. You know how I feel about your lifestyle.”

“My lifestyle? You mean the one where I work a job, pay my own bills, and never ask you for anything?”

“You’ve always been odd, Sage. I’m getting tired of trying to explain you. Is this the year you spend the holidays with your mother?”

Since it was still summer, it would be difficult for her father to claim he already knew he’d be too busy to see her. I’m an adult. These are no longer visitations. It’s just—just that I want to see him. “No, that was last year.”

“We’ll figure something out. I’m late for a meeting.”

“If you don’t want me to come, Dad—” Sage would have said more, but her father had hung up. She took several deep breaths. Don’t let him do this. It only hurts if you let it.

Feeling calmer, she looked around and met the brooding eyes of the man she’d been waiting for. He was watching her from several tables away. Had he been there all along? How much had he heard?

Her face flushed as she remembered how he’d warned her off the day before. Would acknowledging him send him scurrying away? She decided to risk it and waved at him once.

He didn’t wave back.

Instead, he stood up and threw his coffee in the trash. Sage forced herself to look away. Her grandmother used to say every action a person made needed to come from love, because it made the world either a better or worse place. Her parents had thought she was crazy, too.

“Why did your friend take a picture of me?”

Startled, Sage nearly knocked over her coffee. The man was standing beside her table, blocking her view of everything beyond him. Her body came alive. From his perfectly shaped lips to his T-shirt stretching over his biceps and broad chest, Sage doubted there was a woman alive who wouldn’t find it difficult to remain composed around him. He oozed virility. She wondered if he was self-conscious about his scar. There was no need to be. He would have been too perfect without it, the kind of unflawed Hollywood idol few women would dare approach. The scar gave him a realness, a depth Sage couldn’t resist. “She thought you might be dangerous. Are you?”

One corner of his mouth curled. “I suppose that depends on your definition. I’m pretty fucked-up.”

Maintaining eye contact, Sage asked, “Do you hurt people?”

“I’ve been known to disappoint my share.”

“Me too,” Sage said. “Some to the point where they think I require professional help.”

“You may.”

Ouch. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“Come for a walk with me.”

“Now?”

“You have somewhere you need to be?”

“No. It’s a slow week.” She stood. “I’d love to.” She disposed of her cup, picked up her purse, then stepped outside the shop with him. They walked side by side on the busy sidewalk without speaking. Finally, Sage asked, “Your accent is American. Have you lived in London long?”

He stopped and looked down at her with that somber expression of his. “I don’t want to talk.”

“Oooo-kay.” She ran a hand through her long hair as she tried to discern his mood. “Not even your name?”

Another long, measured look as if he didn’t want to disclose that, either. Finally, he said, “Wayne Easton.”