Homewrecker Read online

  It was all taken from me, because of one man.

  “Who hurt you, Dylan O’Malley?” he says softly as he looks down on me.

  I don’t correct him on the name; at least he used Dylan this time…not that I wanted to give him that bit of truth in the first place. The least I can do is keep my full name to myself.

  Then his hand is up and brushing my cheek. My breath quivers, but he’s doing nothing more than brushing a flyaway behind my ear.

  “Think about the movie. Please. They can work around your pregnancy. They can keep it quiet until you’re ready to share.”

  I shake my head. “I won’t be ready to share.” And I won’t be. Ever.

  If my pregnancy gets out…

  “Please don’t mention it to the crew,” I beg. I can’t believe I’m begging him.

  But I am.

  I will.

  Please don’t tell…

  “Is the dad bad to you? Was it an accident? Why are you so determined to keep it quiet?”

  I don’t know Cade.

  I can’t tell him.

  He’ll tell everyone.

  It will get out.

  Grant will find out.

  My life will be further ruined.

  I can’t…

  Cade takes a step back just as my anxiety grows to a new level. “Think about it. Please.”

  I shake my head, but he’s turning around, heading toward the door.

  I won’t think about it.

  And I pray that Cade is the good guy he says he is.

  Chapter Eight

  Cade

  She doesn’t magically show up in Vancouver on Monday, even though I clearly wanted her to.

  Want and expectation are two different things, though, and even though I wanted her here, I expected her to stay away.

  But hell, I can’t stop thinking about her.

  I’ve been through Charleigh’s Instagram more than once in the last three days, trying to see if she’ll post something new about her friend.

  That’s a big negative, but I can’t help but want to know more about Tatum; no. Dylan.

  Who is the dad?

  Why is her being pregnant such a big deal?

  Why is she in hiding?

  Every night, sucker that I am, I’ve asked those very questions to the black and white image of Dylan laughing—the picture of the beautiful girl with sad eyes.

  It’s my favorite of her, I’ve decided.

  You know, compared to the Getty Images, studio shoots, and paparazzi shots.

  Favorite or not, I have to focus on this movie and if it’s not going to be the name Tatum O’Malley’s opposite mine, I have to be okay with the current situation.

  And the woman casted as my costar, Amanda Price, isn’t terrible.

  She’s no Tatum O’Malley, but I’m accepting at this point that she is who I am going to be working with.

  Might as well get the filming over with.

  I’m heading to my hotel room, walking down the long hall from the elevator, when my phone buzzes in the back pocket of my jeans. With a yawn—script readings and sitting at a table surprisingly take a lot of my energy; I’d much rather be on set—I pull my phone out.

  Charleigh.

  “What’s up, Char?” I say immediately upon bringing the phone to my ear.

  “So, I’ve let it go long enough but, what the hell did you say to Dylan!?”

  Ah.

  So, Charleigh was on a real-name basis with the girl but failed to mention her real name to me. I see where I rank.

  “I haven’t talked to Dylan in four days. I left her at the house. Asked her to think about coming up. But she obviously chose to not do the film.”

  “Of course she’s not filming!”

  At the door, I wave my keycard in front of the plate and listen to the lock click open, the green light flashing, and push into the suite.

  “She’s pregnant, Charleigh, not dying. Filming takes two months tops. She could have done it if she really wanted to. She’s barely showing now. The movie takes place in the winter. She could have gotten around it.”

  “You are such a guy.”

  “Yep. I’m a guy. Thanks for finally noticing.” I flip over the door guard and lock the bolt as I toe off my shoes.

  “You’re being more dense than usual, Cade. It’s not a good look on you.”

  “Charleigh, I’m tired,” I say on a breath, collapsing back into the oversized bed, my free arm flailing out to the side. “What’s the reason for this rant? I didn’t say anything to Dylan other than I thought she was a fantastic actress and thought she was crazy for giving up on something she is so clearly great at.”

  “She didn’t tell you who the…the…father is?” Charleigh seemed to have a hard time spitting those words out, and it made me smile at the absurdness of it.

  “Nope. Didn’t figure it was my business. I wasn’t asking to date her.” Although, it wouldn’t be a hardship, dating her. And with the number of times I’ve spent looking at her picture…

  Yeah.

  I wouldn’t mind dating her.

  Kid on the way, or not.

  I wasn’t afraid of babies.

  Not really.

  As long as the dad wasn’t a douche.

  But, while I do feel those things, I also feel that Dylan is allowing herself to be a doormat for the industry by going about her pregnancy this way.

  “Look, I know the girl has had a rough intro to the screen side of life. I get that her first movie hasn’t been exactly kind to her. But she’s gotta get over that. So, she chooses to not act anymore. Anytime someone spots her, she will always be that actress. She needs to grow a set and stand up for herself.”

  “You have no fucking clue,” Charleigh mutters, and I’m starting to grow annoyed with it.

  “Charleigh, we’re friends. Good friends, I thought. I don’t really know what’s going on with you right now but spit it out.” Dylan didn’t seem the type, but maybe she said something to Charleigh, expanded on something to her to make me out to be this terrible person. “If you’re accusing me of something, tell me what lies Dylan told you, and I’ll set you straight.”

  I literally fed the woman.

  Twice.

  Not sure what laws I was breaking by doing that.

  There’s a pause as Charleigh seems to collect herself. “She didn’t tell you anything?”

  “No, Charleigh. She didn’t. She probably wouldn’t have even told me she was pregnant, but I caught her on the pier and the girl is clearly sporting a baby bump. What is she, like…two months? Three?”

  Charleigh’s laugh sounds like it was expelled from her. Like she wasn’t intending to make the sound. “God, Cade, try seven. Almost eight, even.”

  My forehead tightens as I frown, and I reach up to squeeze the bridge of my nose. “Not possible, Charleigh. She can hide her stomach with a sweatshirt.”

  “She’s just blessed in the baby department, as my mother has told her.”

  I sit up from the bed, fingers still squeezing my nose. “She has no belly. Well, she does. But I’ve worked with pregnant women.” Not too often, but often enough. “There is no way she’s popping out a kid in two months.”

  “Well, if you didn’t say…” Charleigh goes quiet and I drop my hand beside me on the bed.

  “What did Dylan do to make you hound my ass?”

  Charleigh stays quiet.

  When the A/C in the room kicks on, it’s almost deafening.

  “Char.”

  “I’ll send it to you.” And she hangs up.

  Frowning, I pull the phone from my ear and watch the screen. It’s only twenty seconds, thirty tops, before a multimedia message comes through.

  It’s a screenshot from an Instagram account.

  A single image.

  No caption.

  And the picture is zoomed in on a stomach.

  A slightly pregnant stomach�
�well, almost eight months pregnant, if I had to guess on whose stomach it was—and written in red on the side is #metoo.

  Before I can digest this, Charleigh texts me. She didn’t want the world to know. She didn’t want Grant to know. But you go over and suddenly she’s all middle fingers to the world?

  My own fingers—well, my thumbs—hover over the screen; I have no idea what to say.

  Everyone knows the #MeToo movement. It made national headlines and doesn’t seem to be going away; not that it should.

  My eyes fix on Grant’s name.

  Did he take advantage of Dylan?

  Was that asshole responsible for what Dylan was going through, and then the fucker sat back and laughed while the world ripped her to pieces?

  I start and stop a response five times before going back to the image.

  Charleigh doesn’t need my response.

  But maybe I can get one from @dilly.dilly.oh—and, as hot as I can feel my blood boiling in anger for this girl I don’t know but want to, I can’t help but laugh at the “Dilly dilly”. I’m sure she isn’t referencing the Super Bowl commercials from last year but still.

  Makes me chuckle.

  I close out of my messaging with Charleigh and open Instagram. Immediately, I search for Dylan with this newfound handle.

  And, of course, her profile is private.

  Shit.

  No other choice left, I request to follow her.

  I hit the blue button before I can think twice—not that I couldn’t unrequest—and am bombarded with three new messages from Charleigh.

  Walk me through what you did with her?

  What did you say when you saw she was pregnant?

  WHY AREN’T YOU ANSWERING ME!?!

  I debate turning off my phone and switching to my laptop, so I can keep an eye on this Instagram account, but Charleigh will just get ahold of the hotel and have her call sent to the room. If I take the room phone off the hook, I’ll likely find someone pounding down my door in an hour’s time.

  Hoping to please her, I send her a quick message back.

  I fed her pastries and coffee from that café you like

  I said, ‘your pregnant’ and that was the end of that

  I fed her pizza and wings I left

  that was all

  Charleigh appears to be writing back, the dots forming and going away, forming and going away.

  Finally, she responds with, You’re*

  I shake my head. Grammar police. Are you done? I’m ready for bed.

  She doesn’t respond, so I take the time to hop in the shower to wash the day off. I want nothing more than to go to sleep. Four a.m. will come too fast.

  After a quick wash down and a two-minute scrub to my teeth, I flip off the lights and slide into bed, thankful for the room darkening curtains that are already doing a great job. I sleep on the left side of beds, and I face the outside of the bed. This puts me directly facing the windows.

  Room darkening curtains are my friend.

  As much as I’d love to just close my eyes though, I have this system now.

  I can’t fall asleep without looking at Dylan’s picture.

  I told myself I was crazy, when I did it three nights ago.

  Avoided it two nights ago and didn’t fall asleep until after midnight.

  Last night, I just gave in right away.

  Tonight, I’ll give in too. If it means I’ll sleep…

  Such a creeper, I reprimand myself as I reach for my phone and open the gallery’s screenshot folder.

  And there she is.

  In her beautiful, but sad, black-and-white glory.

  I stare at the picture, further memorizing it.

  If I were an artist, I could probably recreate the image.

  Such a fucking creeper.

  I close the screenshot but before I can put my phone down, an Instagram notification comes through.

  I’m now following Dylan O’Neill.

  Huh. O’Neill.

  She really changed every bit of her name.

  There’s no way I’m sleeping right now.

  None.

  I pull up her profile and see it’s far less organized than mine even. There’s this new belly picture, but otherwise…

  There’s a set of three pictures from Coachella, but only one has her in it.

  Then there’s a picture from Christmas, if the decorated tree is any indication, with a woman who looks like she could be her mother.

  The next picture is even older.

  Dylan’s Instagram looks like she uses it whenever she thinks about it, and that’s hardly ever.

  It also appears to be a very private account, and she has a grand total of 30 followers.

  I oddly feel honored to be allowed into her space.

  Even though I want to talk to her, I’m not sure tonight’s a good time for it.

  With more effort than should be needed for a guy who only just met a woman who makes him curious, I put my phone back down and will myself to sleep.

  Chapter Nine

  Dylan

  “Thank you,” I say again, as I lead Crystal, my midwife, to the door. I almost forgot she was coming this morning, I was so preoccupied with the turmoil of thoughts running through my head.

  Only a few short hours after Cade left the other day, I found myself spiraling into another anxiety attack. I had this unbearable fear that he was going to tell the world I was pregnant, and the more hours that passed, the bigger the fears grew.

  Why wouldn’t he say something?

  He was a male, in a dominantly male field.

  Men always got what they wanted, and it was far more recognized in the filming industry. Very few women had their demands met, but the men…

  Case in point, Cade had demanded me to be in the film.

  When it wasn’t looking like he’d get his way, he came to me.

  He tried buttering me up with sweets and food, and when he still didn’t get what he wanted…

  I was terrified he was going to show up to the set in Vancouver and blast what he’d learned.

  Friend of Charleigh’s or not.

  So, I did what I thought I should.

  On a semi-private platform.

  Because even if I knew and vetted the handful of people who followed me on social media, there were always those few bad eggs. The ones who thought a five-thousand-dollar paycheck looked nice.

  I told the world I was pregnant before Cade could.

  But, something surprising happened.

  My life stayed quiet.

  No one was rushing to Lake Tahoe to get the latest story.

  My agent wasn’t hounding me to take interviews.

  Hell, the only person who called me was Charleigh, and she was frantic that I’d done something terrible. She was, after all, witness to the aftermath of my last breakdown.

  When she accused her friend of doing something, anything, to push me to this point, I had two thoughts—either she didn’t know her friend as well as she thought, or I made a poor judgement call thanks to anxiety.

  I was banking on the poor judgement call.

  Especially after seeing him pop in to my Instagram requests yesterday.

  Accepting his follow request was met with much apprehension but the only way he would have found me was through Charleigh.

  She must have talked to him.

  I was at the wave in my anxiety to realize he was probably a good guy, and Charleigh telling him about me and my being in hiding, hadn’t been so he would find me and blast my secrets.

  It was because he was

  Just

  A good

  Guy.

  God, I hope that’s the case.

  So, needless to say, Cade has been on my mind since his name popped up yesterday.

  Over and over throughout the night, Cade standing in the kitchen replayed in my mind.

  Him so near.

  His eyes. />
  His nose.

  That damn freckle.

  Then there was his voice.

  The way he smelled.

  The way his eyes roamed over me.

  And this morning, I woke up aching.

  Wanting.

  Unexpected feelings for a man I’d just met, so soon after the decision I was done with men, at least for the foreseeable future.

  If I were a different version of me, if I were in a different place in my life, I could see myself mustering up the courage to ask Charleigh about her handsome friend.

  See if we could be at the same place, at the same time.

  But I’m not a different version of me.

  I am in my current place.

  I’m pregnant with my previous co-star’s baby.

  And because I can’t remember the night it happened, I fear that I am the homewrecker the world painted me to be. Maybe alcohol made me a crazy person. Maybe I forced myself on Grant.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe.

  All the different scenarios, they don’t leave me alone.

  But it’s because I can’t remember that I fear I’ve become a statistic.

  I’m a woman who was taken advantage of.

  My lawyer suggested telling Grant; have him help pay for my pregnancy expenses.

  Just what I would need: the world knowing that my supposed affair with him resulted in a baby. I can imagine the headlines, and in my current mental state, I decided that him not finding out yet was the best action.

  Likely the wrong one, but it’s the angle I decided on.

  I watch my midwife leave after she gives me this week’s set of instructions, and I’m at once grateful to have her. Ellie White helped me find her. She’s professional and discreet.

  And kind.

  She’s very kind.

  Not sure what to do with my day now, I walk into the kitchen and avoid looking at my phone.

  I keep thinking that maybe Cade will message me.

  Reach out.

  Why else would he have found me on social media?

  I mean, at this point, it must be obvious I’m not doing the film. The cast and crew are into the week of read-throughs; they were probably going to start filming in the next week or two. Rehearsals would be underway, and the cast is official.

  So, why would he reach out?

  My mind betrays me again, and I can picture him standing in this very kitchen.