“Where are you?”
My eyebrows shot up at that. Seemed someone wasn’t paying attention to the media as of late. But then, should I be surprised at that?
“Live Oaks.”
“Hold on.” The reply was sharp, and I winced, thinking that maybe I should just hang up, forget I made the call, and take my lumps like a champ. But then my cell crackled. “I’ll be two hours.”
And that was that.
I took a long shower and spent extra time on my appearance. The cool thing about being Echo Mansfield was that over the last few years, I’ve had access to the best hair and makeup people in the business. I’d learned a trick or two, and it didn’t take much time to hide the bruises under my eyes, or to make my eyes dramatic and enticing. A little liner here, the right amount of shadowing there, and I became the sultry Insta queen my followers were used to. I took a quick selfie and posted it to my account along with a cheeky caption, and then got dressed.
I didn’t want to overdo it—sometimes less is more—so I chose a simple pair of wide-legged black silk pants that hung low on the waist, a plain black sleeveless T-shirt that might or might not have showed my belly button, and slipped into crimson silk flats. The shoes were a gift from Harmony the last time she’d been to Japan, and the embroidery across the top was exquisite. I’ve loved them since I first laid eyes on them because it was a thing of beauty when comfort and fashion blended so seamlessly. If Harmony and I were still talking, I’d take a pic and send it to her.
God, when had my life become such a mess?
I’d straightened my hair, and it hung down over shoulders like a golden shroud, and as I eyed up my reflection with a critical glance, I was pleased. I looked cool as a cucumber, and with my ace in the hole showing up in twenty minutes, I was good to go. I grabbed a long silver chain as well as matching silver studs and then, with a quick spritz of Fantasy (I’ll always be a Britney Spears fangirl), headed downstairs.
I assumed everyone was in the kitchen and decided to help myself to a drink from the front room, which was where Dad kept his bar. A bucket of ice was already there, placed on top of it, and I quickly made a vodka and soda and tossed in a slice of lime. I’d taken exactly one sip when the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end, and I knew I wasn’t alone.
Boyd stood just in the doorway, wearing the same clothes he’d arrived in. His T-shirt might have wrinkled, his jeans looked worse for wear, but seriously, the man could have been dressed in rags and no way would that hinder the X factor, or whatever the hell it was he possessed.
It was game time, and I was up by one an
d he didn’t know it. I smiled but said nothing.
“Looking good, sweetheart.”
Okay. The thing about being in the lead is that there’s always the chance you’ll blow it. I tried to keep my smile in place, and hoped I was successful. He was way too confident for his own good. And “sweetheart”? He knew I hated when he called me that.
I took a moment. Got my shit together.
“Well, I had to post to Insta. It’s been a while.”
“Twelve hours is a while?” He moved toward the bar and rooted around for a beer, found one, then opened it and leaned against one of the wingback chairs in front of the fireplace. His jaw was shadowed, his hair slightly askew, and his eyes glittered in that way that made my body react instantly like the traitor it was. It took a lot of effort to keep my cool, but I did, sipping my drink nonchalantly and moving a few feet away.
“I have to keep my fans happy.” I was light and airy, affecting an attitude I knew bothered him.
“What about you?” he asked. “Are you happy?” His voice was too low. Too intimate. And it pissed me off. We weren’t supposed to be here, in this place, talking to each other like lifelong pals. Or lovers. He wasn’t taking the bait, and I hadn’t had enough alcohol to deal with anything other than animosity.
“Why are you doing this, Boyd?” I surprised myself by asking the one question I probably shouldn’t have. “Why did you come?”
“Why do you think I did?”
“I think you want to get back at me for rejecting you in New York.”
He shrugged, all nonchalant, like we were having an everyday conversation. “Sounds about right.”
I knew it. And knowing I was right kind of gutted me, which was stupid. This was how it should be between us. How it had to be. Me doing something hateful, and Boyd reacting with the intention of getting even.
“But you’re dead wrong.”
Surprised, I watched him carefully. “What’s that’s supposed to mean?” I was almost afraid to ask.
He rose and moved toward me, a predator on two legs, and didn’t stop until he invaded my space. God, the man smelled good. Boyd’s woodsy scent filled me, but it was his nostrils that flared. His eyes that flattened. His breathing that was ragged. There were some heavy-duty pheromones floating around the room, so heavy I could reach out and pluck them from the air.
“We need to talk, Echo.” These words were said quietly, and I took a step back, unprepared for how quickly things changed. I tried to inhale, but my lungs froze, just as my eyes were glued to his as if I was in a trance or caught in a web.
Long moments passed when neither of us spoke, and just when my anxiety was about to crush me, I was rescued by the one person I didn’t care to be rescued by.