We had spoken for one hour straight about different bodily rashes.
Emerson was adamant that the baby had chicken pox. Her fiancé, Logan, argued that it was poison ivy. The poison ivy seemed far-fetched but nevertheless—images were sought after on Google and my appetite dwindled down to nothing after the horrendous pictures I saw.
It was my first time meeting Logan Carrington. He was exactly how Emerson described him: stubborn, hot-headed and gorgeous.
He had an athletic build. Defined muscles from what I could see. And the longer I sat across him, the more he looked exactly like Lola. I couldn’t quite work it out, perhaps it was the light eyes or the way their faces contoured.
Emerson and Logan had something unique about their relationship, something I hadn’t seen before. Like he knew what she was thinking, or she pre-empted his next move when grabbing the last turkey sandwich. They argued constantly, laughed equally, and despite the occasional heated tension—I enjoyed being in their company.
I let out a yawn unexpectedly, covering my mouth and apologizing for my poor manners.
“Late night?” Emerson grins while ripping a piece of lettuce out of her sandwich.
“Just a tad over my bed time.” I don’t want to appear rude or grouchy, offering a weak smile before pouring myself a much-needed coffee.
Logan begins to tell us about his trip to Brazil, what it was like to coach a bunch of teenage boys and the pressure of mentoring them. Somewhere during the conversation, I zone out.
Last night wasn’t what I expected.
He didn’t touch me.
Not a single time after the moment he asked me to stay.
We sat in his den, watching a black-and-white movie play on the screen. It wasn’t romantic, it wasn’t sexual—it wasn’t anything.
We had moments when we watched quietly, engrossed in the storyline. Moments when we spoke about the scene that just finished or some random topic he would bring up, and somewhere during the night, I fell asleep on the brown leather sofa only to wake in the early morning covered by a blanket.
Wesley was nowhere to be seen. His housekeeper woke me up, speaking her native Spanish. I couldn’t understand a word. It took me ten minutes to figure out she was offering me breakfast and that was only because she dragged me to the kitchen. He hadn’t left a note, nothing to tell me why he left. I didn’t know what to feel.
His company comforted me in ways I never imagined a stranger could. Then he goes and does something like this—abandonment. I’m left questioning what last night meant but give up when my brain begins to hurt and I come to the conclusion that I was just convenient for him and at the end—he lost interest.
“Drink up, you need a caffeine hit if we’re going to get through these contracts.” Emerson creates a pile for me and opens the first page. “So, Wesley said nothing in the meeting?”
“Not really. Jeff kind of spoke and Wesley just sat.”
“How predictable,” Logan snarks.
Emerson raises one eye at him, quick to ignore his childish comment and move on.
“I thought he would sign it over.”
“The business?” I’m confused by her question, and maybe—the whole situation. “He mentioned nothing of the sort. I mean, he seemed distracted.”
I’d said too much. I sensed it when Logan’s brows raised. Emerson looked disappointed. I’m not the type of person to pry, but I had managed to foolishly spend the night with a stranger. A man who held secrets that Emerson looked like she knew. This business arrangement of theirs made no sense. She didn’t want to work with him and he seemed uninterested.
Logan taps his knuckles on the table, fist curled into a tight ball driven by frustration and anger. “I don’t understand why you don’t just let go. We’ve got money.”
“Because I built this from nothing. I can’t just give up…”
His stare is anything but sympathetic. It’s cold and unforgiving. “It’s like you don’t want to let go.”
“Logan,” she warns. “Not again. Please.”
It was like a car crash. You want to turn around because watching is painful but at the same you need to know if the victim pulls through. Logan drops the subject and Emerson is quick to talk about something else.
For the next thirty minutes, we go through the contracts, highlighting questions for Jeff. We talk until the baby wakes up and Emerson leaves the table to retrieve her. With Logan busy on his own cell, I decide to check mine.
There were a dozen messages from Phoebe; a state of panic that only Phoebe would find herself in.
Talk me out of getting bangs
Like right now…
I think it will make my face look skinnier.
Like Reese Witherspoon.
I got bangs.
Why didn’t you talk me out of this!
I look like a ten-year-old boy.
The messages went on and on, pictures attached of her new do. I laughed quietly, not arguing that the hairdresser did a poor number on her hair. I respond quickly, fielding through her regrets. In the middle of my best-friend duty where I begin to tell her it’ll grow back—a message appears from an unknown number.
Sorry I left. Not sure why I did.
I stare at the few words. I wasn’t sure how he got my number or even how to respond. I look up at Logan; he’s busy typing something on his phone. It gives me a few moments to think about what to say. My gut tells me I should just cut ties now. Wesley had issues I should probably just stay away from.
Then my secret gut—the one underneath that gut—types faster than I can think.
I don’t even know how to respond to this.
I hit send, instantly cringing at my honesty and letting out a frustrated sigh.
“Is everything okay?” Logan asks, lifting his eyes away from his screen though he is still typing.
“Uh, yeah. Just did something I probably shouldn’t have. You know, stupid text.”
He nods his head. “Boyfriend?”
“Um, no, boyfriend is back home.”
Liam. How the concept seemed so foreign. I needed to stop now. This wasn’t right. My head has been all over the place and Wesley filled this emptiness that had consumed me.
“Alaska, right? Emmy was telling me. You must think it’s crazy out here. I know I do.”
Logan tells me about Emerson and him growing up back east. How simple their lives were and how family meant everything to them. Emerson’s brother—Ashley—was Logan’s best friend. He was also a soccer player and the three of them being in the limelight was a far cry from their simple upbringing.
He was so proud of her—that much was obvious. When he spoke about her, his eyes lit up. The contours of his face changed and he spoke with adoration. Though in her presence, he played the ignorant card and purposely riled her up to goad some sort of reaction.
“Sounds like she was the one all along.” I smile softly, admiring their love story.
“Yeah.” He grins. “Just don’t tell her that. She gets a big head.”
“I won’t, though I’m sure she knows that. So, you guys have been together for how long?”
He raises an eye, thinking for a moment before answering. “Almost two years.”
“Oh, I somehow thought it was longer.”
“Depends on what you consider together. She was with someone but the circumstances were complicated. I’m sure you know all about it anyway. The whole world does.”
My expression freezes on a smile; another moment where my lack of celebrity knowledge makes me look like a dumbass.
“You look confused.” He belts out a laugh. “C’mon, you’re her assistant. You don’t need to pretend you don’t know.”
I raise my hands in defeat. “I’m confused because I have no clue. I don’t really watch TV or keep up with this stuff. I had no clue who Emerson was or you. I’m sorry.”
“Really? But you must have Googled her and all this shit would have come up?”
My head swings left to right. “Nope. I prefer not to let that get in the way of our working relationship. I’m here to help her. I don’t need her whole life story in order to do that.”
“I like you. Every assistant she’s employed has had an ulterior motive. You’re different.”
“I hear that a lot.” I sigh, still unsure whether ‘different’ was a good thing.
“It’s not a bad thing. Look, you’re young. Just keep your head strong. You seem to come from a stable family background so don’t let people out here sway you into a different lifestyle. Emmy changed when she moved out here. She became one of them but things changed one day. The moment she withdrew herself from that life.”
“I’m assuming you mean the reality show?”
“So, you do know.”
“Only that much. Not the details of it,” I tell him.
Logan places his cell down, resting his elbows on the table and rubbing his temple. This topic was a sore point. His body language immediately shifts; on guard and strained with anger.
“Wesley needs to not be around her.”
That name. Anytime it came up—it was bad news.
“It’s none of my business, so please, tell me to butt out. I understand why Emerson has attachment to the business but why on earth would she choose a business partner like Wesley?”
There is a bottle of water in the middle of the table unopened. He grabs it with force, screwing the cap off and drinking the water—stopping mid-way.
“Wesley’s her ex-fiancé. He’s being a dickhead and holding on just to stay close to her. That’s why I need you to keep an eye on him. I mean, you have to deal with him now. That’s what I told Emmy.”
The other day the both of us were supposed to meet with him. I didn’t know whether he knew that she was meant to be there. The last thing I wanted to do was cause an argument between them, so I keep that information to myself.
Then—the penny drops loud and clear. Did he say ex-fiancé???
Emerson steps outside, singing Baa Baa Black Sheep to baby Lola. She hands her over to Logan and he throws her into the air, laughing at her small giggles.
I’m confused, dazed, and the vibration of my cell doesn’t register until moments later.
I need to see you.
“Milana? Milana, are you okay?” Emerson leans in, breaking my trance.
“Boyfriend,” Logan mutters.
“Oh, right. I didn’t know you had a boyfriend.”
“It’s complicated,” Logan fills her in.
Emerson crosses her arms in a huff. “Logan, can you let her answer? Maybe you need to leave. Girl talk.”
He mumbles something beneath his breath while standing up and cradling the baby in his hands. There’s a patch of grass near the patio with a small swing set. Moments later, the baby is giggling in the baby swing as he pushes her gently.
“Okay, that man can be a painful ass sometimes. I’m sorry about him. You look upset?”
“No, I’m fine,” I reassure her, not wanting this to get in the way of work. “How about we finish reading over the contracts? I’d like to head home soon and work on your itinerary for your trip to Phoenix.”
She rolls her eyes, sweeping her hair into her hands and tying it up into a messy side bun. Emerson was laid back. Nothing like the Hollywood Divas that seem to be around every corner here. It’s why Logan’s comment surprised me and then—my thoughts lead back to Wesley.
I read the text again quickly. He needed to see me but why? A man sends you a text like this and there’s usually a sexual connection of some sort. Wesley’s actions made it clear he wasn’t interested in sex with me.
And I wasn’t interested in sex with him.
My internal voices scream at this conversation. Sex with Wesley shouldn’t even be a topic worth thinking about. Just because he’s hot in that bad-boy type of way and does these things with his eyes mean nothing. Nothing.
Milana, answer me please.
Emerson is listing items that she needed me to find before her trip. I jot them down quickly, ignoring his persistent texts until my cell beeps again and the temptation is too great that my eyes glance sideways and see his words sit on the screen.
I’ll be at your place eight on the dot.
My eyes widen in panic. He can’t just come to my house. How would he even know where I lived? This is textbook stalker behavior. Phoebe warned me about this during one of her many lectures before I left and—I had been through this before. The memories—though distant—come flooding back in a whirl of emotions.
You’ll do no such thing! What do you possibly need that is so urgent???
Fifteen minutes pass with no response. I suspect that my forwardness shut him up for good. I place this nonsense aside and finish working on some things with Emerson. As the afternoon creeps in, I say goodbye to Emerson and Logan, hoping for a smooth ride back home.
It’s warm again this afternoon; my skin getting used to the California sun. Inside the car, I blast the AC and crank some radio station playing a ’90s remix. My wish for a smooth ride home vanishes as soon as I hit the 405. It’s standstill traffic; a sea of red lights and the sun glaring in our direction. It takes me another hour to get home which should have been a twenty-minute drive. By the time I get into my apartment, I manage to crash onto my bed with exhaustion.
I wake up with the sun barely visible and the sounds to some ghetto beat out on the street. Rubbing my eyes and propping myself up against my headboard, I fumble for my cell beside me to see the time.
Seven forty-five.
And a text from Wesley.
You.
My skin begins to swelter in the confinement of my room. I rip my shirt off, taking deep breaths to ease this feeling of…I don’t know. Nerves and fluttering. Like something is loose in my stomach and running wild.
The tips of my fingers type on their own accord; communicating what my mind thinks but my body argues. But half way through my text, he sends another text.
Fifteen minutes.
I give up texting, rushing to the bathroom and turning the shower on cold to cool my body. My hair is tied up into a bun to avoid the soak, and moments later, I’m dressed in a pair of tight black jeans and emerald green blouse. I take my hair out, brushing it and letting it sit against my back. It’s grown so much; reaching the small of my back. I’ve always worn it long, habit I guess from when I was a kid.
Flynn had left a note on the coffee table, informing me he had another gig tonight. I quickly grab my purse and head outside, deadlocking the door before running downstairs and almost tripping on Joe from apartment one who is passed out with a bottle of bourbon.
A loud roar rips through the street, catching the attention of my neighbors. People stare; some with curiosity and some with fear. The orange and black motorbike is pulled up at the curb with Wesley sitting on it. He puts his foot on the gas, revving his exhaust, causing more attention.
I didn’t do bikes. Correction: I doubled on a scooter once in college and never again. This was a death trap on wheels. What if I fell off? What if he fell off and I went with him?
“I can’t get on that.” I shake my head in panic. “I could die. I don’t want to die.”
He doesn’t say a word, handing me a helmet.
I stand still, frozen almost. He pulls off his helmet, hair a wild mess but looking so sexy that my insides do that fluttering backflip again. Calm down…it’s all a ploy to get me on the bike. I’m not sure why I take the helmet from him, staring at it with fear. The warmth of his finger graces my cheek, tracing it down until he cups my chin and raises my eyes to meet his.
The weight of his stare is deep; drawing me in with its dangerous intentions.
“Don’t you think it’s time to start living?”
“I’m living,” I whisper in his touch.
His hand guides my chin closer to his, creating this small gap between us. It’s so small that his breath reaches my lips and nothing makes sense. I have no thought process, I have no words. He’s doing something to me that I cannot explain. Breaking my walls down into a crumbling mess.
His lips graze across my mouth; sensually and with a slow burn. My eyes close on cue, allowing myself to feel this sensation of lust.
“I want to take you somewhere.”
I react timidly. “I’m scared.”
His forehead presses against mine, his words strained. “I won’t hurt you.”
I pull my body away from his, distancing this closeness and placing my helmet on. He could hurt me. Yet I get on his bike, wrapping my arms around his body which comforts me instantly. He jumps on the gas, rubbing his hand on my thigh, warning me to hold on.
I hold on, awaiting this adventure with Wesley Rich.