Homewrecker Read online

  “Tatum,” I say, but I maybe kind of purposely keep my voice low.

  I mean, I don’t want to startle her. Not exactly.

  But for some unexplainable reason, I’m enjoying this moment.

  Walking up to her, while she’s unaware.

  Okay, that sounds creepy too.

  What is it with me and this woman and the creepy thoughts?

  I swear, I’m not normally such a stalker.

  Before I step foot on the pier, I call out her name again, this time so I’ll be heard. Don’t exactly need her falling into the lake.

  And she startles.

  Hard.

  It’s also suddenly very clear why Tatum O’Malley is in hiding.

  Chapter Seven

  Dylan

  The sun feels wonderful.

  I close my eyes, leaning back on my hands, as the golden rays shine down around me.

  This has been part of my mental therapy, as prescribed by Charleigh.

  Enjoy the sun.

  Enjoy the quiet moments.

  Listen to the ducks. To the wind in the trees. To the random fish that jumps from the lake. Even the music I listen to is playing at a whisper-soft level. Just enough that I can make out the words if I listen hard enough.

  The sun gets too warm in the afternoon, so this bit of my day is saved for the late morning.

  I should have known better than to let my guard down though.

  “Tatum.”

  My heart stops, then turns over, in my chest and I push up so fast I nearly fall forward into the lake.

  I scramble for the sweatshirt that is not at my side.

  For the briefest of moments, I consider dropping down into the lake but…

  Seaweed.

  Fish.

  And the fact that the water is not quite warm enough for a dip.

  Oh God.

  Oh God.

  What…?

  With no choice but to turn and face my intruder—fuck him for coming back—I stand tall, chin in the air.

  It’s not the fact that I’m basically naked that has me nervous, although being in two scraps of fabric in front of a man like Cade Johnston would definitely do that to a normal woman.

  It’s the fact that, small as my bump is, there’s no denying I’m pregnant.

  Cade’s mouth is working, but no words are coming out.

  With as much as he talked during his five minutes earlier, I’ve managed to knock the man speechless right now.

  The problem is, I’m speechless right now too.

  I don’t know the first thing to say.

  Surprise?

  I’m pregnant?

  Oh hey, look. I have a food baby…

  Except this is no food baby.

  Almost.

  But not quite.

  I lick my lips nervously and open my mouth, but he beats me to the punch.

  “You’re pregnant.”

  I swallow hard and lift my chin higher by just a fraction.

  I’m not enjoying the scrutiny of his gaze.

  Bending down, I grab my phone and speaker, and walk toward him.

  I refuse to back down.

  Refuse to give in to the disappointment coursing through my body.

  And for what?

  Why am I disappointed?

  In me?

  In him?

  Who the hell knows.

  But after my rock-bottom hit last week, I refuse to allow him to push me there again.

  Just by being…

  Him.

  When I near Cade, he steps to the side, allowing me to walk past him.

  And as much as I appreciate it…

  That’s just what I want, I think sarcastically.

  To walk in front of him while wearing almost nothing.

  I do it though.

  And why?

  Because my baggy sweatshirt is just up the stairs, and around the corner.

  Not that I have anything to hide now. There’s no hiding the extended bump of my stomach, small as it is.

  Between here and the patio, I need to come up with a plan.

  Something to tell him.

  Tell him I’m not ashamed of this pregnancy.

  I am, but I’m not, in the same breath.

  For the first time, I’m thankful for the fact I’m not showing so much in the belly department. I can pass this belly off for three or four months, maybe. So, when Cade leaks to the press that the reason I’m hiding—because at this point in my life, I don’t trust men, let alone men I literally just met; best friends with my good friend, or not—no one will put two-and-two together.

  Homewrecker has a completely different tone to it when a baby is the result.

  No one bothered to print it when I told them I didn’t remember the night. That I thought I’d been drugged.

  Well, they did, but with their own twist.

  Wasted.

  High.

  Drunk.

  Just another Hollywood starlet unable to give in to the pressures of her job.

  Not so sweet, after all, is she?

  Fucking assholes.

  My eyes begin to burn, and fuck Cade Johnston for being here and forcing me to face it.

  My anger at him is irrational, but it’s there, and I’m going to embrace it.

  I stomp up the stone staircase and powerwalk to the Adirondack chair my things are folded on. First, I pull my sweatshirt back down over my body. Then, I step back into the shorts.

  My back is to Cade, but I can feel him behind me.

  “So, are you, like, trying to pull a Kardashian? Hiding the fact that you’re pregnant?”

  I shake my head and stop myself from rolling my eyes. He’s still behind me; it would be a wasted effort.

  “That’s what it looks like, don’t you think?” I answer, still refusing to turn. I move toward the glass door and step inside.

  Immediately I’m torn between anger and indifference with Cade.

  The guy brought food.

  Again.

  But he brought food.

  He really is trying hard to get on my good side.

  Too bad I don’t have a good side at the moment.

  I hear the door slide shut behind me and I can’t help but go fully into defensive mode again, my arms crossed tight around my chest. My body language clearly states stay away.

  Why do I have a feeling that phrase isn’t going to be part of Cade’s vocabulary?

  “You hungry?” he asks, and I feel, then see, as he walks around me. He’s lost his hat since he was here last, and I have the uncharacteristic urge to run my fingers through his hair.

  See if the waves are as thick as they look.

  You have no business thinking about men right now, Dylan O’Neill.

  “I’m okay.” I look at the food on the counter though, and my stomach betrays me.

  Cade doesn’t look up from his task of opening the pizza box and other boxes—wings—but I do notice his eyes crinkle at the sides.

  He’s laughing at me.

  “Well, then I’ll eat.” Still not looking toward me, he moves to the cupboard that houses glasses, and fills them at the sink—two, even though I said I didn’t want anything. His knowledge of the kitchen doesn’t surprise me. Even this morning, it was as simple as pulling out napkins from the pantry.

  My first day here, I opened every drawer and cupboard door, before finding the bag of napkins in the pantry.

  But Cade, he looks like he lives here.

  “How well do you know Charleigh?” I find myself asking, immediately wishing I hadn’t. The goal is to get Cade out. Not keep him around.

  “We grew up together,” he answers, walking back toward the counter, both water glasses in hand. I’m busy trying to keep my eyes off of his, but I track his moves right up until he’s standing nearly toe-to-toe with me.

  “Sure you don’t want some?”

  I swallow an
d look around, slightly uncomfortable.

  “I have plenty to share.”

  Sighing, I give in. Not just to his words, but to my desire to look at him. “Maybe a piece.” This morning I avoided his eyes.

  I should have avoided them now, too.

  They’re brown.

  But not dark brown.

  And not exactly light brown, either.

  From far away, they’re probably nothing spectacular but from here, where he stands barely a foot from me, I see that they’re so much more than brown. There are gold specks. Green specks.

  They’re…different.

  I pull my eyes down again.

  “Good choice,” he answers, stepping around me to take a seat at the counter.

  The same stool he occupied this morning.

  I do the same, and he moves the pizza box so it spreads out between us. Apparently, we’re not doing this with plates.

  Or manners, I think, as I watch him reach for a wing from the other box, and places it near the pizza.

  He has the box turned so the entire pie is in front of him, and for me to get a slice, I have to reach into his bubble.

  If he wants to play indifferent, I guess I will too.

  I grab a slice and decide to hell with it, and eat it like I don’t have a single care in the world, because really?

  I don’t.

  I’ve resigned myself to the fact that my secret is going to make it out into the world.

  And if he wants to play house right now and pretend that all is well—

  “How do you know her? Charleigh.” Cade asks, interrupting my monologue.

  I lift the cheesy, meaty, goodness to my mouth and take a bite, buying myself time. Cade devours one wing, then another, all while watching me.

  I’m pretty sure I have sauce on my chin, but I can’t bring myself to feel self-conscious about it.

  I do wipe it away with the back of my hand, though, when I’m through chewing.

  “We met a little over a year ago,” I tell him. “It was right before I started filming 682.” I nearly choke on the movie name, but I quickly compose myself. “She actually came to a filming of On Call, the—”

  “Medical drama you were on.”

  I lift my brows and take another slow bite of my pizza.

  Cade just shrugs. “I did my research.”

  I suppose, though…the show was one of the biggest, long-running medical dramas on television, having just wrapped it’s eighteenth season. I started on the show when I was all of five years old.

  Cade picks up a slice of pizza, only to put it down again, and turns in his stool to face me. In doing so, his knee brushes the outside of my leg and I fight the need to jump in my seat.

  “They’re saying filming will only take six weeks. Eight at most. You’re a fantastic actress, Tatum—”

  “Dylan.” My given name is out of my mouth before I can stop it, and I feel my face heating at the realization I just gave it to him.

  “Huh?”

  I shake my head and look down, but then give in. “My name is Dylan.” I look up at him and tip my head to the side. “I’m sorry, Cade,” I say, shaking my head slowly. “I’m done acting. Tatum O’Malley is no more. I don’t want to be her anymore.”

  His brows fold together. “Is this like, an identity crisis? At eighteen?” He has the audacity to sound cynical.

  “I’m just done.” I try to keep it at that.

  I don’t want to go into the why.

  I don’t want to talk about how I hate the life.

  How I wish I’d stuck with television.

  How the movie ruined my view of the world.

  How I didn’t have a thick-enough skin for the ill-reported headlines.

  “Again, Cade, I’m really sorry you wasted your time, but I won’t do the movie. I won’t be doing any movies. I’m done. I’m hanging up my hat. Tatum O’Malley is dead and gone.”

  “But why?” He clearly looks perplexed. “You’re a fantastic actress, Ta—Dylan.”

  “Thank you but…” I shake my head and decide to leave it at that. “Thank you.”

  “When are you going to…” He waves his hand in the direction of my midsection. “When do you have the baby? Maybe I can talk them into holding off filming.”

  Men. They just don’t care. “You’re not listening to me. I’m not doing the movie.”

  “Don’t make a rash decision. You’re great at what you do.”

  “You can repeat that until you’re blue in the face, Cade, but it doesn’t change anything. I’m done.” I push away from the counter and away from him. I need to move. I need to get away.

  Instead, I just wash my hands.

  “It’s in your blood, Dylan,” he tried. “You’ve been on set since you were a little girl. You can’t just stop.”

  I whirl on him, even though there are a good ten feet between us. “You gave up riding. You just stopped. Tell me you didn’t love that more than acting.”

  I didn’t mean to blurt that. I didn’t mean to let him know I’d looked him up. That I knew who he was, more so than the actor persona.

  “That’s different.”

  “How so?”

  “I still get on my bike. I haven’t given it up altogether.”

  “But you gave up the…the…what do you call it? The road life.”

  “Circuit.”

  “You gave that up.”

  He looks ready to say something, but whatever it is, he shuts his mouth and just nods. “You’re right. Kind of.”

  I don’t want to get into the ‘kind of’ part of that statement.

  “I appreciate your coming out here,” I say, even though it’s simply a nicety. “But my answer is no. It will remain no.” And then I add, “I’m sorry,” as if I have something to apologize for.

  Cade stares at me.

  His eyes are squinted at the sides, as if he’s concentrating hard, trying to figure out whatever it is I’m holding back from him.

  I refrain from squirming in my spot and instead, I cross my arms around myself tighter.

  “Did you know that your body language gives you away?” he says, surprising me.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re holding yourself back. You’re hiding more than just being pregnant.” He stands up from the counter and my heart races, as I fear he’s going to walk closer to me.

  He doesn’t though.

  He simply stands by the counter.

  “Your eyes too. They tell a different story than anything you say. You’re scared of something.” He says the last softly, like he’s trying really hard to figure it all out.

  Trying to figure me out.

  “You’re a tough one, Tatum. Dylan. Sorry. You put on this hard show, but you’re just a scared girl.”

  “I am not!”

  “You are.” He nods a few times, his eyes still doing that squinty thing. “But of what? That’s the question.” Not giving me a chance to answer—not that I would—he starts to pack up the food. “You can have this. I can’t take it where I’m going.” He doesn’t look at me as he boxes it all up.

  Then, like with the pantry and the glasses earlier, he finds a drawer that is the home to pens and pencils, only to pull out a dry erase marker. “If you change your mind,” he starts, avoiding me as he walks to the extra-large stainless-steel fridge, “this is my number.” He scrawls out a series of numbers in very male penmanship on the dry-erase board adhered to the side. “Rehearsal starts in two days. That’s plenty of time. They want you, too. They’ll make adjustments for you.” He caps the marker and finally turns to look at me.

  “It won’t happen.” My eyes drop down to wear he flips the marker between his fingers, the red cap moving around and around.

  “One can hope.”

  I shake my head and force myself to look at him again.

  Why does he have to be so damn handsome? With his thick hair that clearly needs a pair
of scissors to go through it? And his strong forearms that are on show now that he’s pushed up the sleeves of his dark long-sleeved shirt.

  They don’t listen.

  He won’t listen.

  He hasn’t listened.

  My inner snarky teenage girl comes out. “Don’t hold your breath.”

  “Something tells me you’re worth it.” And then he winks at me, just before turning to return the marker to the drawer.

  For whatever reason, the words and the wink piss me off.

  “You’re just like all of the rest, aren’t you?” I blurt out. “Think you can flirt a little. Get in a girl’s good graces. Then take advantage of her, yeah? Is that some sort of guy code?” I push the sleeves of my hoodie up roughly, my body growing warm thanks to the weather, but also because of my slowly growing anger.

  “Don’t box me in with whoever hurt you. I’m a good guy. Ask Charleigh.”

  “Yeah, well, her opinion got me to where I’m at.” The words are out of my mouth before I can truly think them, and I gasp loudly, my hand going to my slackened jaw.

  I didn’t just…

  But I don’t…

  I know this wasn’t Charleigh’s fault.

  I’m just angry.

  And at my wit’s end.

  I’m over it all, and Cade Johnston is just digging and digging and digging, causing the strife to bubble over edge.

  I’m stuck in my spot, couldn’t move if I tried, and Cade takes the opportunity to slowly walk up to me. One step. Two.

  Slowly, but surely.

  Until he’s right in front of me.

  His stance is widened so the sides of his shoes are against the sides of my bare feet.

  He is incredibly close.

  I can smell him.

  I don’t want to smell him.

  I don’t want to remember the faint smell of soap and detergent. I don’t want to remember the way the stubble along his chin and cheeks has me aching to run my hand over his cheeks. How the flecks of colors in his eyes are only more pronounced right here, so close. How he has a single freckle under his right eye.

  And I certainly don’t want to remember the way my body betrays me as his eyes move over me.

  How it aches to find comfort in someone’s arms, even after everything I’ve known was taken from me.

  My will.

  My words.

  My future.