2. Hugh Hefner

CHAPTER2

Hugh Hefner

Wyn

Pulling up to the curb in front of Remy’s house, it was not the first time I considered how deeply it sucked that his house was so cool.

Once Manon left for school, I did things to the home Remy and I had raised the kids in. Things that gave me the world’s best bathroom and closet, but it usurped two bedrooms.

Even if her room was one of them, Manon was all over it.

She helped me with the design and was perfectly okay staying in the “guest” bedroom (because I let her redecorate, so it was mostly all her, just a more sophisticated, mature her). An additional carrot on that stick was that it had an en suite.

Sabre bunked with Yves whenever he stayed with me, something Yves was down with, but Sabre was upset I’d destroyed his bedroom even though he’d said, “I’m never moving back home,” approximately five hundred times in the months before, and then the years after he’d gone to school.

Not to mention, when he wasn’t cross-countrying it with his bros, he was camping with them, in Rocky Point with them, playing rugby with his league, interning at different firms (including his father’s), dating copious “babes”, or staying with his father.

Oh yeah, and when Remy heard about the renovations, he came over and we didn’t bicker about it.

He’d lost his damned mind and nearly shouted the house down about how “irrational” it was to take a house from a five-bedroom to a three-bedroom, and “…in this neighborhood, you’re flushing a hundred thousand dollars right down the toilet, Wyn.”

“Considering I’m dying in this house, Remy, what do I care?” I’d shot back. “The kids will bury me, sell it, and put their children through college with the proceeds. It’s a win for them in a time hopefully they’ll be so full of grief, they won’t give a damn about a hundred thousand dollars.”

“Bullshit, woman…” (And by the by, we’ll just say I was never, ever a fan of when the word “woman” came out of my ex-husband’s mouth, pre-divorce, but definitely not when he was yelling at me after it), “…when Yves is out, you’re either going direct to a high-rise with a concierge and a valet that parks your fucking car for you or you’re moving to LA. You intend to die in this house, my ass.”

As long as even one of my children was in Phoenix, my ass was in the Valley of the Damned Sun.

However, he might not be wrong, because I’d never considered it until he mentioned it, but someone valeting my car when I came home sounded heavenly.

I did not share that.

I said, “Considering I bought you out of this property and it’s only my name on the title, darling, what on earth does it matter to you?”

“Stop fucking calling me ‘darling.’ You know I hate it. It’s fucked-up New York Fashion Week bullshit.”

“I know it is,” I confirmed. “I also know how much you detest it, darling, so clue in. I use it to piss you off when you’re pissing me off in hopes you’ll get so pissed off, you’ll take off.”

Oh yes.

We had a very healthy divorce, Remy and me.

We won’t get into the argument we had when Sabre told him I was changing back to my maiden name.

My business name was still simply Wyn Gastineau, it had an “Inc.” behind it officially, but not as it was known in the biz. It was my name, the end.

But I legally went back to Wyn Byrne personally.

I did this after Myrna moved in with Remy.

Okay, since it was on my mind, we’ll get into it.

It went like this.

Remy: “So, you’re punishing me for being with someone else?”

I was, of a sort.

Me (in denial, not only to him): “The world doesn’t revolve around you, darling.”

Yes.

I’d thrown in the “darling.”

Remy: “Bullshit, Wyn. Has it occurred to you that we might not be together, but we’re still a family?”

Me: “I haven’t disowned our children. I’ve changed my name. And frankly, what my name is, is no longer any of your business.”

Remy: “You dumping my name and our history and every memory we’ve ever made is none of my business?”

Seriously?

And he called me “prone to drama” (which he had, numerous times)?

Me (at the same time trying not to let my head explode): “I wasn’t the one who walked out on you, and I wasn’t the one who filed divorce from you. You want to talk about a memory, Remy? Let’s talk about that one.”

For those scores, it was a stalemate on my house reno (only because he still thought he was right; I still knew it was none of his business).

But I’d sure won that last one.

I knew this because it’d bought me three whole Remy-free weeks while he seethed.

And damn it all to hell, while he did that, I’d missed him.

These were my thoughts as I walked from my car to his house, which was set deep into a big lot on a curve in a street in the historic neighborhood of Encanto.

Ranch-style. L-shaped. With lush, tropical landscaping that was so old and established, it was a beautiful, cultivated jungle. This surrounding a small front courtyard with a fountain that you could see through the wall of windows that made up the front of the house.

Although I’d been there several times, I had never been given a full tour, but I knew to one side Remy had a home office and Sabre had a bedroom, which should be the guest suite, but it was a private young-adult-man space now (another reason Sabre stayed with Remy).

Down the longer side, the end of which was Remy and Myrna’s master suite that had a sunken bed area I had a secret longing to see, there were also Jack and Jill bedrooms for Yves and Manon, and a poker room.

Yes, a room dedicated to freaking poker.

Because Remy was that guy.

The man’s man.

He did not sit and watch football on Sundays because those were the days he played rugby. And after he played rugby, he drank beer and ate steak with his rugby buddies. He’d had a spell where he’d been a triathlete, and he’d moved on from this to dedicate time to snowboarding (something he already did, and he still did it) and mountain bike riding (and luckily for him, we lived in Arizona, so he could do that year-round).

Obviously, he played poker the entire time I knew him.

He was further an ace at pool (and had a pool table in his family room, a room that also had a wet bar, not kidding, a wet bar).

His house included a somewhat formal sunken living room, which was what you walked into from the front door.

This room had a grand piano (Remy and all the kids played because his mother decreed that “gentlemen understand the finer arts by participating in them, cher”) and two walls of windows.

One that looked to the front courtyard.

One that looked to a backyard, which showcased a rectangular mid-century pool and patio replete with perfectly placed barrel cacti, boxy furniture with bright turquoise cushions, and shade provided by specially designed “umbrellas” made of turquoise fabric stretched between three wide and tight white circles attached at an angle to a white pole, and they looked like they belonged in Tomorrowland.

In other words, they were fabulous.

Remy’s house further included a one-lane kitchen that managed to have a remarkable amount of counterspace because it was so long. It also had excellent and unexpected lighting, and cabinets suspended by short rods over the outside counter that faced the pool-table-wet-bar-bedecked family room. Milky, sliding glass panels covered the fronts of the overhead cabinets. Minimalistic handles on the lower. Stainless steel appliances that, I noted every time I was there, were miraculously fingerprint free.

It really was magnificent.

The whole home.

Or at least what I’d seen.

And luckily for Remy, he’d found a woman who would move into his massive, four-thousand-square-foot mancave and not change a thing.

Not put her stamp or personality on an inch of it (at least, any of it I’d seen).

Except, of course, the framed nude photograph of herself she’d given Remy for Christmas last year.

In front of my children.

I had to hand it to Remy. By Manon’s report, although this portrait hung in their bedroom, he’d not been best pleased, and he hadn’t hidden it when he’d received something so personal without warning in front of his kids (her excuse, also according to Manon, “But, baby, they’re all grown,” and no, the woman had no children of her own, which might explain that).

But it was on display in his house where his children lived.

Perhaps not in the living room…but still.

“I never go into their room because…gross,” Manon had said about it.

This had genuinely made me sad.

Because Remy and Manon used to cuddle up in our bed all the time, watching romcoms (they were both suckers for a good romcom, or a bad one) or reading (they were big readers and we hadn’t had any furniture where dad and daughter could snuggle and lose themselves in books, except our big bed).

One could say, if you wanted to stake your territory in your man’s house that you had to share with his kids, that was a good way to do it.

And that was how I took it.

With all things Remy! spilling all over his home, including his kids being there a lot of the time, Myrna had to stake her claim somewhere.

So she did.

But honestly, though I’d never utter these words out loud to anyone (not even Kara and Bernice, definitely not Bea), I would be happy in that house.

Absolutely, my huge kitchen with its acres of marble countertops (Remy’s reno, almost upon us moving in, in fact our entire house had been reno’ed and decorated by him—not a surprise, since projects he worked on now, he designed everything from the building to the furniture and carpeting) and my new master suite that was most women’s dream, would be hard to walk away from.

But his house was just that awesome.

And if that was what he’d wanted (and I knew it was, he’d talked about it often enough), once the kids were all gone or close to it (say, now) I would have given it to him.

Which would cue Bea getting in my face about it, like she did anytime I “gave into” Remy.

This was all on my mind as I walked from my car to his front door and pressed the button for the doorbell.

It wasn’t a surprise when he opened it almost immediately.

And he did it with a face like thunder (again, no surprise).

Still, that face was unbelievable.

He was ridiculously attractive, had been when we met, and was even more so now.

Tall (six foot three). Built solid and bulky with thighs that could spawn their own religion. He had messy, dark, always overlong hair that now had threads of silver in it, and classic French male features. Strong, distinctive nose. Heavy brow. Thick eyebrows. Wide forehead. Perfectly formed mouth that had a tendency to rest in a delicious male pout or a distressingly outstanding smirk.

He was, as I stared up at him glowering down at me, cool.

That was Remy.

Cool.

Effortlessly so.

He was who Hugh Hefner wanted to be, standing there in his fabulous doorway with his distinctive home behind him wearing a pair of jeans that were soft as velvet (I knew because I’d washed them) and faded almost white. They hung loose but hinted at a superior ass (the hint was true) and could bunch in mysterious, delicious ways around a promising package (and it lived up to that promise).

Up top, a pale-yellow button-up shirt that opened to give a generous visual of a strong, tanned column of throat and the cut of his muscled collarbone and hung off his shoulders in a casual, “I don’t give a shit” way that was so attractive, you could taste it on your tongue.

His feet were bare, the front hems of his jeans draped over his ankles, and the back hems were raw ends because he’d been walking on them for years.

He was top-to-toe beautiful.

And he was no longer mine.

“You’re late,” he bit, his rich voice edged with barbs, like molasses tinged with serrano. “No fuckin’ surprise.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “I am. Yes. I’ve no excuse. But I truly am sorry.”

His head ticked with surprise at my response because I was always late, and I always had an excuse, and at our end, this always bugged him, the being-late part, and the excuse part.

Then his eyes narrowed.

“Have you been crying?”

Guess I should have allotted another minute to fixing my makeup.

“I’m good. I’m fine. I’m here. I really am sorry that—”

“Why have you been crying?”

There was no use denying I had. First, I couldn’t really hide it. Second, I knew this man, every inch of his body, every mood he could have, every expression that could pass over his face, all of it like the back of my hand.

He knew me the same.

So there was no point.

I locked eyes with him and said, “Honestly, Remy, I’m okay. But Sabre probably—”

“Why have you been crying, Wyn?”

“It really isn’t that big of a deal.”

Lie: I’m crying because I finally came to terms with the fact that we’re over.

“I’m good. Honestly.”

Lie: You were the love of my life and I let us fail.

“I’m okay now. Let’s do this with Sabre.”

Lie: I wasn’t. But I was determined I would be. Eventually.

He didn’t move out of the door to let me in.

“Remy—” I started.

“Why have you been crying, Wyn?”

It was an unexpected blow, but man, did it sock me right in the chest.

I drew in breath to recover from the warm concern in his tone, the soft worry on his face, the intense scrutiny of those caramel eyes.

I opened my mouth, and I had no idea what was about to come out, particularly since his gaze dropped to my lips, and I felt that familiar, lovely heat hit other parts of me when it did, before a call came from inside the house.

“Is it Wyn?”

Myrna.

I swallowed, closed my eyes, dropped my head, shifted my chin to the side and gave it a second before I opened my eyes and looked at Remy again.

Mistake.

Huge.

Because I just did all of that. And he’d just watched me do it.

Another expression was on his face now, and apparently, I’d lied before.

Because he was studying me in a way he never had.

Though the warmth and concern were not gone.

“Come in,” he murmured, finally stepping out of the way.

I tucked my clutch closer under my arm and stepped my Louboutin-shod foot over the threshold.

One thing my profession had insured I had not lost the ability to do: walk around in four-inch heels like they were sneakers.

And this was the only thing I had going for me when I looked down into the sunken living room and saw my children not there, so I moved right, toward the kitchen and family room that sat in the point of the L of the house to see my kids lounging there.

And to be confronted with Myrna in the kitchen.

Remy was six-three. Sabre was six-four. Yves was his dad’s exact height. Manon was five-eight.

I was five-nine.

Myrna was at most, five-four, probably more like five-three.

I knew everything about clothes, shoes, handbags, makeup and accessories, and every designer in the world (not exaggerating) sent me freebies. For my clients. And for me.

And I used them.

All the time.

Myrna was a granola, boho, throw-on-some-mascara (maybe), pick-up-your-multi-colored-woven-fringed-crossbody-and-go desert rat.

She mountain biked with Remy.

My ass had tried a spin class once and I detested it, so that had never happened again. But the kids had bought me a pink Schwinn with a cute basket, which I occasionally rode to the grocery store or a coffee shop, and by “occasionally,” I meant this happened maybe five times a year.

I was blonde, my hair ranging from shades of gold to butterscotch (not really, I had no idea what my natural hair color was anymore, and I didn’t allow myself to come even close to finding out, and I never would, until the day I died).

She was a brunette, her long, wild, perfectly tousled hair falling near to her waist when it wasn’t wrapped in some slapdash knot or twisted into twin braids.

Mine went to my bra-strap and I had it professionally blown out once a week, the other two times I did it myself, and I was (almost) a master.

She was busty, but otherwise thin.

I had tits and ass for days, never in my life had I had a flat stomach, and right then was no exception.

I was (if pushed to define it at all, never my favorite thing to do) what I preferred to consider “seasoned.”

She was thirteen years younger than me.

At that moment, she was in cutoff shorts, a slouchy mustard-colored three-quarter-sleeve top that had some kind of metallic bits sewn in and some tassels dangling. Worn Birkenstocks were on her feet and a scarf thing was happening in her hair. Her exposed limbs were tanned.

I was in green houndstooth, wide-legged pants, a severe black blouse buttoned up to my neck, red suede pumps with a thin ankle strap, and sun had not touched my skin unless it was carefully sunblocked since Remy and I moved from New York to Phoenix so he could take the job in a cutting-edge firm that had handpicked him from college.

“Mom, you think you could not be late sometime in one of the millennia you’ve lived in?” Sabre asked.

And I hoped it went without saying that I loved my son more than breath.

But his saying that in that moment when I was facing off with Myrna hurt.

Badly.

I tore my eyes from her and looked to him.

He was not the spitting image of his dad. He got my eyes and there was a lot that was all Sabre. But he got his dad’s body and mouth.

He was also looking beyond me, to who I assumed was his father, and Sabre might not be hanging his head, but he was close to it. Thus, I assumed Remy was giving him a look that shared how he felt about the millennia comment.

Yes, Remy could shout in my face, but he did not (ever) allow any of our children to disrespect their mother.

My gaze moved to Manon, who had Remy’s coloring, my skin, and some of my features, the rest was all her.

It was Yves who looked most like one of his parents, that parent being his father. Yves moved like Remy, with that big cat’s prowl. They even had a similar sounding deep, rich voice.

And they were all hanging about the family room like it was their home.

Which it was.

“I’m sorry. No excuses. Something happened, I should have ignored it, and didn’t and—” I started.

I didn’t finish because Yves interrupted me, wearing the same exact expression his father had only moments before while his eyes moved over my face.

“You all right?” he asked.

“I’m fine, honey.”

“Wyn is here.”

I twisted at the waist and looked back at Remy, who said these words.

And from where his attention was focused, I saw he said them to Myrna.

I just didn’t know why he said them since I was there, the woman could see, we’d both stared at each other not a minute ago, so my arrival didn’t need to be announced.

“Yes, sorry,” I put in, attempting to interpret what was going on with him and rectifying what I thought he was noting was my mistake. “Hello, Myrna.”

“Wyn,” she pushed out like she’d done it after sucking a lemon.

“Wyn is here,” Remy repeated.

My gaze went back to him.

His face was bland.

Oh boy.

Trouble was definitely flirting with paradise.

“Remy—” Myrna started.

“What’d I say?” he asked like he really didn’t care if she remembered, but regardless, what she was not doing that he wanted her to do, she needed to do it…immediately.

Yikes!

Trying not to call attention to myself, I walked into the family room thinking at least I’d never had that Remy.

I’d seen that Remy, when he was around people he did not care for, they annoyed him or frustrated him, or were simply of an ilk he didn’t have any fucks to give them.

His deep freeze was chilly, believe you me.

But his bland indifference seemed worse.

I used to tease him about both.

For my part, I might get the deep freeze on the most intense of our occasions.

Predominantly, though, I got the hothead, shout-the-roof-down, never-say-die, duke-it-out-verbally until someone either slammed out of the room or you attacked each other and fucked it out.

I had honestly thought it was all going to be okay when I got back from California those three years ago because, before I went, we’d gone at it but ended fucking it out.

But when I came home, he’d been packing.

And he’d already had a furnished apartment to go to. So even before that, he’d been planning.

So I’d obviously been wrong.

“She can stay, Dad,” Sabre put in.

Remy cut his eyes to his son, and I was about to hug Yves, but I went still and stiff, like I had to be prepared to throw myself between them to protect my boy with the way Remy did it.

Sabre clamped his mouth shut.

I didn’t hug Yves, or Manon, and definitely not Sabre, as I watched with perhaps inappropriate fascination as Remy turned back to Myrna and lifted his brows.

My gaze shifted to her, and I saw her face get red with embarrassment, anger or hurt, I had no idea.

Though it was probably all three that made her stomp loudly in her Birks toward Remy, grab her multi-colored woven crossbody (I wasn’t lying) from the counter, then turn and stomp the other direction to the door to the garage where her old pickup rested beside Remy’s Tesla.

She slammed the door behind her.

She did not say goodbye.

“Can we do this?” Yves asked impatiently, but there was a pitch to his voice that had me belatedly studying him closely.

He was ill-at-ease, for certain.

I read this as the fact he knew what this was about.

And I was seeing with the way my youngest was being, and also taking in the demeanor of my middle, not to mention my eldest, that my thought processes needed to shift to dealing with something like Sabre having gotten some girl pregnant and now, I not only had to get over being a divorcée, I had to come to terms with becoming a grandmother.

We were a touchy, affectionate family. We’d started that way because of me (Remy’s mother was an overbearing, snobbish, horrendous Southern woman—the exact opposite of every single Southerner I’d ever met—and his French father was largely absent, and when he wasn’t, he was indulgent of his wife, so we could say hugs weren’t de rigueur in the Gastineau household). And our open affection had never died.

But so this could get started, then be over for my son, I didn’t do the physical greetings I usually would.

I took a seat in an upholstered armchair with a low, double-buttoned back and short legs, and tucked my clutch in my lap.

Once down, I watched, morbidly enthralled, as my kids sat one-two-three on Remy’s couch, with Yves sandwiched in the middle.

Yes, Yves.

Not Sabre.

Yves.

What was going on?

Remy strolled in, cutting across the room with long-legged purpose, coming to my chair.

I thought he’d stand beside it, since there was no other furniture he could sit on around me. The matching armchair to the one I was in was at the opposite side.

But no.

I watched with lips parted as he parked his ass on the arm of my chair.

The.

Arm.

Of.

My chair.

Like he did back in the day.

Like he did and I loved him to do. Complete with leaning back, resting a hand in the top of the chair, close to me, my protector, his long bulk ready to spring forward on attack or to defend should some rabid dog suddenly enter the room, or someone came close to landing a drop of martini on me.

He was studying our children while I had my head tipped back studying him.

And since he continued studying our children, slowly, I turned their way to see Sabre scowling at his father, Yves looking fidgety and not focused on much of anything, and Manon staring at me.

The second I caught my daughter’s eyes, she mouthed, “What…is…happening?”

She meant her dad and the chair.

I wished I knew.

But it would take a while to find out.

Because right then, the evening took two sharp and exceptionally unexpected turns.

And not a member of our family was going to be the same after them.