Wicked Dirty (Stark World 2)

"He is a pretty amazing actor," I quip. "But, yeah, the feeling is real. On both sides."

Greg nods, taking it all in.

I bite my lip as I look at him. "I love him," I say. "I really do. And he loves me, too." I draw a nervous breath. "The thing is, I really want you guys to be cool. I mean, you're one of my best friends. Not to mention my business partner. So are we...?"

He nods slowly, obviously considering his words. "We're cool, yes. And I like him. I really do. But I do think you're moving pretty fast. And I know that's not my business. You are, though, because you're my friend. And I'm still worried that this fake engagement thing is going to blow up on you."

"It's weird," I admit. "But there were reasons. And if it blows up, we'll deal."

"You will," he says, "because somehow you always manage to deal with everything that gets tossed at you. But will he?"

As soon as he asks the question, he holds up his hands in self-defense. "It's not a jibe. It's an honest question. I don't know him well enough. But I just wonder if a guy who makes up a fake engagement is the kind of guy who'll survive if the facade is suddenly ripped away."

I don't answer. How can I when Greg has just voiced my own deep fear?

When Lyle returns, I push the conversation and the worry aside, and by the time our workday is done and Lyle and I are off to my house to spend some quality time with Skittles and a rented movie, I'm feeling safe and happy again.

We're at my house not only because I need to feed and love on Skittles, but because I want to imbue the place with good karma in the hopes that the House Gods will smile upon me and tell my father his stupid lawsuit has no punch at all.

I know that's ridiculous, though. The odds are good that I'm going to lose this place. So my other reason for wanting to spend time at home is that I want memories in this house with Lyle. It's the place I love most in the world, and I want to be here with him.

"You're sure you don't want to go out to some restaurant or to a nightclub or something?" I ask Friday night after we return from a sunset walk on the beach. I don't want to, but he seems antsy tonight, and I'm afraid I'm cramping his Hollywood celebrity style.

"God no," he says with such conviction it erases most of my worries. "I'm exactly where I want to be."

"You sure? You seem off tonight."

"I'm not," he says, contradicting himself by standing up and putting his hands in his pockets, a habit I've noticed when he's uncomfortable or unsure.

"Spill," I demand.

He hesitates, but then admits that he talked to Charles that afternoon.

"Charles," I repeat, trying to remember why I know that name. "Oh, the attorney about your movies. Have you decided what you're going to do about those contracts?"

"Do?" His forehead creases. "It's not a question of do. Charles is just reviewing them to make sure the details are right."

"Oh." I thought maybe he'd decided to turn them down and go with Arizona Spring. "Then what's wrong?"

"I asked him about your house. About whether there was anything that could be done to stop the partition."

For a second, I'm actually excited. Then I realize that this isn't good news. "It's bad," I say, and he nods.

"You could fight, but all that would happen is you'd incur attorneys' fees. And then you'd have to pay that bill out of the money you'll get from the forced sale."

I move into his outstretched arms and sigh as he holds me tight. "I'm sorry," Lyle says. "I was hoping he could work some magic. He's one of the most influential lawyers in town. But your father is dug in. Even the plea that he was tossing his daughter out of the only home she's ever known didn't make a dent. And he flat turned down the suggestion that you two meet face to face."

I nod. I've always thought my dad was a son-of-a-bitch, and if he wasn't then he could track me down and prove that he was a good guy.

It never occurred to me that he'd track me down and prove that he was the asshole I always believed, but I guess it's nice to know I haven't been wrongfully maligning him my whole life.

"So that's it," I say. "In a few weeks, I'm really losing this place."

"Sugar, I'm so sorry." He leads me to the couch, and I curl up against him, letting him stroke my hair as reality settles over me. It's not a hard transition, really. I've known since the first moment I opened the envelope with the court documents that this was a fight I probably couldn't win. But that doesn't make the losing less painful.

"What can I do?" he asks.

"This is good," I admit. "You holding me like this." I tilt my head so that I can see his face. "I can let it go--I can. I just need to be sad for a bit."