39. Renee

It”s 8:00 A.M. I haven”t brushed my teeth, washed my face, or even taken my first of several morning pregnancy pees.

So why is someone banging on my front door?

Ten bucks says it”s Deacon. The only surprise is he”s not busting in without knocking first.

Maybe he”s learned an iota of respect?

I snort at the thought. That’ll be the fucking day.

I tuck my bed head into a messy bun and tightly tie my robe around my waist. Deacon doesn”t get to have a sneak peek at my negligee.

Chin up, I march right to the front door. I have a bitchy, naggy speech about personal time and respecting privacy locked and loaded when I yank my door open. ”Listen here, Deacon?—”

The person at my door isn”t Deacon, though.

It”s a UPS delivery guy.

The man looks as tired as I feel and definitely not up for getting bitched at first thing in the morning. Severe bags darken under his eyes and I can”t help but feel like we”re kindred spirits when he fails to give me even a half-hearted customer service voice.

Instead, he hits me with, ”Yo. Can you sign for this?”

I feel you, Unnamed UPS Delivery Guy. I don”t want to be here any more than you do.

”Sure. Sorry.”

As I sign, I peek at the boxes tucked under his arm. RENEE DUBOISis emblazoned on both in thick, black ink.

UPS Guy sets the boxes down and gives me one more thanks, crazy lady nod before sauntering back up the path and out of sight.

When he’s gone, I make an ambitious effort to scoop up both boxes, but they’re deceptively heavy. Okay. One at a time it is.

I haul them inside and shut the door. Then I stand there, hands fisted on my hips, scrutinizing them. Something just feels weird. Ball-and-gag set from Deacon, maybe? My very own copy of Being A Silent, Submissive Housewife For Dummies?

I”m tempted to throw the boxes away and text Deacon telling him to go fuck himself with no explanation.

After a second or two, I decide not to give into impulse, tempting though it may be, and at least see what”s inside. As soon as I break into the first one with a box cutter, I know for certain that they”re not from Deacon.

The bigger box houses the newest Leica mirrorless DSLR camera, with all the lenses, accessories, and memory cards a girl could dream of. There”s even a custom leather carrying case, with my name embossed into the material. The thought of how much all this must’ve cost makes me nauseous.

”What the fuck?” I whisper. ”Did he really…”

I scrambled into the second box like an impatient child on Christmas. The second box has to have the confirmation of who sent me this.

Yep.

Holy shit.

The second box contains two things. One is a vintage Polaroid film camera, the kind of thing that makes photography geeks and collectors start foaming at the mouth with envy. The other item inside is a scrap of paper with one lone letter on it.

W.

They say speak of the devil and she shall appear. In this case, I think it”s more, Speak of the man you”re hopelessly pining for, and he”ll shoot you a text.

My phone buzzes.

WESTON: Did your package come in?

Weston doesn”t know the reason my camera got trashed, but he got me a new one—two new ones—two damn good new ones at that—without hesitation. My heart does a gooey, fluttery motion that makes me sick.

His words echo in my mind. I just want to see life through your eyes. I shudder.

You shouldn”t have, I text back.

WESTON: But I did. Shredded the return receipt, too. They’re yours whether you like it or not.

The nerve of this man. But I feel giddy and delirious. I gotta take this thing out for a spin. Biting my lip, I type out a second message and hesitate for a long time before I work up the courage to hit send. Wanna come with me?

I know I’m playing with fire. Talking to Weston as much as I have the last few days could already spell trouble. That photoset and video pushed it. Meeting in public like this, though?

Could be a disaster. A terrible, beautiful, fulfilling disaster.

It could also be worth it.

His reply solidifies my decision for me.

WESTON: I always have time for you, Princess.

I don”t have to get dressed up for this meeting with Weston. My summery sundress (white with daisies, very feminine, very chic, very Sutton, very cute) flows just above my knees and fits snug to my chest. It”s totally unnecessary to wear it to the park just to take pictures and thank Weston.

I don”t need my painted toes, dainty in my sandals. My perfume—slightly shimmery—is an addition that is wholly, completely superfluous.

Oh, yeah. I also curled my hair. Definitely not required.

I mean, after all, this isn”t a date. But I figure, since the fire”s already burning, am I really doing any harm adding just a hint of kindling?

Besides—who”s to say this is too much, too extra, too far? Well, Deacon, certainly. But Weston kickstarted what Deacon tried to kill when he destroyed my camera.

My drive.

My fight.

My spirit.

So I think I deserve a little of what life is taking from me. There’s a satisfaction in knowing that there still remains a part of Weston Scott that wants me, even though we cannot and will not ever be anything again.

My fiendishness is rewarded. When I step out of my car, Weston”s eyes find me immediately.

And my God, they burn.

His gaze roves over my body. I tighten, like that gaze is a command my whole being is bound to follow.

Yeah—I still want him, too.

Even if I can”t have him.

This may have me steeped in ten levels of delulu, but I”m willing to simmer there, just for today. Deacon”s allowed to have his fantasies, right? So for now, I”m going to have mine.

I stride over to Weston, my new Leica in its leather case slung over my shoulder, and my film rig in hand.

”Weston.” My tongue curls around his name, eager.

Good Lord—calm down, girl. Keep it in your pants. Nothing”s gonna happen.

The corner of Weston”s mouth turns upward. Cocky, sultry, everything all at once. ”Hey, P. You look good.”

I can”t decide between jumping him, smacking him, or suggesting we cut out of here entirely—so I opt for a safer route, for now.

”How”s Hunter?”

His expression falls, though he recovers it quickly. ”Better. Molly and Ma are around, so that helps.” He scoffs, rolling his eyes. ”Well, Molly is probably the one that”s ”helping” the most, if you catch me.”

I can’t tell if he’s bitter about it or if it’s just standard-issue brotherly protectiveness rearing its head. I smile, though, and put a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure you’re a help, too. You’re basically his brother, after all.”

Weston glances at my hand on his arm. His tongue darts out, wetting his lips. Again, my whole body seems to tighten.

“Come on. You have pictures to take?”

He’s suddenly all business. It’s brusque enough to make me wonder if these fantasies swirling relentlessly through my head are a little bit more one-sided than I initially suspected.

So I nod, straighten up the strap to my camera, and lead the way. I make sure to stay a few steps ahead of him so I can get a clear view of anything beautiful that catches my eye.

It’s totally not because my dress swishes really nicely around my ass when I walk.

Pinky swear.

Though if Weston notices, he doesn’t say anything.

I find a nice spot with lots of sunshine. It’s hot out today—like, melt the rubber off your shoes hot. But the blushing glow of the sun on the grass is worth every drop of sweat making the trek down my spine.

This camera is amazing. It sees everything and paints it right on the lens. Couples cruising along the skate paths together; a woman and her poodle playing fetch; a father and his daughter playing tag?—

Oh.

A father and his daughter. My stomach clenches at the sight of them. Weston’s words echo in the back of my mind.

I don”t want any kids.

It takes everything in me to keep the camera pressed to my face, to not let my hand drift down to my stomach. Don”t do this now, Renee. You already knew what this was going to be.

I snap another discreet photo, capturing the way the father holds his daughter”s whole existence in his gaze. I crave seeing Weston like that. I know Deacon will never look at this child with that love in his eyes. I doubt he”d even look at his own little demon spawn like that.

Meh. I didn”t sign up for feelings today. Can I get a return address to send this shit back from whence it came?

”Renee?”

Weston”s looking at me. He”s got his brow up, head tilted, eyebrows in the questioning position. It’s way too adorable of a gaze for a man who beats people up with hockey sticks for a living.

I turn the camera to Weston. I want to capture him like this. I want there always to be proof that Weston Scott can look like this in a moment of total candidness.

Innocent.

Before he can redirect his face into its usual perma-scowl, I press the shutter. Once, twice. His face slips to bemusement, and soon, a smirk cracks through. The glow of his teeth is the whitest, purest thing I’ve ever seen.

I laugh. After all the shit we”ve been through—and all the shit I”m going through now—he still does this to me. Makes me feel light. Giddy.

”We”re not here to take pictures of me,” he grumbles.

”But you”re so photogenic!” I snap another, just to be a menace.

”Don”t do it again, Renee,” he warns teasingly. His voice drops—dark, buttery. So smooth over my ears and oh-so appealing.

”Oh?” I do it anyway, wanting to poke the bear. ”What are you gonna do about it?”

He lunges for me. Squealing, I dart away immediately. His fingertips just barely graze against my arm—but I dance just out of reach.

”You”re not getting away from me!”

”Looks like I am, actually! I thought you were supposed to be a pro athlete or something?”

I run backwards, catching more snaps of Weston as I go. He”s a beast in motion, laughing with deviousness set into his mouth. Always, always, I float just beyond his fingertips. His nostrils flare and determination blazes in his eyes.

I decide to give the bear a second round of poking.

I let him get close as I bounce around, light on my feet. He comes closer and closer and then swipes out—but he gets only a fluttering grasp of my dress before that too slips away.

”Slow! Poke!” I tease him. ”Where”s all that Firebird pow—OH!”

Weston pounces at me, like a big cat on its prey. He”s fast and determined, a deadly combination that sends us both tumbling into the plush grass, me on my back and Weston on top of me. His arms cage me in, obscuring everything around us but him.

The sun”s glow hangs behind his head like a halo. It”s ironic, given the devilish grin on his mouth.

Why does he have to be so damn beautiful?

”Caught you,” he brags, leaning closer to my face. His cologne is sharp and woodsy. Him being this close lights a fire in me, especially since he”s so conveniently planted square between my thighs.

My core tightens. ”We”re in public,” I breathe out.

Weston chuckles. ”Like that matters. Like any one of these assholes out here could stop me.”

He gets closer. My heart skips its merry way right out of my chest. I want to taste him.

”But you”re right,” he continues. There”s just a sliver of space between us that I”m desperate to close. ”Can”t be stirring the pot in front of all these good folks, right?”

I ache when he pulls away. I”m so pathetic that I even relish when he stands and holds his hand out to pull me up. I treat that contact like it”s the Holy fricking Grail.

”Come sit with me.”

I don”t even think to protest. We find an unoccupied bench and plop down together. All six senses—and maybe a few extra that I invented just for him—home in on Weston”s presence. His heat, his scent. The fine hairs on my arms stand up, as if in response to him just being there. I want to touch him and lean into him.

Funny how I had all that gumption earlier and now, I feel like a scared little schoolgirl in the presence of her cool jock crush.

”Thank you.” Weston says it so suddenly that I”m confused.

”What?”

I look to him, perplexed. I haven”t done anything? I should be the one thanking him. He replaced a camera that wasn”t his responsibility. He doesn”t understand just how much I needed this.

”Thank you,” he repeats. ”You know, for being you. I was thinking about you the other day. How different you are from what I”m used to and what I expect. You… actually give a fuck. You”ve always actually given a fuck and that”s a mind trip.”

”West—”

He holds up his hand. “Wait. Let me finish.” There”s a certain kind of smolder in his eyes that roots me to the spot. “I should also say… I”m sorry.”

They”re two simple words, but together, they mean everything to me. Especially coming from stubborn ass, always right, never-been-wrong-a-day-in-his-life Weston Scott.

Does that mean…?

”What are you saying?” Don”t get your hopes up, girly-pop. Stay mellow. Stay cool.

”I”m saying, I treated you like shit. Like, so fucking bad.” He lets out an incredulous laugh. It”s the sound of a man kicking himself in his own ass. ”I had a good thing here and I fucked it up. Now, you”re right here in front of me. You”re right where I can touch you and say you”re mine—but you”re going home to someone else. How the fuck is that right?”

It”s not. Nothing about this is right.

It shouldn”t be this way. I shouldn”t be back in my parents” sphere. This baby inside me shouldn”t have Deacon as their father. I should be free to do photography, dress how I want, eat what I want. I should be able to fucking swear without being treated like a teenage ne’er-do-well, or an uneducated woman with no brain.

I belong with Weston.

His hand slips over mine and I don”t even think about how this is sending me deeper and deeper into the fire.

I know the chaos that could come from giving into all these feelings. He can apologize freely, not realizing everything at stake here. He doesn”t understand, he?—

Just tell him. Tell him so you can both know what you”re getting into.

”I”m—”

FLASH. POP! POP! FLASH.

What the hell?

I”m blinded instantly. A dozen flashes like fireworks reduce my vision to crackling static before I realize what those flashes are.

They come from cameras.

”Ms. Dubois!”

”Renee! Renee! Look this way!”

”Mr. Scott, can you give us some info on your relationship with Ms. Dubois?”

”What”s Deacon think about all this?!”

”Lookin” real cozy there, you two!”

POP-POP-POP. More flashes. More pops. More shouted, arrogant questions.

The paparazzi are on us like sharks on chum. They’re circling everywhere with that same deadly, deadened, great white predator look in their eyes. They know they have a juicy story here, even if the spin they come up with is a total fabrication.

I know how these assholes work. Predators, all of them.

Weston”s hand is clamped around my forearm immediately. But rather than being the grounding sense of comfort it should be, it just takes me back to the moment Deacon grabbed me there the first time.

It reminds me that, right now, I”m not answering to myself.

I can”t do this. I have to stay the course for the choices I made. Weston being sorry doesn”t change that. My own feelings toward him don’t change that.

”Let”s get out of here?—”

I jerk my arm out of Weston”s hold before I can give into the confusion that sparks on his face.

”Hey—”

”You said what you wanted. This is our last conversation.”

I turn on my heels, shoving past persistent paparazzi. Or, rather I try to. They”ve never been what us normal people would call respectful—I”m convinced that the lesson about “hands to selves” from kindergarten was a day they must have missed. There”s one pap that gets in my way, leering over me with a sneer.

”Come on, Renee, give us a little smile for the camera.”

”Oh, fuck off,” I snap.

”Get the fuck out of her way.”

Weston”s immediately at my side, because of course he is. His inability to just listen to me stirs a cocktail of emotion. Half of me—the half that”s clearly biased because his baby is in me—cheers him on for engaging in his lizard-brained need to protect and provide. The sensible half of me, the half that grew up around this shit, is silently panicking, knowing the kind of gossipy stories that are going to follow today’s mistakes like a cloud of gnats.

The paparazzo in question gives me one of those greasy smiles you expect out of a 60s cartoon villain. He snaps another picture, the flash going off right in front of Weston”s snarling face.

”Ah, looking after the lady! You two are good friends, eh? Come here in the same car?—”

I don”t get a word in edgewise, because Weston snatches the camera from the guy”s hands. He throws it to the ground and stomps on it.

”The lady said fuck off.”

Behind us, the cameras haven”t stopped flashing.

My eyes sting hot with the tears of an impending breakdown and nothing—not even the useless mini-me cheering in my head at Weston embracing a little bit of caveman bravado—can stem the flow of the panic that follows.

This isn”t going to go away quietly.

Not without me giving up more than I already have.

I shove my way around the paparazzo as he bitches about his broken camera and threatens to sue Weston over it.

This whole day was a bad idea. I should have just stayed away.

”Renee!” Weston calls after me.

But I”m determined.

I can”t turn back.

I won”t.

Unfortunately, for me, Weston has long strides and proved once already that he could catch up to me if he was really trying.

”Renee, don”t leave like this?—”

”I”m not staying here to give those psychopaths more ammunition. You already did a great job of adding to their pile, thanks.”

”I mean, he can”t do anything with a busted camera?—”

”You only trashed the outside! He”s still got a memory card in it he can pull pictures from. And just in case you forgot, there”s a handful of his friends whose cameras you didn”t bust up, who now have a lot more material to work with. You destroyed someone”s property—actually, they”ll spin it that you were destroying evidence. You”ve given them fuel to say we”re together.”

He frowns. ”Is that so bad?”

”Yes! We”re not together! I”m with someone?—”

”Didn”t stop that little peep show you gave me the other day.”

Shots. Fired.

”That was a mistake,” I spit coldly.

Boom. Low blow returned. I know the moment I say it, it”s like a backhand for Weston.

”Just… Fuck.” I wince. “All of this was a mistake. I shouldn”t have come out here.” I glance over Weston”s shoulder. The paparazzi are keeping their distance, probably eager to avoid the destruction of their own precious equipment. It doesn”t stop them from continuing to take pictures.

I shove my leather bag out toward Weston. ”You can have the cameras back.”

”I didn”t get them for you with strings attached,” he bites out. “But if you want to pretend I did, fine. I’m fighting for you, Renee. I’m fighting like hell, against your family and Deacon and the press and all the bullshit we’ve been through. I just wish you weren’t the one who was fighting back the hardest.”