Tori
THE MIRROR NEVER lies: Carter slayed me with that kiss.
But my glossy eyes and flushed cheeks tell only part of the story. I’m light-headed, and my nipples tingle every time the fabric of my romper shifts against them. If I wasn’t in the resort restroom, I’d slip my fingers in my panties and take care of the ache between my legs. Instead, I dampen a paper towel and swipe it across my forehead. It’s not an adequate substitute—at all.
Squaring my shoulders, I give myself a mental pep talk: Yes, you’re attracted to Carter. No, you didn’t expect to do anything about it. But hiding in the restroom isn’t a mature response to those facts. Get out there and talk to him.
After exiting the bathroom, I spot Carter at the bar.
Except he’s not alone.
Instead, he’s engaged in a heated discussion with the man next to him, and judging by the glare Carter’s directing the man’s way, they’re not talking about the weather. I march down the lit path toward them, ready to intercede if necessary, my heart pounding against my chest. As I get closer, the man pulls out a large black camera and tries to snap Carter’s photo.
“C’mon, Mr. Stone. Give me one shot, and I’ll be out of your hair. What’s the harm?”
Carter blocks his face from view and jumps up from his stool while Damon and a resort security guard descend on the man. I slow my steps as I try to comprehend what’s unfolding. A few guests gawk at the commotion and gasp in surprise.
The man yelps when Damon twists his hand behind his back.
“You’re trespassing,” Damon says against the man’s ears. “You can’t come here and harass our guests.”
“C’mon, Mr. Stone’s used to this. Smiling for the camera is his job.” The man throws his body forward, trying to escape Damon’s hold, and yells at the guard, “If you break my equipment, I’ll break your neck.”
Smiling for cameras is his job? Mr. Stone?
The guard ignores the man while he and Damon switch places, and then the guard pushes him toward the walkway leading to the hotel lobby.
Carter has his back to me as he paces and rubs his neck. When he turns around, his eyes plead with me to understand. And I do. Oh yes, I really do.
Carter Williamson is Carter Stone.
Carter Stone is Carter Williamson.
My stomach quivers, and my chest tightens. He’s an actor. A well-known actor. And for the past three days, I’ve made an ass of myself as he pretended to be a regular guy who . . . how did he describe it? Oh, right, a guy who works on studio sets.
I can’t even begin to process all of this, but I do know that I can’t stay here any longer. I turn and sprint through the courtyard, refusing to acknowledge Carter’s choked voice as he shouts my name.
Within seconds of entering my hotel room, I have my phone at my ear, and I’m waiting to speak with an airline customer service representative, because this vacation sucks, and I want it to end.
Puñeta.
I ESCAPE ARUBA on the first flight back to Philadelphia the next morning. The guy in the seat next to me attempts to manspread, but I shut it down with a pointed look and a shake of my head. He wisely snaps his knees together.
I’m extra pissy because I had to pay a flight-change fee, making this already expensive trip more unaffordable. I can hear my credit card crying now. Not good circumstances under which to process, but process I shall.
I dissect every conversation for clues to Carter’s identity. How much did he hide? Or had I just been obtuse? He told me he was a Hollywood insider who worked on studio sets. I’m guessing from his perspective, that’s technically true. In my mind, he was being annoyingly and purposefully vague. And did I really ask him to share gossip about Hollywood celebrities? Shit. My face flames when I recall that exchange.
A flight attendant taking drink orders hovers in the vicinity. I pull down my tray table and ask him for a cup of coffee. When he’s gone, disparate thoughts crash into my head like a tsunami. I got Carter drunk. I goaded him into a situation that could have resulted in serious bodily harm. The dogs. Okay, the dogs were hilarious. But wait a minute. He let me buy him drinks, the bastard. The least he could have done was offer to pay for his own damn liquor.
The main takeaway? He’s a celebrity, whose company I enjoyed under false pretenses, and we shared one of the best kisses of my life. Sadly, I’ll compare any future kiss to that one.
I squeeze my eyes shut. No, don’t do this to yourself, Tori. You know from experience that overthinking a bad situation only worsens it.
After taking a sip of the terrible coffee, I throw on my headphones and listen to my favorite playlist for times like these. I tap my thighs as I listen to Destiny Child’s “Survivor.” The lyrics remind me that I’m being overdramatic about the situation.
I don’t have to survive Carter. I just need to move on.
AFTER PAYING MY short-term parking fee, I drive to my apartment in the city’s Fairmount section. Because it’s Saturday, I zip through traffic and get to my place in less than thirty minutes.
With one hand on the carry-on handle and the other hand holding my keys, I kick the door to the apartment closed. I’m not sure if it’s the apartment or me, but something has changed. It feels empty, or maybe I’m empty. I just don’t know. I take a deep breath and drop my keys into the bowl in the foyer. Abandoning my suitcase at the door, I sort through the mail that came in while I was gone.
Eva’s melodious voice drifts through the apartment, which means it’s cleaning day. She’s singing to the tune of “I Feel Pretty” from West Side Story, except this is Eva, so she changes the lyrics—typically, to fit her mood.
I feel petty,
Oh so petty,
I feel petty, and bitchy, and right
And I pity
Anyone who fucks with me tonight
Lalalalalalalala
Oh, I’m returning to grumpy Eva. Fantastic.
My roommate breezes through the living room with a duster in her hands. She halts when she sees me. “What are you doing home? I expected you to come back tomorrow.”
I’m not ready to debrief her on my vacation—not yet—so I shrug. “Change of plans.”
She tilts her head and surveys my face. “Spill it. And don’t be cute about it, because today’s not the day. What happened?”
Eva rounds our teal sofa, drops onto it, and sets the duster by her feet. She adjusts the neckline of her black tank top, looks up at me expectantly, and pats the seat cushion.
I blow out a harsh breath and flop onto the faux fur armchair across from her. “I met someone.”
Her dark eyes brighten, and she claps. “Please tell me you had copious amounts of cake by the ocean.”
“I did not. But he was nice. And I enjoyed his company. And I kissed him.”
Eva purses her lips. “None of that sounds like a reason to come home early.”
“And he neglected to tell me he’s a minor celebrity.”
She sits up, her eyes glowing and alert. “Who is he? Someone I’d know?”
I nod. “I think so. Carter Stone.”
Eva widens her eyes and leans forward. “The TV actor? From Man on Third?”
That’s not how I think of him, but yes, that’s exactly who he is. “Yep, that’s him.”
“Ooh, he’s hot.” Then she shakes her head and frowns. “But how could you not know it was him?”
“He’s lost some weight. A lot of weight, now that I think about it. And he was sporting a beard. I’m telling you, Eva, you wouldn’t have made the connection, either.”
“Right,” she says with a dubious glint in her eye. “So how’d you find out he was Carter Stone?”
I give her a play-by-play of my last evening in Aruba. Afterward, she regards me with a bemused expression. “You left without talking to him?”
“Yes,” I say, drawing out the word. “What the hell would we talk about?”
“You could have asked him to explain why he never mentioned his true career. When you ask questions, you get answers. You should try it sometime.”
“I ask questions all the time,” I say.
“No, you really don’t,” she says with a laugh. “May I remind you that you left the country to escape a confrontation with Mason? Who, by the way, has stopped by twice in three days.”
“Oh, Eva. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to leave you to clean up my mess. Is that what’s got you grumpy?”
“I’m not grumpy because of Mason. I’m skilled at showing men the door.” She sweeps a demonstrative hand up and down her body. “This less-than-bubbly mood is courtesy of my dad.”
Eva’s parents separated when she was ten, and her father took primary responsibility for her care after that. Unfortunately for Eva, he reminds her of his martyrdom any chance he gets. “What’d your father do now?”
“I told him I was studying to get my personal training certification, and he was not impressed.” She mumbles something to herself. “Told me to stop futzing around.” She runs her fingers through her hair—this week it’s styled in a pixie cut—and rests her fingers at the nape of her neck. “Anyway, you’re trying to change the subject. So what happens now?”
“What do you mean?”
“With Carter Stone?”
There’s not much to think about here. “Nothing. Nothing happens now with Carter Stone. He’s off to Hollywood, and I’m off to bed for a nap.”
She rises from the couch and pulls me out of the chair. “I’m glad you got home safely,” she says as she wraps me in her arms. “And I’m sorry Stone disappointed you. But consider the bright side: You kissed a celebrity, and you and Mason are history.”
Well, Carter and I are history, too.
And for some annoying reason, that fact doesn’t comfort me in the way I know it should.