Fall (VIP #3)(121)
Rubbing the throbbing spot on my arm, I’m torn between laughing and getting the hell home. “Thanks. You want a coffee?” Because Stella would get him one. She’d make sure he’d eaten too.
He shakes his head, visibly retreating into his own world. “Got things to do.” And then he’s kneeling over his box of chalk. I say good-bye, but he doesn’t respond.
All the way home, that spot on my arm burns. It would be easy to dismiss Ramon’s words as ramblings. But I can’t shake them. What is real? It sure as shit isn’t fear. That’s an illusion. How many times am I going to let fear take me before I learn?
The only time I’ve ever felt whole, in all my glory and imperfections, was with Stella. But what did I do for her? Did I make her world more real? Better?
You took that lonely look out of her eyes and replaced it with light, you ass.
But is it enough?
Hours later, the question still won’t go away. Is it enough? Am I?
Chapter Thirty-One
Stella
* * *
“We’re going to the beach,” Brenna states with a glare that says resistance is futile.
Since I’m huddled up in bed with the covers around my ears, I’m guessing I make a pretty pathetic picture right about now. Sighing, I fling back the quilt and stretch. “Fine.”
“Really?” She brightens. “I was prepared to drag you out of that bed.”
“Is that why you have your sneakers on already? Good traction?”
Brenna grins wide. “That’s exactly why.”
I smile as I stare up at the ceiling. “I need to get out. I hate moping.”
But moping feels so good right now. I could lie here all week if I let myself. So I haul my butt up and head for the shower. “When are we going?” I ask over my shoulder.
“As soon as you’re ready. Sophie and Libby are coming with us.”
I have not met Libby. I’m not ashamed to admit I have her album and think she’s a fantastic singer. Hopefully, I won’t embarrass myself with fangirl fawning.
True to Brenna fashion, she’s ordered a limo to take us. Laughing at the ostentatious display of luxury, I scramble in and find Sophie and Libby waiting. Libby looks just as she does in pictures—slim, flowing, golden-brown hair, wide-open expression, and smiling gray eyes. Apple pie with a Bourbon chaser.
Her voice is honey thick and laced with a Southern drawl. “At last we meet.”
“How are Stevens and Hawn?” I ask after we shake hands.
Her smile widens. “Stevens is holding a grudge. Especially against Killian. We’ve seen nothing but his tail in the air, ass in our faces since we came back.”
I laugh at that. “He seems the type to make you suffer.”
“I told Killian to check his pillowcase for revenge pee. Hawn probably feels the same, but I’m not a fish gal so I wouldn’t know how to spot it.”
There’s something soothing about her manner, and she’s soon digging into a hamper she brought along and handing out fried chicken sliders to go with the champagne Sophie is passing around.
“You sure you’re okay with leaving Felix for the weekend?” Brenna asks her.
“Not gonna lie,” Sophie says. “Momma me is weeping for her baby. But the sleep-deprived, frazzled I-gotta-be-free is weeping with relief.” She shrugs. “Gabriel urged me to go and have a break. God, I do love that man.”
Libby gleams with glee. “I remember when I first met Scottie. He scared the shit out of me. Total ice man. Watching him become a big ol’ marshmallow is highly entertaining.”
Sophie laughs. “Our baby boy broke him good.”
Brenna leans in. “Before we left, I programmed his ring tone to play the Paw Patrol theme song.”
Sophie squeals with laughter.
“Paw Patrol?” I ask, half laughing at their glee.
“A kids’ show.” Brenna waggles her brows.
We all snicker. The ride out to the Hamptons speeds by as Libby tells us about her time in Australia. I hadn’t bothered to ask where we’re staying but the car takes a turn down a smaller lane near the sea and then stops at a gate. The tires crunch over a gravel drive, and a house comes into view. It’s a huge gray shingle-style house, complete with fluffy clouds of hydrangeas fronting the porch.
“Wow,” I say as we come to a stop.
“Pretty great, isn’t it?” Libby follows me out of the limo.
“Who owns it?”
Brenna starts up the wide center staircase. “The boys. It’s one of the few properties they bought together as a band.”
The boys. John. I don’t want to stay at his house. It hurts to think of him here, that he’ll spend time in this house when I’m out of his life and long gone. But I can hardly say that now or ask to be taken home.
Brenna leads us inside and into the living room. I stand there, gaping around at the creamy white paneled walls and big, comfy cream-colored sofas. Everything is soft and restful, the type of place you can dream the day away.
“You like?” Sophie asks, standing at my side.
“You ever see that movie Something’s Gotta Give with Diane Keaton? Where she reluctantly falls for smarmy Jack Nicholson while he’s convalescing at her spectacular Hamptons house?”