Chapter Nine

Hale

 

“What the fuck is that?”

A black and white creature, more mop than dog, blinks up at me from my doorstep. I can’t see his eyes through all the fur covering them, but I’m pretty sure he’s giving me the stink eye.

“Hey, Hale!” Becca waves and hops out of a white van. “Good mornin’, darlin’.”

Becca’s hair looks the way it used to. Back when she didn’t bother blowing it or whatever it is women do to make it movie-star perfect. It’s messy in all the right ways, like when she used to let her sea-soaked strands dry in the bright summer sun.

There’s a hint of waves and natural highlights most women drop hundreds in salons to achieve. I never told her it’s how I like her hair best. Maybe I should. Hell, maybe I should start with a simple good morning, though not everything about it is good.

I barely slept. The shit I’m dealing with surrounding my court case gets less shitty each day. That’s the good part. To me and my legal team’s shock, all but one of the insider trading charges were dropped, and the ten counts of fraud charges were reduced to four. The bad news is the judge granted the feds another five months to strengthen their case.

“What case?” I asked Mason. “It’s obvious they don’t have anything to stand on.”

Mason agreed. “Our problem is, it’s turned political. The head of the agency wants to keep his job. When we prove he wasted time, resources, and money on a bullshit case, he’s done, Hale. The judge knows it, but gave him the time anyway.”

“Why?” I pressed.

“Because when we either prove your innocence in trial or get everything dropped, which is where we’re headed, the judge can say he’s given the feds enough time.”

“What about the supposed informant who turned me in and led them to the so-called evidence?” I countered.

“They can’t produce him.”

“Can’t or won’t?” I asked. “Big difference there.”

“We thought they had some kind of ace up their sleeve with this informant,” Mason explained. “But even though he reached out to the feds several times, and sent them after you, they never pinned down who he was.”

“What?”

“Tell me about it.” Mason made a face. “These idiots never clarified who he was or how to find him. He provided plenty of tips and information about you, but then he disappeared. They couldn’t even determine if “he” was a he. It’s a good thing for us. No witness, no evidence, no case. Our dilemma remains that the Head Fed can’t go down like this, so the agency is trying to find the informant and anything that justifies your arrest and the media circus this whole thing became.”

“What about us? Can we find him?” We, meaning them.

“We’re trying,” Mason said. “But we have less to go on than the feds. This is their Hail Mary.”

“Damn,” I said.

“Yeah,” Mason agreed. “But if they can’t find him, they have to let this thing go sooner, rather than later.”

In the meantime, I’m the one who looks bad, not the feds. I’ve spent the last few weeks making calls back and forth with Neesa—trying to keep the staff and what’s left of my business going—paying their salaries in the hopes I can return. Except, as insane as it sounds, this whole experience is not what’s keeping me up at night.

I told Becca what really happened with my folks. I’m still not sure why I did it. Maybe being around our friends and talking about the good times over supper triggered it all. Maybe it was Miss Sylvie’s pot roast, warm and savory and full memories of better days. Maybe it was the ocean. The way the waves soaked the beach, bringing me back to a time where I was a Wilder, a real one, and everything made sense.

Or maybe it was just Becca.

Okay. I’m really starting to hate that word “maybe.”

I’m not sure how I went from practically setting her pretty clothes on fire with just one dark look to spilling my soul like I would a slippery glass of milk. But Becca’s always had a hold over me, long before I kissed her, and now, years later, when I want to do a hell of a lot more.

I lean against the doorframe, watching and waiting for her to explain why she’s here with a dog who already assumes his place is with me. After a three-hour conference call with Neesa about what to do with the clients who have stuck by me, I’m ready to go for a long run and not stop until my worries are nothing more than a blur.

Too bad I can’t. Too bad the woman who can suck my heart clean through a straw lingers mere yards away with some guy wearing enough pastels to shame a flower. Jesus, what a morning.

Becca and all her raving beauty surprisingly don’t hold my complete attention. The sixteen-year-old looking dude, the one with the camera, pastels, and more eyeliner than should be humanly possible, brought friends. And when I say friends, I mean more than one mutt.

A fluffy white dog with (Lord, help me) barrettes on her ears like pigtails. wags her tail enthusiastically as Becca coos at it. Can’t say I blame the dog. Becca could have that effect on the world if she cared enough about what the world thought of her.

“Momma will be right with you, baby,” Becca says. “Oh, yes, she will.” She turns to pastel guy, her voice all business as they fumble with some equipment in the rear of the van.

The black and white dog is still sitting beside me, watching, waiting, and apparently torn between looking for a good place to raise his leg, or going for my throat. I suppose that’s the effect I have on the world.

I return the dog’s expression and look back up toward Becca. “Becks, I asked you what the fuck this is?”

“A dog,” Becca answers.

“I know it’s a dog. But what is he doing on my doorstep eyeing me like he wants to chew my leg off and bury it?”

“Oh, you’re just imagining things,” she says, batting her hand dismissively.

“I am not. Look at him!” I say, pointing.

As if totally taking her side, the big mop of a dog whines at me.

“Hale Wilder, you’re scaring him,” Becca accuses.

I watch the dog hunker down at my feet, his head down. “I wasn’t trying to scare you,” I tell him. He whines, earning me another reprimanding glare from Becca. “Okay, pooch, now you’re just making me look bad.”

I bend, letting him sniff my hand. He wags his thick tail, hard enough to send the leaves the breeze stirred along the night to flutter away. But when I stroke his head, his tail really starts thumping. This dog is a hot mess and I can so relate.

“Tootles,” Becca says. “Do you think Hale needs more cutesy?”

“Tootles?” I ask, giving the poor mutt a good scratch behind his ears. “Damn, Becca. The poor thing has it bad enough looking like a giant rug with a tongue. Did you have to call him Tootles?”

The photographer in pastels blinks back at me, horrified. He glances briefly at Becca. “Um. I’m Tootles. The dog’s name is Twinkles.”

I rise, ready to shut the door in everyone’s face when Becca shoots forward. Her ball of fuzz in barrettes bounces up and down in her arms, appearing excited just to be alive. “I recognize that look,” she says, all enthusiastic-like. “You don’t think this is a good idea. I’ll have you know, it’s only because you haven’t given it enough thought.”

“Are we talking about Tootles or Twinkles?” I mutter.

“Maybe both, shug,” she replies through her teeth. “He’s a good boy.”

“The dog?” I ask. He wags his tail when I look at him. “I suppose.”

“A very good boy,” the photographer says, like that will somehow change my mind about wherever Becca is headed. “He’s already licked me twice and we just met.”

“Well, he does seem right friendly, Twinkles.”

“I’m Tootles. Benji Tootles. The dog is Twinkles,” he reminds me.

This poor fucker. I don’t know if his momma or daddy are alive. But if they are, and depending how the next few hours go, I may have to drive to their house and smack the shit out of his father for giving him such a stupid name.

“You used to get beat up on the playground, didn’t you, son?” I ask.

Tootles’ face turns roughly the color of his pink scarf. “Um. Yes. But I went to a school that didn’t appreciate creativity or fashion.”

As soon as he says it, I feel bad and offer him my hand. “I don’t appreciate them as much as I should either, Tootles. But if you went to my school, I wouldn’t let anyone fuck with you.”

I mean as much. Me, Becks and our friends, we were pretty well known in school as the cool kids to be around. But we were never cruel. Not like some of the kids a man like Tootles must have seen in his time.

Tootles smiles at Becca as he releases my hand. “You’re right. He’s nice.” He motions to me. “I wasn’t certain when I first spotted you.”

“Hale’s bark was always worse than his bite,” Becca assures him. She tosses her hair and me a look that informs me I need to behave. “Tootles was intimidated when you stepped out of the house and growled.”

“I didn’t growl,” I say, all the while likely growling.

“What do you call asking me, ‘What the fuck is that?,’ instead of a decent good morning?” She skips past me. Twinkie, or whatever the dog is called, follows behind her, tail wagging and trying to keep up. What the hell? I thought me and him were starting to bond.

Becca puts the prissy dog down and rubs her hands. “It’s chilly in here. But that may work to our favor, seeing we’re going for a more wintery feel. Hale, did you get the linen pants and the light white shirt I sent over this morning?”

I stop in the middle of making coffee just to raise an eyebrow at her. “Those things were for me?” Shit. I haven’t seen her in a few days, so I was hoping she was having clothes delivered here with the expectation of staying.

“They’re designer,” Becca says, as if that’s going to make me jump on board the feminine-looking clothes ship.

“And linen breathes really well, in case you were worried,” Tootles adds.

“Yeah. That’s what I was worried about, Toot.”

“It’s Tootles,” Becca tells me. “That’s his professional name in the fashion industry. Kind of like Law Roach.”

“Who?’ I ask.

“Just put on the damn pants, Hale,” Becca says, showing more teeth than either of the mutts. “We need to get this fabulous day started.”

Translation: shut the hell up before I kill you in front of Tootles and the dogs.

I chuckle into my shoulder, trying to keep from full-out cackling. This little hellcat hasn’t changed one bit. “Why the linen? I thought you preferred me in little to nothing at all?”

Tootles gasps, throwing up his arms and growing flustered. “You didn’t tell me we were doing nudies. I think I’m going to need more light.” He whips out his phone. “Stefan? Did you leave yet? . . . What? . . . Go, back . . . that’s right. We need more light!”

Becca doesn’t bother correcting him, even though he appears close to losing his mind. She’s too busy grinning at me with a smile capable of roasting testes on an icy tundra. “Hale, I have a vision.”

“Does this vision involve dogs?” I ask, bending down to scratch the giant moppy head that rubs against me. “You plan to have me and Trusty on the cover?”

“Twinkles,” Tootles interrupts. “Precious, I need you to connect. This dog needs to feel like he belongs.”

Damn, he’s stressed.

Becca ignores me, bending down to pick up the prissy dog running in circles at her feet. “Her name is Anarchy,” she says.

“I would expect no less,” I say.

She laughs softly, her gaze lingering on the wooden floors. The sweater she’s wearing shouldn’t be doing anything for her. It’s light brown, almost gold, unlike the bright, bold colors she normally wears. But this one has a low neckline. Not too low, just enough to allow the eye to travel over the swell of her breasts. The color may not do anything for her skin, but it does bring attention to her pretty face and is more than enough to make me take notice. And those tight jeans she’s in? Y’all, Becca has always looked good in jeans.

She pouts her lips, pressing the dog to her and speaking a sexy whisper that should be out-lawed in at least twenty states. “What’s wrong, Hale?” she asks, cuddling the dog closer so its white fur rubs against her long, bare neck. “Don’t you like dogs?”

“Sure.” Sorry. What was the question? Damn, it’s hot in here.

Tootles shakes out his hands. “Which bedroom gets the most light?”

I shrug. “They’re all pretty bright. Feel free to look around.”

And he does, taking off in a sprint up the stairs. “Yes, Stefan,” he says into the phone. “We need nudies.”

I’m barely aware of him rushing around upstairs and barely notice when he races down to check the other suite. Becca has my full attention, although she’s too busy pretending not to notice. She’s not wearing much makeup and the clothes she’s in make her look younger, softer, not like the PR princess ready to fling her tiara at anything that messes with her.

Tootles returns, appearing less anxious and more determined. “I think his suite works best. There’s more room to work. More light. We can get him naked and tuck the sheet around him at the waist. White works best and, bonus, there are already white sheets on the bed. I’m thinking, more romance, less color. Shades of gray or likely straight up black and bold whites.”

He hurries to me. But I’m not all that focused on him. I’m still stuck on Becca and “naked.” I don’t know what this photo shoot is all about, but so far, I’m all in.

Tootles presses his hands on his hips, eyeing me up and down. “I’m thinking your hands tucked behind your head like so.” He threads his fingers and demonstrates for me, thinking I’m not that bright and that the action may be too complex for me. Tootles doesn’t have a lot of faith in me. I almost laugh, waiting, just waiting, to prove him wrong.

“I want you to look away from the camera,” he instructs. “You’re awake. Your focus is on the window. Toward the light and the future.”

“Infinite,” Becca says. “That’s the title. Infinite possibilities. Infinite future.”

“Love it,” Tootles agrees.

Becca strokes the dog, sighing as if everything is falling exactly where it needs to. I don’t pay much attention to her actions, but I should. Every mild gesture and expression draws me to her beauty, reminding me how stunning she is no matter how much time has passed.

“I know we haven’t started yet, y’all,” she says. “But if we’re going in that direction, I think it should be the last shot for the Vogue spread.”

“Vogue?” I ask. “What happened to Forbes? Newsweek? Time?”

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that,” Becca tells me, using that same sinfully delicious purr. “I have all the major outlets covered.”

Tootles jumps in place, clapping. “Becca forbade me from telling you—”

“Tootles,” she warns.

“But I’m going to, anyway. This woman, right here, has used up every favor she has. You’re going to be everywhere, Hale. Every mag has an exclusive, releasing back to back. To give you an idea of all the awesomeness, you have Forbes in the winter issue followed by Vogue at the end of the year.” More jumping, more clapping. Tootles is beside himself. “It’s why I’m here. I know Vogue.”

Becca smiles. “Tootles interned at Vogue and has worked for the greatest in the business for years before branching out on his own. You’re looking at one of the hottest and most sought-after creative directors in the business.”

“Oh, stop it,” he says, turning to Becca. He eyes her up and down as if seeing her for the first time. “Hmm. Becca, I’m thinking you’ll have to get naked, too.”

And lose the purr in three . . . two . . . one . . .

“What?” she screeches, scaring the dogs.

I nod thoughtfully. “I like it,” I agree. “Fuck the linen pants.”

Tootles sucks his teeth. “I’m sorry, Hale. We’ll still do linen for Forbes. Becca’s right. You do need a little softening and nothing softens a man like linen and puppies.”

“I’ll bet,” I agree. “Now, getting back to me and Becca naked in bed…”

“This isn’t a good idea,” she says, speaking over me. “I mean, this is a very bad idea.”

“What’s wrong, Becks?” I ask. “Tootles here is a professional. Don’t you trust him?” I throw my hands up. “Don’t tell me you’re doubting a creative visionary with an unmatched reputation like Tootles?”

There was nothing better I could have said. Tootles places a very irate hand on his hip. “Is that what you’re saying, Becca?” he demands. “That you don’t trust me?”

“You know I do,” she answers Tootles, all the while glaring at me. “I just don’t know why I have to be in bed, naked with him.”

Even the dogs look at me when she says it. Another man, a less confident and more self-conscious man might take offense. Me? I can’t stop my grin. “You’re worried you might not be able to keep your hands to yourself or something?” I ask. Her face reddens. “Damn. You are, aren’t you? Hey, Tootles, mind if I get a few digital copies when you’re done? When I’m old and senile, I want to remember this day when you and Becca saved my very naked ass.”

Both ignore me. “Becca, precious, the shot? The one we agreed we loved? That’s the money shot. You yourself said it should be the very last image Vogue readers see when they page through Hale’s journey. He’s pondering his infinite future, remember? Career, life, and yes, marriage and family, too. We don’t need to show your face, but we do need to capture your vulnerability to reflect his. It will cement his strength, his hope, his return, understand?”

“Yeah. Why aren’t you getting this, Becca?” I ask. “It all makes perfect sense to me.”

Becca loves animals. Loves them. But I think she might beat me with that dog in her arms before the day is through.

“You’ll lay across his chest,” Tootles continues. He plays with her hair. “We’ll cover your face. No one will know it’s you. But they will know the man holding you close.”

“Real close,” I agree.

Becca lowers the dog. I half expect her to order it to bite my ankles. She doesn’t, thank God. “I don’t know about this, Tootles,” she says. “It’s not that I doubt your vision. It’s just . . .”

Tootles sighs all dramatic-like. I can’t blame him and almost mirror the sentiment. “I understand. It’s a lot to ask someone to capture and portray another’s vulnerability.”

She places her hand on her chest. “Thank you. That means a great deal.”

“Wait, one damn minute,” I protest. “This is the best idea I’ve heard in days. Don’t I get a say?”

“Oh, we’re still doing it,” Tootles assures me. “Don’t you worry about that. My creativity will not be silenced.”

“Excuse me?” Becca asks. “You just told me you understand.”

“I understand your concerns and fear about participating,” he tells her. “But that’s the shot we need. Hale needs. The world needs.”

“Are you using the dogs for this?” Becca asks, confused.

“Not for something as delicate as this,” Tootles says.

“Then . . .” Becca asks. “Where exactly are you headed with this?”

Tootles chuckles. “You’re not the only one with connections, my dear. Suzi Watertower just finished a week-long shoot with David Gandy. She’s recovering in a luxury spa just a few miles from here. I’ll call her.”

He lifts his sparkly phone, scrolling through his contacts.

“Suzi Watertower?” Becca asks. “The super model?”

“That’ll work,” I add, ignoring the glower she pegs me with.

“I don’t think you should disturb her,” Becca interrupts. She sounds testy, despite her evidently deep concern for supermodel Suzi’s well-being. “Poor thing is recovering. Like you said.”

“Nonsense, dear,” Tootles says. “Suzi loves me. Besides, once she gets a look at Hale, she’ll be more than happy to take your place in bed with him—”

Like a ninja, Becca snatches the phone from Tootles’ hand.

“I’ll do it,” Becca says, a little faster than even she expected. She clears her throat. “Let’s not bother Suzi. She, um . . . we might need your connections for something else during the campaign. Let’s not exhaust them this early.”

It’s then I know that God truly exists. Becca looks at me. “I’ll get naked with Hale.”