Chapter Six

Cade

I decide that I’ve already breached privacy by going through the front gate; the least I can do is ring the doorbell.

I mean…

If Tatum’s here, she heard the warning of me bringing the truck through the gate.

She knows I’m here.

I press the small cream-colored button—blends in with the stone-sides of the house—and can hear the soft melodic tune from out here.

I could turn around; face the drive.

Give Tatum my back.

But no.

I’m going to be that super creepy guy who stands outside the glass door, watching for her.

Will she come from the kitchen in the back?

From the two-story tall living room, to the right?

Or maybe she’ll come gliding down the curved staircase.

My eyes move throughout the house until finally, movement from the upper balcony catches my attention.

And there she is.

Looking displeased.

I can’t help but grin.

I watch as Tatum O’Malley makes her way down the staircase, dressed surprisingly similar to me, but where my long-sleeves are the t-shirt variety, hers is a hoodie that is far too heavy for the sixty-degree morning.

She makes up for it with the super short-shorts that showcase strong thighs and long legs.

This woman is no stick, not like so many in Hollywood tend to be. She also can’t be much taller than five-foot.

Her eyes latch onto mine through the distance, and if anything, her lips pinch tighter; even her crossed arms tighten a fraction.

She reaches the door and finally lets go of her hold on herself, slipping a hand into the pocket of her sweatshirt and the other unlocks the two deadbolts. When she pulls open the door, small blonde fly-aways along her temples blow in the breeze. Her hair is otherwise swept up on top of her head, a lopsided mess of hair in the popular messy-bun fashion.

“You must be Cade.” Her tone is unamused, but her voice…

Hell, watching the clips of her last night did not prepare me for her voice. In person, it’s sweeter, but with just a hint of rasp.

“Tatum.”

She swallows at that, opens her mouth, then closes it again with a shake of her head. With the door only opened enough for her body, I’m clearly not stepping into the house quite yet. She keeps a hand on the knob while she leans into the jam.

“You’re wasting your time. I’m sorry. But I’m not doing films right now.”

“I brought coffee,” I try. I’m going to break through this woman’s walls, whatever they may be.

She shakes her head, the half-smile on her face is not one of joy.

Maybe annoyance.

“I’m sorry, but no. I’m sorry you drove all the way up here. You should have listened to Charleigh.”

“You may as well let me in, Tatum,” I say, trying to change tactics. “I have access to the house.” Okay, so that just sounded creepy.

Hopefully she wasn’t a police-on-speed-dial actress.

“I have pastries. Charleigh’s favorite spot in town. Surely you know of it? Maybe you went there this last weekend with her?” I hold up the hand that’s holding both a coffee and the pastry bag, rocking it back and forth. I watch her eyes—an eerily clear gray—move to the bag, and she swallows.

She wants the pastry.

“You know you want it.”

She looks to me, shaking her head. “I already ate. No, thank you.”

Tatum steps back and tries to close the door but I wedge my foot into the jam before she can.

“Please. Let’s just talk about it.”

“The answer is no.”

“Five minutes.”

“It will still be no.”

“Two minutes.”

“No.”

“Please.”

She shakes her head.

I wave the bag around again.

She sighs—and rolls her eyes only to hold them up, as if she’s looking for patience from the clouds. “You’re wasting your time, Cade.”

“No such thing as wasted time with a pretty girl.”

That earns me a small, but real, smile. Too quickly though, it’s gone.

“I don’t like pushy men.”

“Two minutes, and a chocolate drizzled croissant. Then you can say no all over again.”

Her lips push out and I’d guess she’s chewing on her cheek. Perhaps a nervous habit?

But then she’s stepping back, and I walk into the house.

***

The woman stood her ground.

I mean, what was I going to do? Show her a script that she’d already read?

Tell her about the beautiful countryside we’d be shooting in? Turns out, her television show was filmed in Vancouver too.

So, basically…

I was ill-prepared.

I don’t know what I thought.

Maybe that by me coming and showing her what a good guy I was—with a coffee she didn’t touch and a pastry that she nibbled on only—that she’d decide, “Yeah, sure. Let’s do this thing!”

I wasn’t giving up though.

She may have walked me back to the door five minutes later.

She may have watched me drive away.

But I was far from done.

I went back to that same coffee shop, but this time to use the internet.

I Googled the hell out of Tatum O’Malley.

Learned what she’s quoted to loving.

Pizza.

No surprise there.

The woman is barely eighteen, and every teenager on the face of the planet likes pizza.

Her age does make me take a step back, though, even if only a small one.

I guess, yeah, she looks young, but with her talent, I’d have pegged her for closer to my age of twenty-one. Maybe twenty.

Perhaps it was the pictures of her with Grant where she was clearly wasted that had me thinking she’s older than she really is, but that’s L.A. for you. Age does not deter a person from drugs and alcohol.

Well, if coffee and pastries didn’t do the trick, on to plan B then.

Late lunch.

Pizza, and wings, and cinnamon knots.

This time when I walk up to the front door, there isn’t any movement inside the house.

I move the pizza box and bag to my left hand and try the door; of course, it’s locked, but with a quick four-number code to the electronic pad, the locks all slide over.

“Tatum?” I call out as I step into the large foyer. The house is quiet as I close the heavy door behind me. “It’s Cade.” I look to my right; she’s not in the living room.

Look up.

I hear no rustling, signifying she’s not on the second story.

I walk back toward the kitchen and drop the items off on the giant counter top, the very one Tatum and I sat at only five hours earlier.

Looking around, I see the place is immaculate. The woman keeps after herself.

Our earlier coffee cups are nowhere to be seen. There are no dishes in the sink. The countertop even looks like it was wiped down and cleaned.

There isn’t a crumb to be found, nor a water spot.

“Tatum?” I try again, louder this time.

Still, nothing.

When I look back to the lake, I see why.

At the end of the pier, in the same spot as the picture with Charleigh, I see her.

And I see a hell of a lot of skin.

She’s sitting at the end, with her feet over the edge. I imagine her toes are in the water. She’s leaning back on her hands while she wears very little—a white bikini, if I’m not mistaken.

I walk out the large sliding glass door and onto the porch, quietly making my way down the stone and boulder staircase. The nearer I draw to the pier, the more I notice music. As my eyes scan the pier, I make out a small speaker beside her.

Smart girl.

Putting in earbuds when you’re out in a secluded place probably isn’t the smartest of ideas, so with the speaker, she’s still semi-aware of her surroundings.

“Tatum,” I say, but I maybe kind of purposely keep my voice low.

I mean, I don’t want to startle her. Not exactly.

But for some unexplainable reason, I’m enjoying this moment.

Walking up to her, while she’s unaware.

Okay, that sounds creepy too.

What is it with me and this woman and the creepy thoughts?

I swear, I’m not normally such a stalker.

Before I step foot on the pier, I call out her name again, this time so I’ll be heard. Don’t exactly need her falling into the lake.

And she startles.

Hard.

It’s also suddenly very clear why Tatum O’Malley is in hiding.