WESTON FONTAINE COMES to the next five performances at our little theatre, including the double one on Saturday, both in the afternoon and the evening. His seat gets better every single time, and by the Saturday evening performance, he’s sitting front and center in the very first row, his gaze trailing me the entire time I’m on stage. His applause is louder than anyone else’s when it’s over, with him shouting my name and even whistling like the tacky American he is.
It’s annoying. It’s wonderful. I can’t stand him. Deep down, I still adore him and I hate myself for it.
I have no idea what he wants from me.
He’s alone at every performance, too. No insecure Madison in sight, and I wonder where she is. I’m tempted to call my mother and ask, but then she’ll ask her own questions and know I’m scheming, and I don’t want to involve her in any of my digging.
Instead, late at night when I’m lying in my bed and scrolling social media, I look up Madison. There are no photos of West on her grid, which fills me with relief. Why, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter who he’s with. Or maybe they’ve broken up and he’s already with someone else now. It sounds impossible, but West always moved fast. Whoever he could’ve found would be prettier and not as harsh as me. Someone who enjoys physical touch and isn’t afraid to talk about her feelings.
God, I hate people like that.
I let my imagination get the worst of me all the time.
West also continues to send me flowers. A fresh bouquet every evening, always pink roses, and Cressida is beside herself with curiosity, ready to burst when I don’t outwardly react to the daily arrangements that appear at my vanity. Though deep down, I’m dying inside, thrilled he would do such a thing, and his persistence in his pursuit of me.
I still haven’t told poor Cressida who they’re from and she acts like I’m torturing her, whining that she deserves to know.
Maybe I am, I don’t know. I don’t mean to. I refuse to say his name out loud. To acknowledge him with others means something is happening between us and I don’t know what that is, so it’s better to keep him a secret. Like he doesn’t exist.
It’s easier that way.
After the Saturday night performance, I find him waiting for me in the same spot as the first night I ran across him. Leaning against the same fancy sports car, his entire face lighting up when he sees me, like I’m the best thing to happen to him. He’s wearing another one of those light gray suits, his shirt the palest pink, matching the roses he keeps sending me, and the car matches him, because it’s silver. An Aston Martin.
Fast and sleek and very British.
“Is that your car?” is how I greet him.
He glances back at it, his smile pleased when his gaze meets mine. “I’m leasing it. You like it?”
“It looks like a death trap.”
“The way I drive, it probably is.”
My heart lurches in fear of him wrecking this stupid car and mangling himself. I swear, my knees actually wobble.
“Your performance tonight was amazing,” he continues. “Best one so far.”
Him being in the audience, knowing he’s watching, is making me even harder on myself than usual, and it shows in my performances. Even the director has noticed, and acknowledged my—quote—breathtaking work. I begrudgingly admit to only myself that it has everything to do with West.
“Thank you,” I tell him, keeping my response simple. I’m in fight or flight mode. Should I argue with him or run away? Both options are tempting.
“Are you getting my roses?”
I nod my acknowledgement. “They’re too much.”
“Still tossing them in the trash?”
“Of course.” I’m lying. They’ve completely overtaken my table and some have migrated their way to Cressida’s vanity too.
His smile is sweet enough to make me ache. “Come to dinner with me, Carolina.”
“It’s late.” I sniff. “And I’m not hungry.”
“Then come with me and watch me eat. I’m starved. Watching you night after night leaves me ravenous.”
There is something so sexual about his comment that I actually shiver.
“I have something else for you.”
A groan leaves me. “No more gifts. Please.”
“This one you’ll like. I promise.”
I take a tentative step forward, stopping myself just in time.
“What about your girlfriend?”
I hate that I have to ask about her. That we have to acknowledge that she exists, but we must.
“What about her?”
“Does she know you’re here? That you’re with me?”
His expression smooth as glass, he pushes himself off the car and slowly starts to approach me. “Madison is not my girlfriend.”
I frown, confused, and he stops. “I was told she was.”
“By who?”
“My mother.” Did she actually use the word girlfriend in reference to Madison? I can’t remember.
“You two talk about me?” West appears far too pleased with that idea.
“Never.” I roll my eyes. “She introduced me to Madison. You were there. You know what happened.”
He shoves his hands in his pockets, chuckling. “I’m sure my mother might have mentioned something to your mother about Madison, but it’s not true. We’re not together. We never really were.”
“What does that mean?” It’s the really that throws me.
“It means we went out a couple of times. Nothing serious. I brought her to your brother’s wedding as my defensive date.”
“Defensive? Defense against what?” I am sure I already know the answer.
“You. I was worried if you saw me there unaccompanied, you might take me out.” He smiles, immediately wiping it from his face with a sweep of his hand.
“I wanted to take you out the moment I knew you brought a date.” Oh, I hate that I just admitted such a thing. I want to pretend he doesn’t matter, that he doesn’t affect me, but I just gave myself away.
“A big mistake on my part then,” he drawls, his gaze intensifying. “I never want to make you mad, Carolina. Even though that seems to be all I can do when it comes to you.”
“If you don’t want to make me mad, then what do you want to do to me?” The words scrape against my throat, my voice raw.
“I’m afraid if I tell you, you might run away for good.”
“It doesn’t matter what you say. I feel like I always want to run away from you.” And that’s the truth.
“I’m trying to keep you around here.” His smile is direct, aimed at me like a weapon, and my heart flips over itself as if in surrender.
The relief that floats through me is heady, my knees wobbling yet again. “I’m still mad at you.”
“You should be. I’m hoping you’ll let me explain and set things right with you.” He pauses. “With us.”
His words fill me with pain, and I can’t explain why.
There is no us, is what I want to scream while I stomp my foot like a toddler having a tantrum. But I do none of that.
Instead, I smile as I glide toward him, stopping close enough that our toes almost touch. “Then take me to dinner and I’ll watch you eat. But you have to promise me one thing.”
“Anything,” he says without hesitation.
“Don’t drive too recklessly.” I point at the car. “That thing looks fast.”
“It is.” He pulls the key fob from his pocket, dangling it from his fingers. “Ready?”
No. I’m not even close to being ready to get into a car with him.
“Yes,” I say with far more assurance than I feel, approaching the car with the utmost confidence. I’m wearing a black dress that’s clean and no underwear beneath because what’s the point. I figured I was going straight home after a quick squabble on the street with West, but I still wanted to look decent.
At least more decent than he’s seen me prior. The impression I’ve left on him can’t be much, yet he still sends me flowers, still waits for me outside when it’s time to leave.
He rushes ahead of me and opens the passenger side door, waving his hand and indicating I should step inside. I do so, sitting delicately in the passenger seat, startling when he slams the door.
The interior of the car is beautiful, black leather everything with enough silver knobs to confuse me—and it smells like him, which is some sort of torture that I can’t help but wonder if he planned it all.
He slides into the driver’s seat seconds later, filling up the space, his shoulder nearly nudging mine and I recoil from his closeness, pressing myself against the door.
“Do you have any preference where we go?” He turns that intense gaze upon me and I feel rooted in place. Unable to move. I didn’t bank on being so close to him and how it would make me feel. I’m close enough to touch him. Smell him. To lean in and press my face into his neck, inhaling his familiar, woodsy scent.
I banish the last thought from my mind.
“I’m not hungry, remember?”
“You will be once I take you to this place.” He starts the car, revs the engine because of course he does, he’s a man and he’s ridiculous, and then pulls away from the curb with the tires squealing on the pavement. I can even feel the car’s back end sway and I send him a stern look when he comes to a stop at the next light, the engine rumbling, the grin on his face telling me he’s extremely pleased with himself.
“You’re dangerous.”
“I thought that’s why you liked me.”
“I never said I liked you, Weston.” I stare out the passenger window, fighting the smile that wants to grow.
“At some point you must’ve. Why else did we do what we did?”
“What exactly are you referring to?” I keep my gaze firmly fixed on the window.
“You remember.” His voice is low and full of unspoken meaning. “Or do you?”
He’s the only person I’ve ever done that sort of thing with so, of course, I remember.
And this makes me wonder how many women has he been with the past two years? He’s very successful, and very young. And also, extremely good looking. I’m sure women have thrown themselves at him and he’s had his pick.
So, what is he doing here with me?
He takes me to a restaurant that’s not too far from the theatre and that must be very popular. It’s crowded with well-dressed couples, a large cluster of people waiting in the lobby, yet the moment West tells the hostess his name, she’s leading us deeper into the restaurant, seating us at a small table not too far from the bar, which is absolutely packed. The low murmur of conversation fills the space, the scent in the air absolutely divine and my stomach grumbles despite my constant protests that I’m not hungry.
“Have you been here before?” he asks once the hostess leaves us with our menus.
“No, never.” I flip open the menu, my mouth almost watering at the descriptions of the food. “I don’t get out much.”
“No one trying to take you out?”
I send him a look. “Don’t dig, West.”
“Why not?”
“It’s none of your business.”
He shrugs. “I had to try.”
There’s a votive in the center of the table, the candlelight flickering upon his face and I don’t know if I’ve ever seen him look more handsome. He’s downright breathtaking and as I stare at him, I realize something.
My feelings for him have never really dimmed. I still think about him constantly, but instead of wanting him, I want to yell at him. Ask him why. Why did he leave? More than anything, I want to beg him to give me every single detail of what he’s experienced over the last two plus years.
Not that I do that. I won’t beg this man for any information. Instead, I play it cool, reading over all the restaurant has to offer, not planning to choose a single thing.
“I’m having the lobster.” He glances up at me. “Want to share an appetizer?”
My stomach growls loudly on cue and I almost want to die with embarrassment.
“Whatever you want to get,” I say weakly.
“We’re getting the scallops. You like seafood?” When I nod, he slaps the menu shut. “Then it’s settled. I’m starving. And I want something from the bar. Do you? They have a great martini.”
“You’ve been here before?”
“After you’ve rejected me so soundly the last couple of nights? Yes.” He ducks his head, seemingly bashful, though we both know that’s a crock of shit. Besides, he’s chuckling, like my rejection is amusing, and maybe it is. “After the first night, I came here and sat at the bar and drank myself into oblivion.”
“Really?” He took my rejection that badly? I was pretty awful.
“You were really mean. And when you’re mean,” he rubs at his chest, right in the vicinity of his heart, “it can hurt, you know?”
I roll my eyes. “Come on, West.”
He drops his hand, leaning across the table as if he’s trying to get closer to me. “Come on, Carolina. You’ve been mean to me since the first time we met.”
I was terrible to him in Paris. When I first started at Lancaster Prep. And now here in London. I can’t help it. He brings out the worst in me. “There’s something about you that I find so …”
“Irritating?” he offers.
“You frustrate me. With your pretty face and charming words,” I finish.
“You think I’m pretty?” He leans back in his chair, his legs splayed wide, looking every ounce the confident man that he surely is. “I don’t know how I feel about that. I’d much prefer handsome. Attractive. Good-looking. Even hot. But pretty?”
I nod. “Your face is very pretty.”
He scowls. “I hate that.”
My smile is small, and I’m lying. My brother has a pretty face. I think that’s what makes his nasty attitude so shocking. And while West is definitely handsome, and could even be considered pretty, especially when he was younger, I wouldn’t say that’s an accurate word to describe him.
But the word annoys him so it’s fun to say.
“Maybe you hate me too,” I finally say.
“No, that’s how you feel about me.” His expression turns somber. “Which I suppose I’ve earned, since I fucked everything up.”
I part my lips, ready to ask why exactly he did what he did, when the server shows up, asking if we want to start with drinks or an appetizer. West orders for me—an espresso martini, I can’t wait—plus the scallop appetizer, and once the server is gone, I prop my elbows on the table, curling my hands together and resting my chin on top of them.
“You need to start explaining.”
“Where should I start?” He frowns.
“From the beginning.”
