Hottest Mess (S.I.N. #2)(65)
I’ve arranged for a car to meet me, and I sit in the back and watch the city go by as the driver whisks me to my house where I take a shower, eat a quick bite so I won’t snarf food like a pig at The Ivy, and then jump in my car to battle traffic as I head over the hill to the meeting in Beverly Hills.
As predicted, traffic is snarled, but at least that gives me time to think about the meeting that I didn’t think about on the plane, so that when I do arrive, I at least seem prepared. Joel is his enthusiastic, Hollywood self, and Tarpin is the real deal, an actor with both looks and genuine talent. And considering the scope and depth of his questions, he’s not only intelligent, but he cares about the material. We get along great, and by the time the meeting ends, I’m not only confident that he’ll sign on to the project, but also certain that I’ll be disappointed if he backs out, because I can’t imagine anyone better for the role.
And the best part? I realize as I tip the valet and slide into my car that I’ve spent two full hours without thinking about Dallas.
Frankly, that might be a personal best.
As I navigate my way to Coldwater Canyon and back up the hill to my house just off Mulholland Drive, I try to keep my mind from wandering in a Dallas sort of direction. Maybe I’ll even go for a run when I get home. It’s my least favorite physical activity, but I like the way it makes me feel after the fact. Like I’ve not only conquered something, but that I’ve made myself just a little bit stronger.
Alternatively, I can sit on my deck, look at the stunning view from my place just a block off Mulholland Drive, and conquer a bottle of wine. Which doesn’t have quite the same psychological impact, but still sounds pretty damn appealing.
I’m still debating between good health and good wine when I pull into the driveway and see Dallas sitting on the front porch.
I freeze. My hand is on the gear shift and my foot is on the brake, and it would be so, so easy to just shift back into reverse and leave.
I don’t. Because only part of me wants to run away. The other part wants to run into his arms.
In the end, I do neither.
Instead, I shut off the car, walk calmly toward my front door, and ask him what the hell he’s doing here.
“Apologizing,” he says, rising. “Groveling. Whatever it takes.”
“How the hell did you find me so fast? I mean, what? You just assumed I’d run off to LA?” A horrible thought occurs to me. “Deliverance? Electronic surveillance? That is completely warped, Dallas. Intrusive. Invasive. Not to mention rude and just plain icky. How the hell can you justify—”
“Brody,” he says.
“What?”
“I called Brody. He told me where you went.”
“Oh.” I make a note to sic a hundred telemarketers on Brody.
“Don’t be too mad at him. I more or less suggested that I couldn’t survive without you.”
I grimace. “Brody has too soft a heart.”
“I also told him that I still have the tickets to the Dominion Gate concert tomorrow night.”
I cock my head. “What makes you think I still want to go with you?”
He reaches into his jacket pocket and holds out a small envelope. “They’re your present. Your tickets—both of them. Go by yourself. Take a friend. Don’t go at all.” He meets my eyes. “It’s completely up to you.”
I keep my mouth closed, forcing myself to say nothing. Instead, I run my tongue over my teeth, then reach out and snag the envelope. I tuck it into my purse, then walk around him to get to my door. The porch is small, and he doesn’t move, so I brush up against him as I pull out my keys. Immediately, I feel that shock of awareness, and it seems all the more powerful because I don’t want to feel it. I don’t want to want him. Not right now, when I’m feeling so raw.
“Jane.” His voice is as gentle as the hand he places on my shoulder.
I shrug it off and open the door. I go inside, but I leave the door open. He can follow or not.
It’s after noon, and I feel completely justified in having a glass of wine. I find one of my favorite Napa cabernets and pour a very full glass.
Dallas is standing on the other side of my kitchen pass-through. “A glass of that would be very welcome right about now.”
I frown. “I’m trying to decide if I’m even letting you stay.”
“Jane. Please. Let me—”
“What?” Fresh anger bubbles through me. “Change the past? Take it all back?”
“Explain. Just let me explain.”
“Explain why you f*cked her—yeah, I know you didn’t actually. But for you, you did.”
“Explain why I didn’t tell you.” He looks so lost. So sad. “And, yes, why I was with her. I just want—”
“What?”
He shakes his head, looking not at me but somewhere over my shoulder. “Never mind. I’ll give you time.”
He starts to head toward the door and suddenly the thought of him leaving seems to cut through me, slicing me to ribbons. “Wait!”
He stops, his back to me. I see the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his back. And when he turns to face me, I see the hope on his face.
I look down at the ground. I want to hold on to my anger, but it’s starting to diffuse. Still there, but now so hard to grasp.