Owning Beauty (Taking Beauty Trilogy 3)

I sighed, running my hand through my hair and then grabbing a hair tie off my nightstand to tie it back into a ponytail. As hard as I tried, I couldn’t chase away the feeling of dread that overwhelmed me at the idea of having Julian Bastille in my life—or my child’s, for that matter. It wasn’t just his devil-may-care lifestyle or his obnoxious demeanor, either. It was also the fact that every visit would come with the paparazzi attached. This kid would have no chance at normalcy, not while he was around.

What kind of mother would subject her child to a life where they were monitored by the media twenty-four-seven? What kind of mother would subject herself to that kind of scrutiny as well?

I could just imagine the headlines now. From whatever I chose to name the baby to what delivery method I used, and then from whether I used cloth diapers or regular, or what its damn high school GPA was, I would be bombarded with strangers questioning every move I made. I’d be accused of all sorts of abuses and every mistake would have Julian’s fan base foaming at the mouth.

I deserved better than that, and so did this kid. Adoption, I realized with a sort of resolution I’d lacked before, was my best option. Our best option. My only hope was that Julian didn’t try to make giving the kid up any harder than it was already going to be.

I knew I had to do what was best for both of us, Julian Bastille be damned.

I also knew it would need to be a closed adoption. That was the only way this kid was going to escape the media hounding it for the rest of its life. It was bad enough it had to be conceived this way, and keeping secret how much of a circus its own conception had been would probably only help it be as well-adjusted as possible. It didn’t need the thought of being some famous asshole’s son hanging over its head, especially not an asshole like Bastille, who couldn’t keep it in his pants long enough to even bother pulling his zipper up.

“Adoption it is,” I said, feeling like I might be trying to convince myself that this was the right way to go about it. Logically, it was. But deep down, I wondered if I’d make a better parent than my mother had been. Maybe I could take what I’d learned from everything she’d put me through and ensure my child never had to suffer those indignities.

But the idea of finding out at the expense of this kid’s life wasn’t an option, and that alone made me a better parent, in my book. I knew what it felt like to be an unwanted child, and I wasn’t about to inflict that on this little boy or girl.

Maybe I wasn’t the most maternal woman in the world. Maybe, like Jen had said, practically any other girl would have already been picking out nursery colors and gender-neutral onesies. But for all my failings on this front, at least I was determined to ensure this life inside me was loved. That had to count for something. Didn’t it?

I started looking up adoption agencies in my state. The more I read, the more I realized how lucky I was to have come to this decision before the birth. So many other mothers found themselves unable to care for their children until much later, and those kids were the ones who seemed to get stuck in the system for years, many of them never making it out before adulthood hit. Most families, from what I could gather, wanted a brand new baby straight out of the womb. It staggered me that I’d probably be connected with a family looking to adopt within a few days, whereas most kids waited their whole lives to be brought into loving homes while some couple snubbed them because they weren’t “fresh out of the box.”

That thought pulled at my heartstrings. Just like I had with the baby pandas on the TV the other day, I found myself tearing up.

“Oh, goddammit,” I whispered, wiping my eyes. “Freaking hormones…”

That was just another part of being pregnant that I was going to need to get used to. In the last twelve hours my mood had went from sad to happy to hornier than I’d ever been in my whole life. I couldn’t stop imagining Julian sliding his huge cock between my thighs, and even my battery operated boyfriend couldn’t make that little desperate thought disappear.

Which made me sad all over again…

My phone trilled, a number I didn’t recognize listed at the top of the screen. I knew it wasn’t one of the reporters—I’d made damn sure to block all of their numbers, as well as those of the talk show hosts who’d tried to get me to make a statement.

At first I was tempted to let it ring, to just let whoever the hell it was leave their message and go on their way, but something in my gut begged me to pick it up. God help me, I don’t know why I listened, but before I could stop myself I had the phone to my ear.

“Hello?” I put my thumb over the button that would end the call, just in case someone new was trying to spring an interview on me. In my emotional state, the last thing I needed to do was put something on the record.

A voice that had recently grown all-too-familiar greeted me from the other end of the line. “Elizabeth, love.” My stomach clenched. Great, as if I wasn’t freaking out enough already.

“What do you want, Julian?” I said, trying to keep my tone even and failing. “Haven’t you done enough damage?”

There was a long silence over the line. I knew he was still there, could hear the soft cadence of his breath, but he had nothing to say for the longest time. There was something strained there, in his lack of words. Like he very badly wanted to say something, but was having trouble mustering the courage.

I closed my eyes. Julian hadn’t struck me as the type to get tongue-tied. Not ever. Had I done this to him? Had I… had I actually hurt his feelings?

“Listen,” he began again, the velvet of his voice struck through with an anxious tremor. All that cocksure posturing was gone, leaving behind an earnestness that stole my breath. The change was like night to day. “I know I’m not your favorite person, and I understand why. And I don’t blame you in the slightest for wanting me out of your life.”

I lifted my brows. That was a good start to this unexpected conversation. “Do you really understand?” I asked him. “Because your manager sure doesn’t seem to.”

“Tessa can be… intense,” he admitted. I didn’t think that was nearly a strong enough word for it, but I held my tongue. Pick your battles, Liz. Julian had something to say, and it must have been important, given how utterly human he’d become. “But we’re not joined at the hip. And she certainly doesn’t speak for me—or, rather… she does, but that’s something I’m ready to change.”

He paused and cleared his throat. “Given the situation that we’re in, and the fact that both of us have a stake in what’s happening with this whole thing, I wanted to ask you to dinner.”

I blinked. “You… you called me to ask me out to dinner?”

“Call it the first of many peace offerings,” Julian said. “I’ve made a mess of things. Let me at least show some courtesy and we can talk. Just you and me, no manager or press to get in the way. Just… give me the opportunity to do something right here, even if I might cock it all up.”

I sat back against my pillows. I honestly wasn’t sure what to say. Entertaining an offer of a dinner date had been way down on my list of expectations, especially when it came to Julian Bastille. At first blush, I wanted to tell him there was nothing to discuss and then hang up the phone, but…

What if I’d been wrong about him? What if I’d allowed his manager’s awful behavior to cloud my judgment? What if I had been holding a grudge against him for something that was my fault too? It wasn’t like Julian had set out to get me pregnant and ruin my life. He’d been looking for a good time just as much as I had. Shame ripped through me as I considered how unfair I’d been to him, how I’d made him out to be the villain in my story when really, we were both just the victims of circumstance.

“Just the two of us?” I asked him. “You promise?”

“I promise,” Julian solemnly replied. “Cross my heart, love.” I wasn’t sure how I felt about him calling me that, but it seemed good-natured enough. “And while I’ve got you, I… I also want to say how sorry I am for what happened at your house. I didn’t ex

pect Tessa to act that way, and I won’t let it happen again.”

“Thank you,” I said, slipping my hair tie off and letting my hair spill over my shoulder again. I didn’t realize I was twisting it around a finger like some nervous schoolgirl until I had a lock of it wound down to my knuckle. Quickly, I unraveled it, thankful Julian wasn’t around to see me. “Where were you planning to have dinner? And when?”

“I’ll send a car,” he said, a smile in his voice now. I shifted uneasily at the idea of letting Julian takes the reins on this—or anything, really—but with just a few words, he yet again managed to change my mind. “Oh, and Elizabeth? Thank you.”

“I…” It took me several moments to remember the words that really should have been more like muscle memory. “You’re welcome.”

We hung up and I stared at my phone. I couldn’t believe I’d agreed to this. I couldn’t believe the difference in Julian, in his manner, his personality, and his tone.

“What are you getting yourself into?” I whispered to the empty room.

Julian

Back in London, I could just call someone and have the most expensive food I could think of brought right to my door on a silver platter. Out here, I was lucky to find a place that offered a decent slice of pizza. Très Coûteux was the most expensive restaurant I could find in a fifty mile radius. It would have to do…

From the look of the place—and the gaudy name they’d chosen—they styled themselves like some upscale French eatery like you’d find in Paris.

Assuming you’d only seen Paris on television.

Their décor, their ambience—all of it was a comical mimicry of what Americans thought a French restaurant looked like right down to the pompous maître d’ with his pencil-thin mustache. I could barely contain my amusement, and it raised my spirits. I only hoped Elizabeth was in a pleasant mood as well.

An odd procession of feelings passed over me as I glimpsed the car service I’d hired to bring Elizabeth to the restaurant round the bend. From that bundle of nervous energy came a kind of hopefulness. Despite how angry she’d been, I hoped that Elizabeth and I could come to have at least a civil relationship, if not a friendly one.

Finally, fear and regret joined the party upstairs. Fear that I’d already mucked things up too much to repair them. Fear that everything I thought about myself—that I couldn’t be loved, that I wasn’t worthy—would be confirmed. Regret that we hadn’t met under better circumstances, that I hadn’t even gotten to know Elizabeth before everything around us had gone to shit.

As the car pulled up to the curb, I stepped forward to open the door and help my “wife” out of the car.

“Très Coûteux?!” she whispered, half in awe, half in what seemed like agitation. “You tell me we’re going to dinner and bring me to the nicest restaurant around? I’m wearing blue jeans!”