Chapter Twelve

Cade

Dylan is a girl who won’t let anything go.

I can see it in how she protectively holds herself.

I can see it in how she almost undermines anything—everything—she says.

And I want to know how to fix it.

Hell, maybe that’s just her, but maybe…

Maybe the right person can pull her from it.

I want to be the right person.

She thanks me again as she walks past, heading to the back patio. Her eyes lock with mine for a solid three seconds before she casts them downward again, the smallest of blushes on her face.

The entire trip here—both the flights from Vancouver to San Francisco and San Francisco to Reno, and then the short drive from the airport, here—I tried to come up with a game plan.

I’m already bombarding her space.

I couldn’t hope that she’d open up, just by me being here.

But if I have to make this a weekly trip, I have zero issues.

I mean, regardless it can still be a weekly trip; instead of coming down to try and get her to like me, it could maybe turn to coming down to spend time with a girl who wants to spend time with me.

If push comes to shove, and whatever demons Dylan holds are too much for her to bear, if my being here turned out to be a bad thing, then yeah, I’d stay in Vancouver for the rest of filming. I’m not an asshole. I won’t force something on her.

I certainly would like to be here, though.

I’m so focused on my thoughts, I don’t realize that the timer is going off. “Shoot.” Jumping off the stool, I take long strides toward the oven, sure that I burned her cookies. I turn off the timer at the same time I pull on the oven door, my face assaulted with heat and the delicious scent of fresh cookies.

My mouth is already salivating.

These things are awesome.

I’m excited to know that it’s Dylan behind the mini cookies. I’m not sure why though. Maybe it’s the knowledge that I know a small piece of her.

That she’s a master baker.

Sure, they’re “just” chocolate chip cookies but man, these things melt in your mouth.

Thankfully, I see that they’ve survived my negligence and, after turning off the oven, I bring the cookie sheet to the oversized counter.

I can’t keep them on the sheet, but what can I do with them?

I look around the room and settle on pulling a long section of paper towels from the roll, laying it flat on the counter. Three to a spatula, I remove the cookies from the tray—and I grab the fucker to hold it still, with my bare hand.

“Fuck,” I mutter, shaking my injured hand around as I get the last of the cookies from the tray; the tray shimmying and sliding across the counter top. Once every small cookie is safe from burning, I toss the spatula in the sink and finally run my hand under water. It’s from the sink that I catch sight of Dylan.

She’s sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs, her feet propped on the firepit, and while her eyes are closed, and her face is etched in enjoyment as she basks in the sun, her hands still rest protectively on her stomach.

I didn’t want to say anything before but she’s definitely more pregnant now, versus last week. Her stomach grew over the last seven days, but I’m not exactly sure what the right protocol is, in telling a woman that.

Hey, your belly got bigger.

I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t fly.

I know she’s young. Hardly into her eighteenth year.

But damn, she’s beautiful.

I wave my hand in front of the faucet head, turning off the water with the fancy hands-free thing it has going on, and shake my hand off in the sink before gently patting it on jeans.

On my way outside, I snatch up three cookies, palming them carefully to not burn my hand again. Popping one in my mouth, I chew it quickly as I head outdoors.

“Hey.” I don’t want to startle her, so I give her fair warning I’m coming.

Slowly, she opens those gray eyes and she gives me a timid smile.

“They survived,” I tell her, holding out one of the mini cookies to her. She takes it as I hook my foot around one of the legs of the second Adirondack, moving it so it angles toward her just enough.

I fall into the deep back chair and sigh. “It’s nice today.” Lifting my healing leg, I prop my foot on the brim of the fire pit as I put away my second cookie of the quarter-hour.

“What did you do?”

I frown at her question. “What did I do what?” I ask as I chew.

She nods to my propped leg. “You winced.”

“Ah. That. That’s the reason why the movie was delayed the first time.” I keep my gaze on my foot, and I can’t help but compare how large it is compared to her dainty ones. “Dirt bike accident.”

“You mentioned you still ride. Just for fun?”

I nod. “Mostly, yeah. Just for fun. Even though my agent was pissed. It’s who I am, you know?” I move my head, so I can look at her.

I’d been working on taking small looks at her this afternoon. Nothing where I’d be obviously staring at her.

But now…

Now, I take my fill.

Her face is completely void of makeup; even her lashes are light without the added color of mascara. With her hair piled on top of her head, her long neck is exposed and just under the strap of her tank top, I see the start of a tattoo.

“What’s that?” I point on myself where her tattoo is.

Dylan looks down before pulling the strap to the side, exposing the word. “Enough. It was my teenaged rebellion. Got it after filming one day. My dad was less than pleased.” She has a small smile on her face as she seems to remember the day.

I lean into the arm of my chair, so I can get a better look. The single word is done in a long, flowy script. It’s very feminine. But the word…it holds a punch.

It’s not hard to put the puzzle pieces together though. “Have you always had issues? Shit, that came out bad. Not like, you have issues but… Enough.” I force myself to look at her face. “Have you always felt less than?”

She’s still looking down as she shrugs and releases her tank top. “Not always. But definitely as a teenager.” Finally, she looks at me. “It’s tough enough being a girl today. Add in being in the spotlight, and it’s terrible.”

“Other than January, you seemed to have a pretty positive place in the industry.” There were very few negative items printed about Tatum O’Malley before the party she went to with Grant.

“Yeah, but there’s always pressure to be better. To be more. And I didn’t handle that well. Then, add in…” Just like that, she clams up.

I lean back into my seat but don’t turn. I want to continue facing her. “Why don’t you want Grant to know you’re pregnant?” I ask, knowing I’m pressing.

Knowing fully well she may not answer.

She licks her lips nervously and turns her attention to the lake.

Just when I’m convinced she won’t answer, she does. “I don’t know what happened that night. I don’t know if I came on to him. Maybe I did. Maybe whatever I had to drink had me making bad decisions. I can tell you that before that night, I fully respected that he was married. And to be completely honest, I never really saw him as someone I wanted to be with. I’d just come out of a relationship. It was only a three-month long one, and it wasn’t super serious, but I’m also not the girl who jumps in and out of relationships. Before this,” she taps her stomach, “I slept with two guys. When I was fifteen, and then with that last boyfriend. I don’t sleep around. I have a really hard time wrapping my head around that night, especially because I don’t remember any of it.”

I can feel how hard I’m frowning as I take in her story, but this is the most she’s opened up and I don’t want her to stop.

“If I am the one at fault, I can’t deal with the press that will come with it. I know that I can’t keep the baby from his father; I have to come to terms with the fact Grant needs to know. But I also want to figure out what happened that night first. I don’t know where to start though.”

“Your birthday is in February, right?”

She shoots me a questioning look.

“IMDB,” I answer, so she nods.

“Yes. February twenty-eighth.”

“And this party was in January?”

She nods.

“Technically, that’s statutory rape.” It makes absolute sense to me. Granted, laws aren’t as cut and to the point as one would hope, but…

She could claim rape.

Her mouth parts and I can see her trying to take deep breaths. She looks away, then looks back at me. “I’m afraid it was also rape-rape. And there’s nothing I can do to prove it.” Dylan’s hand goes up to her face. “Oh my God, I can’t believe I said that out loud.”

I ache to reach out and pull her hand down, but I don’t. “Why not? Talk to me. Why do you think that way?”

She drops her hand and gives me the most exasperated look I’ve ever seen on a female. “Because I can’t remember anything after I was given a drink in the Uber.”

“Did you go to the hospital or police after?”

“No! I didn’t know! I woke up in my apartment to a flurry of texts and screenshots, pictures of me wasted and hanging off of Grant’s arm. I didn’t even think anything of it when I missed my period the first time.”

“You didn’t, like…couldn’t feel that you’d had sex?”

Dylan’s jaw bunches as she looks away. I have a feeling I pissed her off.

In fact, she crosses her arms again.

Yep.

Pissed her off.

“Look, I don’t know what it’s like for a girl. Maybe he has a little dick, and that’s why you didn’t know.”

A giggle bursts from Dylan’s lips and once again, she has a hand over her mouth, but this time it’s because she’s laughing.

When she’s through, she wipes at her eyes with the back of that hand. “Yeah. Maybe that was it. Small dick.”

“Shit, if he has to drug you to sleep with you, there’s a problem. Dylan, I think you should talk to a detective or someone. I don’t know. Someone legal.”

This sobers up her glee. “I have a lawyer.”

“And he said?”

“She told me I should get Grant to pay for my medical expenses.”

“Did she bring up your age?”

Dylan shakes her head.

“You need a new fucking lawyer. Sorry,” I add for my swearing outburst.

“If it was consensual though—”

“No, Dylan. Trust me. My parents drilled these laws in my head, both on the circuit and again when I joined the Hollywood scene. They reiterated it again and again until I was scared shitless.” I try to pass it as a joke, but I have deep seated fears from those conversations.

“Well, if it was consensual,” she pushes on, in a no-nonsense tone, “and I cry rape, then my image is even more tainted. At that point, I wouldn’t even be able to return home. I’ll have to find a new place to live because California will not welcome me with open arms.”

“Those who make Grant the victim, they’re the problem.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not… No. I know I’m going to have to tell him and as much as I’d rather wait until after the birth, I’m… God,” she sighs out. “Honestly, I was hoping that I could pass this baby off as anyone else’s. I apparently have a reputation now, and Grant hasn’t tried to reach out and find me so…” She shrugs and shakes her head. “Part of me really just wanted to fly under the radar.”

“Something tells me that you’re not a dishonest person.” It wasn’t in her makeup. The woman wore her emotions like battle scars; there wasn’t any way in hell she’d be able to keep that lie to herself.

“I’ll deal with it when it comes up,” she answers stubbornly. Before I can ask more questions, she has one of her own. “How long are you here for?”

Nothing like a subject change.

“You trying to kick me out already?” I try to ask it with a cocky grin, but I’m a little bit afraid she is doing just that.

Her chin is dipped to her chest again and her voice is quiet. “No, just curious.”

I wish I had the right to lift her chin.

Get her to feel like she should hold her head high.

That she can do those things.

Stand tall, chin up, shoulders back.

If she allows me to stick around, even if on the weekends, I vow to get her to that place.

“I have to leave at noon tomorrow, in order to catch my flight in Reno.”

Not even a full twenty-four hours here, but I feel like the hours are worth it. A day here, a day there. I may not be able to come right out and tell her I want to get to know her, to have her, to be by her side…but maybe I can get her to want the same things.

I have a feeling that if the actions come from her, she’ll be more accepting of it.

“All right. Well.” She drops her feet to the stone covered ground and stands up abruptly. She may be facing me, but her eyes are everywhere but on me. “Sorry to be a party pooper, but I need to take a nap. I feel like I should tell you to make yourself comfortable, but also think you probably know the house better than I do so… Do what you want, I guess.”

She lifts her eyes to mine for a brief moment, but quickly turns on her heel and heads into the house.

I’m not sure what to chalk this conversation up as.

A success? I broke down her walls. Got her to talk.

Or a failure? She couldn’t get away fast enough once it got too real.

It’s not worth pushing; not right now.

While she naps, then, I’ll just hang-out out here. Enjoy the weather. The sun. The view.

And try to think of how I can get her to agree to let me come back again next weekend.