Homewrecker Page 6

I shake my head, removing the image from view, but then my eyes land on the dry erase board.

  Where Cade left his number.

  I should erase it.

  I won’t use it.

  I can’t bring myself to erase it though.

  Not yet.

  Maybe tomorrow.

  Tomorrow, I’ll be strong enough to convince myself that any small feelings of want for Cade Johnston are ill-placed.

  You don’t want him.

  You don’t think that maybe you could like him.

  That maybe he could like you.

  No.

  Never.

  Well, certainly not now, at the least.

  And in a few weeks’ time, I’ll have a baby.

  A baby, I’d decided, I was keeping.

  Even if I fancied the man being interested in me, he certainly wouldn’t be when a screaming infant was in the picture.

  It does me no good to want the man.

  So, yes. I’ll leave his number on the board for today. I’ll give myself these last few hours, but after?

  That will be my task this week.

  Forgetting the day Cade Johnston introduced himself.

  Chapter Ten

  Cade

  I’d had every intention in messaging Dylan on Wednesday night, but Amanda and I had a sit-down session with an acting coach, going through the more emotional scenes of the movie.

  I was getting used to Amanda. She was funny. Easy to get along with.

  And she wasn’t a diva-pushover.

  If I had to compare her to any other actor’s set stories, I’d say she took a page from Jennifer Lawrence’s book. I have a feeling that Amanda will keep things on set fun and interesting.

  Doesn’t mean I’ve stopped thinking about Dylan, though.

  As badly as I’ve tried to keep her in the back of my mind, thoughts of the pretty blonde keep coming at the worst of times.

  Or maybe they were the best of times.

  On Thursday, Amanda and I had an intensive run through of our first kissing scene and the entire time my mouth was locked with hers, I thought of Dylan.

  What would her mouth taste like?

  How would her face feel between my hands?

  Would she rub her body up against mine, or simply hold me tight?

  When I return to my room later that night, I can’t not message her.

  Unfortunately, I suddenly go middle school boy with his first major crush and, with my phone in hand and her Instagram account up and in front of me, I can’t think of a single thing to say.

  A pick-up line would not work with a girl like Dylan.

  How can I tell her I’m interested in her, that I can’t stop thinking about her, without being too forward? Too strong?

  Hell, she’s pregnant. She’s having a kid in a handful-plus of weeks, and if that doesn’t scare me…

  Nothing will.

  It’s with that thought that I type something in without putting too much over-thought into it.

  How’s it going? Heard a storm was going to go through. Stay dry?

  I hit send before I can berate myself for stooping down as low as the how’s the weather line.

  Really?

  How’s the weather?

  That’s exactly what a guy asks when he’s interested in someone.

  I throw my phone down on the bed and begin my nightly ritual of shower, teeth, and, as badly as I want to boycott it, I shave my face, too.

  Costuming decided that my hair could stay. Said it worked with the personality I was giving the character—slightly carefree, but mostly just young and fun.

  They want me clean shaven though and, as long as I don’t have to cut my hair, I’m okay with this agreement.

  If I’m being honest with myself, though, I’m breaking down and shaving because I’m nervous for Dylan’s response.

  Nervous she hasn’t responded.

  Nervous she has.

  Ergo, I waste time shaving.

  During which, I try hard to not think about her.

  And fail.

  I think about the minutes we spent together.

  I think about her post.

  I think about Charleigh’s words: She didn’t want Grant to know.

  That’s the piece that keeps sticking out.

  Which only further settles the fear that whatever the tabloids thought they knew about Dylan-as-Tatum and her time with Grant, it was falsely reported.

  That doesn’t sit well at all.

  ***

  She didn’t respond.

  Nor does she overnight.

  I try not to feel disappointed, but, yeah.

  I’m disappointed.

  Apparently, my mood was evident in my acting today because I was called out on more than one occasion.

  Not wanting to be burdened with the need to check my phone every thirty minutes, I’d left the device in my hotel room, something I regret immediately upon getting back to my room that evening.

  Two missed calls and a text message.

  All from the same number.

  I sit down quickly at the end of the mattress and open the text message.

  Hey, this is Dylan. Sorry for the calls. I hung up the first time, then decided to leave a message after all, and then realized you were probably on set. So I’m texting you instead. Obv. I hope filming is going well.

  I wonder if she had to press send before erasing it all, too, much like I did last night.

  I can’t help but smile, and even though I want to play it cool, I redial the number Dylan called from.

  She doesn’t have a traditional ringtone, but instead, her phone has a playback of Maroon 5’s “Help Me Out.”

  Decent beat.

  I find myself nodding to it while I wait but then…

  “Hi.”

  I swallow hard and sit up straight. “Hey. How are you?”

  Awkward.

  As.

  Fuck.

  I can’t remember the last time a girl so easily weakened me in this way.

  I may not know her well, but Charleigh does.

  Then I think of her sad eyes.

  Her fierce determination.

  Her Instagram post.

  Even if I don’t know her, I want to.

  Badly.

  “You left your number on the fridge,” Dylan starts saying and I have a feeling she’s feeling just as out of sorts as I am.

  Can’t have that.

  “Yeah, yeah. That’s cool. Absolutely. I just didn’t think it was appropriate to ask Charleigh for your number. Not after she was reaming me out,” I try to joke.

  “I’m so sorry about that. She called me after and told me. I guess, yeah, I was worried, but then I realized I shouldn’t be, and…” Her sigh travels through the phone waves. “I guess I don’t trust people right now.”

  “I can understand that.” I nod a few times before adding, “Well, based on things I’ve gathered. Charleigh hasn’t told me anything. Much. Really, nothing.” Really fucking this up, Cade. “Just that you hadn’t wanted Grant to know. I don’t… I mean, if you… I guess what I’m saying is I don’t care. But if you wanted to talk to someone who isn’t Charleigh, I’d be willing to listen.”

  Her laughter is nervous, but her voice is sure. “Be careful what you ask for. You’d be in over your head.”

  “Maybe that’s not a bad place to be.” We’re both quiet at that and I feel that maybe I came on too strong anyway.

  You know, in my ten words to the woman.

  “Anyway,” I say, at the same time she says, “Okay, so…”

  She laughs lightly again, and I take that as my cue to continue.

  “Charleigh mentioned you’re further along than I thought. I assumed differently. Obviously, you can’t do a movie when you’re going to have a kid in like…what? Four weeks?”

  “More like ten. I hope. But I wasn’t lying when I said I’m done acting. I jus
t…” Her voice goes soft again, and when it’s clear she’s not going to finish her thought, I jump in.

  “If you don’t want to tell me, that’s cool, I get it but… Why are you letting him have such a hold over you? I’m assuming it was a mistake, right? I mean, this is a complete judgement call, based on what little Char’s said and the short amount of time I’ve known you.”

  “Yeah, I don’t…” she starts, but doesn’t finish, and I don’t press.

  “Do you have, I don’t know, maybe plans for the weekend? You doing anything? Is Charleigh going to come up and keep you company?”

  “No, she has some engagement with her parents in New Orleans this weekend. She was hoping to be in and out, but I think her dad scheduled press things for her on Sunday, so she’ll be stuck.”

  I take three seconds to decide on whether or not my next question is appropriate.

  And I decide…

  What the hell.

  “Would you want company? I have weekends off and wouldn’t mind getting out of Vancouver.”

  She laughs again and this time it’s more of a “yeah, right, you’re kidding,” laugh, but when I don’t say anything else, she stops abruptly. “You’re serious?”

  Two seconds this time, and I decide I’m dead serious. “Yeah. I’m serious.” Even though this fancy suite is in my view, and I can see my reflection in the mirror, I’m not really seeing my surroundings.

  I’m thinking of her.

  I’m imagining sitting on the pier with her.

  Sitting by the fire pit with her.

  As badly as I’d like to picture her sitting actually with me, on my lap maybe, I’m content in my vision putting a few inches between us.

  I’m struck with the fierce desire, fierce longing, of this girl.

  I want to know her.

  I want to know her story.

  I want to stand beside her and help her and hold her hand.

  If she has another spiraling attack, I want it to be me to help her reach the surface.

  This feeling came out of nowhere, but I know it as well as I know my name—I want Dylan.

  In any way she’ll give me.

  “I’m not really… I mean,” she stumbles over her words, “that’s nice of you but I couldn’t ask you to.”

  “You’re not asking. I am. Let me hang out with you, Dylan. Let me get to know you. Even if we talk about nothing.”

  “It’s your weekend,” she finally says after another pause, and I get the feeling she’s trying to brush it off. Agreeing to shut me up.

  Her words don’t come across nearly as laissez-faire as she’s probably hoping for.

  “It is. And I’d like to spend it with you.”

  I can hear her argument coming, but instead, she settles on, “Okay. When can I expect you?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Dylan

  I don’t know why I’m so nervous.

  Like, incredibly nervous.

  Cade called before boarding his flight last night—a red eye, at that—and then he called a little over an hour ago when he finally landed in Reno. I’m expecting the ring of the gate at any moment.

  I cleaned the kitchen and bathrooms. Changed the sheets in the second-best guest bedroom. I ordered groceries online at the butt-crack of dawn, then picked them up using one of the White’s extra cars three hours later.

  None of that helped with the nervous energy coursing through my body.

  I don’t understand why he wants to spend his days off set with me.

  Well, I do.

  Or rather, I hope.

  But I shouldn’t.

  Shouldn’t hope.

  You’re in no position to hope, Dylan Tate O’Neill.

  Still.

  I hope.

  And when the sweet chime of the gate being opened filled the house, I ignore the racing of my heart.

  Silly, stupid heart.

  I walk to the front door and slip into the pair of cheap flip flops I have there, before stepping outside to watch Cade’s truck come up the long driveway. With my arms crossed under my breasts, I probably look as closed off as I feel, but it’s the nerves and chill in the air. Because there’s no sense hiding that I’m pregnant, big belly or no belly, I chose to forgo my sweatshirt today, but in the shade of the giant trees in the front lot, it’s far colder out front than in the back.

  Cade pulls the giant truck to a stop just outside the third bay of garages and is quick to shut the vehicle off.

  From where I’m standing, I watch as he pushes his sunglasses to the top of his head and turns his head to look out the passenger window, straight toward me.

  Then he flashes a smile, and I can’t help but return it.

  Quickly, he’s climbing down out of his lifted truck and is making his way around the front. I move to meet him, even as he goes to the passenger door to pull out a backpack.

  “How was your traveling? Okay? Not a bad layover?” I ask, even though I’m not really that great at small talk.

  It makes things awkward.

  Thankfully, he doesn’t seem to care.

  “Long. Boring. Not a bad layover. Long enough to get real coffee.” He shoulders his backpack and shuts the door. “How are you?” I watch his eyes drop over me once and even though I know he knows I’m pregnant, I’m expecting him to stare and balk at my belly. The baby did some rearranging the last few days and he’s more obvious this weekend, compared to last. I stop myself from unfolding my arms and placing my hands protectively over the bump.

  “I’m good. I was busy this morning.” I shrug, as if being busy is absolutely normal for a single girl in the middle of nowhere in an extra-large house.

  “I hope I’m not interrupting anything.” He actually looks concerned and I can’t help but smile.

  “Nope. Nothing on my agenda. I had a midwife appointment for this guy,” I say, my hands finally moving to my stomach, “the other day. When I had my major meltdown. I’m sorry about that.” I watch as Cade moves closer and I have to force myself to stay in my spot. “But that’s the extent of my engagements,” I manage to add as he nears.

  “No need to apologize. I get it.”

  He stops in front of me and I search his eyes, trying to find the lies.

  The deception.

  And all I see is curiosity.

  “So, why do you want to spend your weekend with me?” I ask bravely, tipping my chin up and crossing my arms again.

  The action is comfortable.

  Or, at the very least, comforting.

  “You’re alone. I was alone. I want to get to know you.” He shrugs and gives me a half smile. “Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

  His eyes roam over my face and I find myself smiling even though I want to hold myself back from this man; I want to protect myself from any potential dangers. “I suppose.” I turn on my heel and head toward the house. “I got a room ready for you. I wasn’t sure if you had one in mind, but I chose the one that overlooks the lake on the east end of the house. It’s my second favorite room.”

  “And what one’s your first favorite?”

  I can hear him right behind me and I throw a smile over my shoulder. “Why, the one I’m occupying. The one on the west that overlooks the lake. The one with the balcony.”

  “Damn, I like that room.” His tone is clearly serious, but I can hear the hints of laughter.

  “It’s a good room.”

  “It is,” he agrees, and I think that maybe this won’t be such a bad weekend.

  Not that I thought it would, but I was afraid of the awkward small talk.

  I don’t think it will be so awkward, after all.

  ***

  After Cade settles in, I futz around the kitchen. Unsure how long he’s going to take, I decide to make a batch of my grandma’s chocolate chip cookies, a recipe I’ve known by heart since I was ten years old.

  I have a cookie sheet full of to-be bite-sized cookies in the ove
n when he makes his way downstairs.

  Before he steps into the kitchen, I can smell that he showered.

  The man smells divine.

  “Sorry. Decided to wash the plane off me. Those things are a cesspool of germs. Whatcha’ making?”

  “Cookies,” I set the timer as I tell him. When I turn, I see a perplexed look on his face. “What?”

  “Are they small cookies? Like, two bite cookies?”

  “I prefer one bite.”

  “And have you made them for Charleigh?”

  I nod, and his face breaks out in a huge smile, one that shows off laugh lines near his eyes. He’s only going to grow up to be even more handsome, if those little lines are a foreshadowing.

  But men are like that.

  They age like a fine wine.

  “She’s passed them off as her own. Unless you’ve taught her.”

  “That brat,” I laugh, shaking my head. “Nope. I’ve never taught her. It’s not a recipe that’s written down. It’s one you make by feel.”

  “Feel?” He pulls out a stool at the breakfast bar and sits, his eyes locked on mine. He’s genuinely interested.

  Nodding, I shrug. “Yeah. Feel. A handful of this, a pinch of that.” I shrug again. “By feel.” Realizing I’ve repeated myself—again—I dip my chin.

  “Well, they’re fantastic, and I am in awe. I can’t even make a good burger without Google. I always end up using the wrong spices.”

  Now I laugh. “How do you screw up a burger?”

  “I don’t know, but I do.” He shrugs and the look on his face…

  I could get used to looking at him.

  “So,” I say, turning away to check on the timer. “These have ten-ish minutes.” I start to clean up my space, needing to keep busy when Cade is so near. “What did you have planned for today? I know you said you wanted to hang out, but surely there were other things you’d be interested in?”

  “Nope. I’m interested in hanging out. Getting to know you, if you wanted to talk. If not, I’ll sit on the pier with you and tell you about me. It’s a boring tale but—”

  “You raced motocross,” I said, looking at him over my shoulder. “There’s nothing boring to your story, I’m sure.”

  “Did you Google me, Dylan?”

  I bring my dishes to the sink before retorting, “I don’t know. Did you Google me?”

  “Yes.”