"Anything you want." He slid off the bed and pulled his clothes back on. It was probably rude to watch, but he was just so perfect. And he really liked her. Her. Honestly, it was more than perfect.
"Back in a few," he said, then winked at her before he slipped out the door. She fell back against the pillows, then pulled one over her face so that she could scream with joy and no one could hear.
She heard the door open and she tossed the pillow aside, surprised he'd made it back so quickly.
Except it wasn't Wyatt. It was her father.
She sat up, the sheet held tight against her as she scurried back until she hit the wall and couldn't go any further.
He stood in the doorway, the paper on which she'd written the address clutched tight in his hand. His eyes wide. His face red with anger.
"You little whore." He didn't shout. Didn't raise his voice at all. And somehow, that made it all the worse. "Get your clothes on and get outside. Now."
"Daddy, I--"
"Shut your filthy mouth. And get to the car. Your brother's in the hospital. And it's all your fault."
All her fault.
He only said it once, but she heard it over and over as she threw on her clothes. As she raced out of the house to the front door, tears streaming down her face. As she sat curled up on the back of the car as they raced to the LA area burn center where her brother had been admitted after being airlifted all the way from Santa Barbara.
She stood there, her hands pressed against the glass as she looked at him, deep in a drugged sleep, his body mangled, his skin raw or completely burned off. She couldn't even go in the room. Couldn't tell him she was sorry. No visitors were allowed behind the glass. Not with the fourth-degree burns on his back and the side of his face. Not with the risk of infection.
Hour after hour, day after day, she watched him, wishing that she'd never left the house. That she'd never taken Wyatt's call.
Because her father was right. She'd done something very bad, and her baby brother was being punished for it.
She knew that. Deep down in her gut, she knew it was true.
Most of all, she knew that she'd never forgive herself.
16
"She walked out?" Lyle asked. "Right in the middle of the shoot?" He glanced sideways at Wyatt, breathing hard.
"Pretty much." They'd been jogging along the beach for almost half an hour, and at first the morning air had been invigorating. Now, though, Wyatt was starting to drag. He'd been up all night, and his lack of sleep was slowing him down.
That and the fact that he was worried about the project. Siobhan had called that morning to tell him that Roger Jensen, an arts and leisure columnist with the Pacific Shore Examiner, a glossy magazine that mixed legitimate news with tabloid gossip, was hounding her for an advance image from the show. "I told him no, but you might want to consider it. His column in the Examiner blog goes viral all the time. And the extra publicity would be nice."
"Forget it," he'd said. "No advance images. You know my rules."
"I do. But it's my job to run these things by you. It's also my job to check on you," she added, then asked for an update on his hunt for the perfect girl. Wyatt considered dodging the question, but Siobhan was a friend, and she was in this s
how as deep as he was.
"Found her," he admitted. "And then I lost her."
"Well, that's not good," Siobhan said. And when Wyatt agreed with that insightful assessment, she'd suggested that Cass could be the It Girl.
"Cass is stunning," Wyatt agreed. "But she's not the girl."
"Like I said, this close to the show, you can't be picky about the girl. You just need a girl. Pretty. Sexy. Photogenic. And one who doesn't bolt."
"Maybe," he'd said, knowing that he was running out of options. But also knowing that Cass was his last option. And Kelsey was his first.
And there weren't any other options in between.
Lyle had been jogging a few feet ahead, but now he slowed until they were pacing each other. "I thought you said this girl needed the money. Why'd she up and leave?"