Chapter 25

25

" A nother martini?" Wren asks as she's spread out like a starfish on the living room carpet of her cousin Sorel's apartment. Sorel recently moved back to Boston from New York City with her fiancé, Brody, who was traded to Asher's team in the preseason. Sorel's twin, Serena, is home visiting from Paris, where she works for Monroe Fashion—my uncle Zax and my aunt Aurelia's company. But since Brody—along with Mason—are playing an away game, Sorel decided to throw a girls' night for all of us.

It's sweet, and though I don't know Sorel or Serena all that well—they're a bit older than I am—I love getting to spend time with them.

"Another martini is a good idea," Sorel agrees, though she's in no better shape than Wren. This would make our third martini, and though I'd like to imagine I can keep up with them, I know I can't. Notting Hill is on in the background on the massive TV, and we have more snacks than any of us can eat. It's perfect and exactly what I need after a long week of filming and dealing with the stress of living with Stone.

"I'm out," Katy announces with a hand stretched out like she's dropping the mic. "I have to leave soon and nurse Willow when she wakes up for her midnight feeding."

Serena half-sits to grab a pretzel from the bowl on the coffee table. She pops it in her mouth and crunches loudly as she talks. "I'm in, but only because I don't have to move tomorrow. Damn, do I love Sundays."

"Same," Sorel asserts, slouched back on the leather sectional. "And thankfully the guys are traveling for their game so I can simply be hungover and watch my man on TV instead of having to drag my sorry ass down to the stadium."

"I think I'm in for that," Kenna announces. "I don't have work tomorrow. Woohoo!" She holds up her glass and nearly dumps the tail end of her Cosmo on me. Thankfully she recovers at the last minute.

"We should all have a sleepover!" Keegan exclaims, going for the cheese and crackers.

"Yes!" Sorel and Serena shout together, and it's tempting. So very tempting. The idea of going back to Stone's isn't appealing. It's a Saturday night, and I happen to know he's out with Vander. He texted and asked if I wanted to have dinner out with him, like a public date to keep the fires of our engagement burning, and when I told him I had plans with the girls, he told me he was going to meet up with Vander for a couple of drinks but wouldn't be home late.

Whatever. I don't know what they're doing, where they went, or who they're meeting, and frankly, I don't want to know. He can use his twenty thousand condoms on whomever he wants because it won't be me. We never agreed as part of this fake engagement not to see other people, though obviously, I'm not. How could I?

He doesn't have the same issue I do. Not that he ever did.

Still, there was no way I was going to have dinner with him, in public or otherwise. Anytime I'm near him, I find myself slipping and doing things I know I shouldn't do. Hell, I freaking played doctor with him right there on set and spread my legs so he could look up my dress. All it took was one smile and a little flirting to get me there, and I was so mad at myself for it afterward. Once a player always a player.

I do much better when I don't see him, so I say, "I'm in for a sleepover. And another drink." Because why not? I'm only twenty-four. It's time I have some fun every once in a while.

"What about Stone?" Keegan questions, a coy look to her that I don't like.

"What about him?" I throw back at her.

"Won't he miss you tonight if you don't come home?"

I'm about to say I doubt it when Serena shoots Keegan a warning look. "Don't start. We said we weren't going to bring it up, so we're not."

Ugh. "What? Just ask." I get up and hobble over to the bar Sorel has set up for us. My ankle isn't perfect, but it's so much better than it was when Stone came and examined it.

"You're wearing the ring," Wren comments, still all starfished out. Wren isn't any better at holding her liquor than I am. We're usually wine or champagne girls, but when in Rome.

I glance down at my hand, at the pretty sparkly ring I can't seem to force myself to take off even when I don't have to wear it. "I'm afraid of losing it," I admit, which is partially true. I am. The other side of that coin that I don't allow myself to think about or admit to is that I like wearing it. Which sucks since it's not real. Well, at least not real in the way I'd like a ring like this to be.

"Is that the only reason?" Keegan presses.

I huff. "Yes." I take the enormous martini shaker Sorel has been using and start to add some ice to it from the ice bucket. "Why else would I? "

"Because you like it and the guy who gave it to you," Katy states simply, and as much as I love Katy, she's a little too honest and real sometimes. A bit too observant too.

"Nope to both of those." I give them my back so they don't see the lie on my face while I pour vodka, triple sec, lime, and cranberry juice into the shaker. This bad boy will mix up five good-sized martinis, so it's officially my new best friend.

"But if you marry him, you'll be my cousin," Wren whines. "Can't you just do that? Please? For me?"

"Wren, I love you, and I'd love to be your actual cousin, but there's no way I'm marrying Stone. I can hardly stand him."

Both she and Katy snort, but I start shaking the shaker vigorously, blocking them out with the loud clanking of ice against metal. I top off my glass and then hand the shaker to Keegan, who takes the honor of pouring the rest. The glass touches my lips, and I tip it back, slurping down two big gulps before I sink to the floor and lean against the cabinet because the couch is simply too far and I'm a little too drunk and unsteady on my bad ankle to attempt it.

The last thing I'd want is to spill my drink. That would be tragic.

"Am I the only one who noticed that Loomis sounds like Hugh Grant in this movie?" Keegan questions before tilting her head and squinting at the screen. "Or is that the other way around? No wait, that doesn't make sense. Whatever. He does, right?"

"He sure does," I tell her, bouncing my eyebrows suggestively. "He also thinks you're pretty. And funny. And smart."

She laughs and rolls her eyes at me. "That's because I am, but don't start with me." She points her finger at me. "I'm not going there."

"Oh," I remark as I take another sip of my pretty pink Cosmo. "But you can go there with me and Stone? "

"Definitely," they all shout at once before falling into a fit of drunken giggles.

"Wait, shut up!" Serena cries out, holding her hand up in the air and flipping her long, blonde hair over her shoulder. "This is my favorite part."

We all fall silent and watch as Julia Roberts tells Hugh Grant that she's just a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her. We all sigh. It's such a good line. Even better is when Hugh Grant finally gets his ass in gear and chases after her.

"Why can't movie love be real love?" Wren asks. "Only Katy and Sorel have found that."

"Yes, but I had to kiss an asshole of a frog before I found Bennett," Katy admits. "If movies or books, for that matter, were real life, no one would watch or read them. Who wants that when we can have the fairy tale? Or at least a hot guy to make us swoon and scream through orgasms."

"Personally, my toxic trait is that I read dark romance," Serena says. "Give me a dude with triggers and red flags, and I'm all over it. He can stalk my ass anywhere he wants." The moment the words leave her lips, she winces and looks apologetically over at me. "Shit, Tins. I didn't mean that. I'm so sorry."

I hold up my hand. "It's fine. I mean, the stalking thing isn't fine, but I'm not about to go into a panic over it. I haven't gotten another letter since the first one, and that was like two weeks ago. For all I know, it was a prank, and it's over. The sooner we can be sure about that, the sooner I can end this fake engagement and move out of Stone's."

"Here's to that!" Sorel declares, holding her glass up. "Cheers, bitches!"

"Fuck yeah! Cheers!" I hold up my glass and lean forward,and somehow we all manage to clink glasses, albeit messily, and then drink. After Notting Hill , we put on Bridget Jones's Diary, because evidently, we're having a Hugh Grant night, only to pass out sometime after two and be woken around eight when my phone rings.

I'm on the floor, my face mashed into the rug since my head slipped off the pillow I was sharing with Wren. My head is pounding, my mouth tastes like a desert of cotton and ass, and my stomach roils the moment I move to answer it.

Wren makes an annoyed noise, as do a few of the other ladies, and I drag myself up and off the floor, grab my phone, and go to the bathroom to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Where are you? You were supposed to meet me at my flat thirty minutes ago. Are you okay?" Loomis's urgent voice fills my ears, and I wince.

"Stop Hugh Granting so loudly in my ear."

"Pardon? Hugh Grant?"

I snicker and then groan in pain. "We had a Hugh Grant marathon last night along with a lot of drinks. I'm officially very hungover. Or possibly still a little drunk."

He sighs, his unease ebbing now that he knows I'm okay. "So I gather. Would you rather not meet?"

"No, I want to. I could use a greasy breakfast to absorb all the alcohol I put in my stomach last night. Hold on. I'm muting you." I put him on mute and pee because holy hell do I have to pee, and after I flush the toilet, I unmute him and put him on speaker so I can talk while I wash my hands. "Hi, I'm back."

"How much did you drink?"

"A lot. A lot," I repeat for no other reason than my brain is like a slushy right now. "Remind me not to do that again. I passed out on Sorel's carpet, and now my neck and back, along with the rest of me, are feeling the results of that."

He chuckles. "Do you want me to come pick you up? I'm not sure you should be driving right now. "

"I agree. I don't think I should be driving either, but my car is here."

He grunts. "Text me the address and I'll come to you and drive for both our sakes."

He disconnects the call, and I text him the address of where I parked last night. I wince at my reflection that's a mass of bad hair, smeared makeup, and a carpet imprint on my cheek. Hot! After turning the faucet back on, I wash my face and use some of the mouthwash she has in here, which is nothing short of a miracle for my mouth. I don't feel any better, but at least it's something.

The bathroom door creaks behind me, and I sneak over to the front door, slip my shoes back on, and exiting the apartment without waking anyone else up. I take the elevator down, and as I do, I go through my phone, noticing missed texts from Stone that started around ten last night.

Stone: I'm home, are you here?

Stone: Where are you? Are you still at Sorel's?

Stone: Are you coming home tonight?

Stone: Can you please fucking answer me? No one is picking up their phones, and I'm getting worried.

Stone: Forget that. I just spoke to Katy, who was driving home. Glad you're spending the night and not driving. If you need me to come get you, I'm here. Hope you had a fun night with the girls.

I read each one twice, hating how every time I see his name on my screen a jolt of flutters hit me straight in the chest. This fake engagement needs to end, and I need to move out. Like now. The longer this goes on, the greater the risk to my heart is with him.

The cool early November air bitch smacks my hangover in the worst of ways. I reach my car, which is actually one of my parents' cars that I've been using while I'm here, and when I open the passenger door, I stop dead in my tracks. Sitting on the seat is a red envelope.

It's ironic, and I'm nearly tempted to laugh.

Did the motherfucker who put this here read my mind last night?

I glance around, but no one is nearby. I'm parked on a quiet side street in Beacon Hill and it's early for a Sunday. Which means he was watching me. Following me. Knowing exactly where I parked and where I was going. Something he must have been doing all along since he knew exactly where the cameras at the warehouse were located and precisely how to evade them. Only someone watching me too closely would have known any of this.

Another cold shiver takes hold, and I pick up the envelope as I get in the car and lock the doors. I dial 911 on my phone without hitting send, and leave it there, ready if I need it. For a moment, I simply hold the letter. Stare at it. Rage over it. And cry. I do that too. I haven't done much of that since this started, but I cry now.

Maybe it's the hangover or the fact that I was starting to think I was in the clear with this, but whatever it is, it has tears streaming down my face at an uncontrollable rate. Why is this happening again? I don't understand it. But worse, with no clue who is doing it or even where they are, I have no idea how we'll make it stop.

That last part takes hold of me in the worst of ways, and I reach over and press the ignition button to turn on the car. Loomis will be here soon, and I want a moment alone to read the letter. I open it up and pull out the thick cardstock hand-written poem.

Miles and moments, years between, time's bitter march leaving an ugly scene. No longer bound by patience's chain, my heart now speaks, unburdening my pain. With every dawn, I grow nearer, igniting my joy at your growing fear .

A sob hiccups out of my lungs, and my hands are trembling so badly I can hardly hold the paper. Christ, if that isn't a threat, I don't know what is. And he's letting me know that this is only the beginning. My face falls into my hands, and I cry and scream in frustration and anger. Fucking son of a bitch!

He's right about one thing. My fear is growing. But the question is, is it simply a celebrity obsession or is it personal?