Homewrecker Read online

  There was more speculation on the rumors that had circulated in the winter, back when Tatum was spotted and tarnished for being with Grant.

  Back when the world called her a homewrecker, as pictures of Grant’s wife crying circulated.

  Shaking my head, I go to the Internet app, and type in her name. I want to see more than the current headlines, and soon, I’m watching clips of her. Most are from her television days, from the primetime drama that apparently launched her career.

  Even as a minor role, it was clear why the viewers enjoyed her character.

  The woman was great.

  Her audition reel was hardly even a sliver of what the girl could do.

  I wanted her in this movie even more now, than I had last week.

  She could act.

  And she was gorgeous on top of all that.

  I found myself fascinated with her voice.

  Her smile.

  Hell, even the pissed off look she tossed to her TV-dad on more than one occasion.

  An hour after being sucked down the YouTube rabbit hole, I switched apps, moving into Instagram, only to find myself going back to the black-and-white image of Tatum laughing.

  And I stare at the image frozen in time.

  At the sad eyes that betray her joy.

  Trying to figure out her story.

  How did she go from a TV star, to a woman in hiding?

  What was it that had her hiding at the White’s private resort?

  Knowing I wasn’t getting answers tonight, I close my phone and flip the bedside lamp off.

  Tomorrow morning will come soon enough.

  I dreamt of her.

  I’m not a guy who remembered his dreams, not since adolescence when wet dreams were the start of a guy’s sexual growth.

  And no, I can’t recall exactly what I dreamt of, but I did wake with the absolute clarity that Tatum O’Malley was in my dreams.

  Probably because my mind was fixated on her all day yesterday, and I went to sleep after scrolling through endless articles, pictures, and videos of her.

  I almost felt like a knew the girl—if only I felt like I knew why she was hiding.

  Soon. Soon, you will know. And you will pull her from it.

  That was the plan, anyhow.

  After a quick shower and throwing on my lazy-day attire of basketball shorts and a long-sleeved Monster Energy shirt, I grab my over-packed bag and head out to my truck, ready to get this show on the road.

  It was still a little early, but I did the gentlemanly thing by not storming the White fortress last night. While that maybe earned me some points, what didn’t earn me points was ignoring the three messages Charleigh sent me between last night and this morning. Even now, after stopping for coffee and food—because who didn’t like coffee and croissants with chocolate drizzled over them?—with my phone ringing incessantly on the passenger seat beside me, I ignore Charleigh.

  I’m driving.

  No hands free, in this nine-year-old truck of mine.

  She’d be more upset with me for answering my phone while driving.

  Yep.

  That’s what I’ll keep telling myself.

  But Charleigh seems to have wonderful timing, and she calls again just as I pull my F250 into the White’s drive. After parking, and on the fourth ring, I open the call.

  “You don’t give up, do you, Char?”

  “Apparently I could say the same for you. I just talked to her. She said she hadn’t seen you yet. Please tell me you turned around. Tell me you’ll go to coffee with me.”

  “I have a coffee date already,” I answer, my lips quirking as I look over to the white cups in my holders. The coffee shop was one of Charleigh’s favorites; a small mom-and-pop type place, where the wife handmade the pastries every day.

  “Cade…” Charleigh’s voice was exasperated.

  “Geez, Charleigh, it’s not that big of a deal!” I answer with a laugh. I reach for the pastry bag and secure it between my palm and two fingers, freeing my thumb and remaining fingers for a coffee cup. With my phone wedged between my shoulder and ear, I grab the second coffee and carefully climb down from the truck.

  This bad boy was my pride and joy; the six-inch lift kit and stickers decorating the back window a montage of my pro-biking days. God, when Tim first saw it…

  The biggest piece of advice I chose to not follow, was getting a respectable car.

  This truck was me.

  With my elbow, I close the door, careful to not jostle either coffee.

  “She’s just…” Charleigh sighs heavily in the phone. “She won’t agree to it, Cade. You’re wasting your time.”

  Rather than making my way down the stone pathway, I remain standing by the front-end of my truck. “Well then, I’m an hour closer to Vancouver, then. Silver lining, Charleigh.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” I can picture my friend shaking her head. She knows I’m not backing down. “When are you heading up, then?”

  I know she means Vancouver. “I’ll probably schedule a flight for tomorrow night.”

  “From up there? Or will you drive back down?”

  “I have everything I need. I’ll drive up to Reno and fly out of there.”

  “There’s no way I can talk you out of talking to her?”

  “I’m here, Charleigh.” I wave my hand with just a coffee in it, toward her house…as if she can see, which I’m well aware she cannot.

  “Fine. Good luck. She’s going to say no.”

  “You have such little faith in me,” I joke.

  “No. I just know things you don’t.” She doesn’t even take the jesting bait. She sounds resigned. “Call me before you fly out.”

  “Will do, Char.” I set the coffee down on the front of my truck and take my phone from my ear and shoulder. After being sure the phone is locked, I slip it between my side and waistband of my shorts and, grabbing the coffee cup again, head toward the front door.

  I grinned at the memory of Charleigh’s words.

  She who has so little faith…

  Watch this.

  Chapter Five

  Dylan

  I watch the truck pull down the mile-long drive, from the comfort and safety of the home’s second floor family room.

  I’ve been expecting him.

  Sure, I knew he was coming, thanks to Charleigh—regardless of my hopes this morning, after he failed to show up last night, that he’d changed his mind—but I was also alerted to his arrival thanks to the gate at the end of the drive. Whenever it’s opened by keypad, a small ding sounds in the house.

  Just one of the many safety features the house boasts.

  I knew of Cade Johnston.

  I mean, who didn’t?

  His rise to fame was quick.

  Men wanted to be him.

  Women wanted to be with him.

  But even before he had Hollywood in his back pocket, he had similar reactions when he was pro-dirt bike rider. His name was once upon a time found alongside other current riding greats.

  At sixteen, he made a name for himself.

  Motocross king.

  By eighteen, he made a new name for himself.

  Hollywood heartthrob.

  So, when the man in the long-sleeved shirt and baggy shorts stepped down from the obviously-lifted truck—boys will be boys—I wasn’t expecting the quick pitter-patter stumble my heart made in my chest.

  It’s not like I can even make him out clearly from up here.

  He has dark sunglasses over his eyes, and a baseball cap on his head, backward. From my vantage point, I can see his hair is longer, curling over the edges of his hat.

  The picture of Cade in front of me is a far-cry from the red-carpet pictures that litter the internet.

  Hell, even his TMZ shots, he’s dressed better than he is now.

  This Cade looks like the one from images dated four, five years ago. The ones from his racing days.

 
; The very ones I scrolled through last night.

  He’s on the phone, and I watch as the man talks with his hands. For whatever reason, this makes me smile.

  Stop.

  Just as quick, my molars grind down, and I pinch my lips into a scowl.

  I’m not a fan of his gender.

  And it’s better for me to remember that.

  To remind myself.

  With the sleeves of my well-worn hoodie grasped between my fingers and palms, I cross my arms over my chest. I’ve gotten accustomed to walking around this place with just tank tops and shorts, but nothing says, “Hey, look here. This is why I can’t do your movie!” faster than a shirt that molds itself to your stomach.

  I squeeze my hands into tighter fists, refraining from rubbing them carefully over the starting-to-show belly.

  Let me tell you how hard it is to accept that you’re pregnant, when you “carrying in your back”. At thirty-weeks, I’ve only just started to show.

  But right now?

  Right now, I’m thankful for that.

  I can hide behind a hoodie.

  Cade will never have to know.

  I can hopefully keep my secret a little bit longer…

  Cade appears to finish his phone call and I see him put his phone in his pants.

  Like…

  In his pants.

  I find myself smiling again at the ridiculousness, and this time, I allow myself the small joy.

  He then takes his sunglasses off his face, hooking them in the back of his shirt.

  He is such a guy’s guy.

  Nothing about him says “Hollywood Heartthrob” right now, although I wouldn’t be surprised to see this little show he’s doing, the phone and sunglasses thing, with the overgrown hair and down-and-dirty clothing, only making women want him more.

  It’s really not a bad look on him.

  My feet are firmly planted in my spot, even though I see him making his way toward the front door.

  Maybe if I don’t answer…

  Shit.

  He was able to get past the gates.

  There’s no way a locked front door will keep him out.

  Better now than later.

  If I can get him on his way…

  With a sigh, I step away from the window.

  Chapter Six

  Cade

  I decide that I’ve already breached privacy by going through the front gate; the least I can do is ring the doorbell.

  I mean…

  If Tatum’s here, she heard the warning of me bringing the truck through the gate.

  She knows I’m here.

  I press the small cream-colored button—blends in with the stone-sides of the house—and can hear the soft melodic tune from out here.

  I could turn around; face the drive.

  Give Tatum my back.

  But no.

  I’m going to be that super creepy guy who stands outside the glass door, watching for her.

  Will she come from the kitchen in the back?

  From the two-story tall living room, to the right?

  Or maybe she’ll come gliding down the curved staircase.

  My eyes move throughout the house until finally, movement from the upper balcony catches my attention.

  And there she is.

  Looking displeased.

  I can’t help but grin.

  I watch as Tatum O’Malley makes her way down the staircase, dressed surprisingly similar to me, but where my long-sleeves are the t-shirt variety, hers is a hoodie that is far too heavy for the sixty-degree morning.

  She makes up for it with the super short-shorts that showcase strong thighs and long legs.

  This woman is no stick, not like so many in Hollywood tend to be. She also can’t be much taller than five-foot.

  Her eyes latch onto mine through the distance, and if anything, her lips pinch tighter; even her crossed arms tighten a fraction.

  She reaches the door and finally lets go of her hold on herself, slipping a hand into the pocket of her sweatshirt and the other unlocks the two deadbolts. When she pulls open the door, small blonde fly-aways along her temples blow in the breeze. Her hair is otherwise swept up on top of her head, a lopsided mess of hair in the popular messy-bun fashion.

  “You must be Cade.” Her tone is unamused, but her voice…

  Hell, watching the clips of her last night did not prepare me for her voice. In person, it’s sweeter, but with just a hint of rasp.

  “Tatum.”

  She swallows at that, opens her mouth, then closes it again with a shake of her head. With the door only opened enough for her body, I’m clearly not stepping into the house quite yet. She keeps a hand on the knob while she leans into the jam.

  “You’re wasting your time. I’m sorry. But I’m not doing films right now.”

  “I brought coffee,” I try. I’m going to break through this woman’s walls, whatever they may be.

  She shakes her head, the half-smile on her face is not one of joy.

  Maybe annoyance.

  “I’m sorry, but no. I’m sorry you drove all the way up here. You should have listened to Charleigh.”

  “You may as well let me in, Tatum,” I say, trying to change tactics. “I have access to the house.” Okay, so that just sounded creepy.

  Hopefully she wasn’t a police-on-speed-dial actress.

  “I have pastries. Charleigh’s favorite spot in town. Surely you know of it? Maybe you went there this last weekend with her?” I hold up the hand that’s holding both a coffee and the pastry bag, rocking it back and forth. I watch her eyes—an eerily clear gray—move to the bag, and she swallows.

  She wants the pastry.

  “You know you want it.”

  She looks to me, shaking her head. “I already ate. No, thank you.”

  Tatum steps back and tries to close the door but I wedge my foot into the jam before she can.

  “Please. Let’s just talk about it.”

  “The answer is no.”

  “Five minutes.”

  “It will still be no.”

  “Two minutes.”

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  She shakes her head.

  I wave the bag around again.

  She sighs—and rolls her eyes only to hold them up, as if she’s looking for patience from the clouds. “You’re wasting your time, Cade.”

  “No such thing as wasted time with a pretty girl.”

  That earns me a small, but real, smile. Too quickly though, it’s gone.

  “I don’t like pushy men.”

  “Two minutes, and a chocolate drizzled croissant. Then you can say no all over again.”

  Her lips push out and I’d guess she’s chewing on her cheek. Perhaps a nervous habit?

  But then she’s stepping back, and I walk into the house.

  ***

  The woman stood her ground.

  I mean, what was I going to do? Show her a script that she’d already read?

  Tell her about the beautiful countryside we’d be shooting in? Turns out, her television show was filmed in Vancouver too.

  So, basically…

  I was ill-prepared.

  I don’t know what I thought.

  Maybe that by me coming and showing her what a good guy I was—with a coffee she didn’t touch and a pastry that she nibbled on only—that she’d decide, “Yeah, sure. Let’s do this thing!”

  I wasn’t giving up though.

  She may have walked me back to the door five minutes later.

  She may have watched me drive away.

  But I was far from done.

  I went back to that same coffee shop, but this time to use the internet.

  I Googled the hell out of Tatum O’Malley.

  Learned what she’s quoted to loving.

  Pizza.

  No surprise there.

  The woman is barely eighteen, an
d every teenager on the face of the planet likes pizza.

  Her age does make me take a step back, though, even if only a small one.

  I guess, yeah, she looks young, but with her talent, I’d have pegged her for closer to my age of twenty-one. Maybe twenty.

  Perhaps it was the pictures of her with Grant where she was clearly wasted that had me thinking she’s older than she really is, but that’s L.A. for you. Age does not deter a person from drugs and alcohol.

  Well, if coffee and pastries didn’t do the trick, on to plan B then.

  Late lunch.

  Pizza, and wings, and cinnamon knots.

  This time when I walk up to the front door, there isn’t any movement inside the house.

  I move the pizza box and bag to my left hand and try the door; of course, it’s locked, but with a quick four-number code to the electronic pad, the locks all slide over.

  “Tatum?” I call out as I step into the large foyer. The house is quiet as I close the heavy door behind me. “It’s Cade.” I look to my right; she’s not in the living room.

  Look up.

  I hear no rustling, signifying she’s not on the second story.

  I walk back toward the kitchen and drop the items off on the giant counter top, the very one Tatum and I sat at only five hours earlier.

  Looking around, I see the place is immaculate. The woman keeps after herself.

  Our earlier coffee cups are nowhere to be seen. There are no dishes in the sink. The countertop even looks like it was wiped down and cleaned.

  There isn’t a crumb to be found, nor a water spot.

  “Tatum?” I try again, louder this time.

  Still, nothing.

  When I look back to the lake, I see why.

  At the end of the pier, in the same spot as the picture with Charleigh, I see her.

  And I see a hell of a lot of skin.

  She’s sitting at the end, with her feet over the edge. I imagine her toes are in the water. She’s leaning back on her hands while she wears very little—a white bikini, if I’m not mistaken.

  I walk out the large sliding glass door and onto the porch, quietly making my way down the stone and boulder staircase. The nearer I draw to the pier, the more I notice music. As my eyes scan the pier, I make out a small speaker beside her.

  Smart girl.

  Putting in earbuds when you’re out in a secluded place probably isn’t the smartest of ideas, so with the speaker, she’s still semi-aware of her surroundings.