"Yeah, some asshole of a photographer twisted my arm until I bought some."
"The bastard."
Noah grinned. "How about that drink?"
Wyatt followed him to the kitchen, then parked himself on one of the stools tucked up under the breakfast bar.
On the way, Noah had grabbed his glass and the bottle. Now he pulled down a fresh glass for Wyatt and poured generously. "A local distillery," he said. "Welcome to Austin. And tell me how the hell you got to my door. Don't tell me the passcode lock is turned off on the elevators, because if it is, I'm having words with security."
"It's on."
"So, what? You opened the trap door and shimmied fifteen stories up the cable? Lyle's the action hero, not you. And even he needs a stunt man."
Wyatt spread his hands, looking smug. "I used your passcode."
"I never--"
"You didn't have to," Wyatt said, no longer with a teasing tone. "Anyone who knows you could make a solid guess."
Of course.
"Right," Noah said, his voice flat. "Pretty transparent." The code was the day, month, and year of his daughter's death.
"Oh, shit. Listen, Noah, I didn't mean to--"
"I'm fine. Really. So, you just came for Griff? Or do you have work lined up, too?" Even though Wyatt was kicking ass with his show, he still did some commercial work, and it wouldn't surprise Noah to learn that he'd come to Austin to take shots around the beautiful city.
It took Wyatt a moment to answer, and Noah was certain he was debating apologizing again for bringing up sad memories. Noah hoped he didn't.
Besides, he was the one who'd set that code, and he'd done it purposefully. Because he wanted that memory every time he rode the elevator.
He could live with the pain of losing Diana now. It had been torture at first, but the pain had dulled into a dark gray hole in his heart. What he couldn't live with--what he would never risk--was that a day would go by without at least one small memory of the little girl he'd loved so much. And so he had the code.
He kept his focus on Wyatt, who must have finally decided against apologizing, because he said, "No work for me, but on Monday, Kelsey's speaking to some local dancers about her experience in my show and filming The Far Side of Jupiter."
"That's wrapped, right?" Noah recalled that Kelsey's work on Wyatt's show had helped her land a role in a film adaptation of Jupiter, a Tony Award winning musical. "When's the release?"
"Not sure. Next year sometime. I guess I should probably know that." He frowned slightly, and Noah had to laugh. Not only did Wyatt's wife have a major role in the film, but Wyatt's own mother had worked on the screenplay and, Noah believed, acted as a producer. But despite Wyatt's deep Hollywood roots, he paid very little attention to the business. Hell, he'd gone so far as to change his name so that his status as Hollywood royalty wouldn't thwart his desire to make it on his own in his profession.
Wyatt sipped the bourbon, then slid off the stool. He crossed to the window and looked out over the now-dark river.
Noah took his own glass and settled into the big, ugly armchair. When he'd moved in, he hadn't had time to deal with furnishing the place, and so he'd let Carina hire someone for him, giving them free rein so long as they stuck to minimal, contemporary furniture.
But he'd insisted on keeping the chair. The ugly, battered, sore thumb of a chair.
He took a long swallow of his own drink and sighed with pleasure. For the first time since Kiki left, Noah finally felt relaxed.
Across the room, Wyatt turned away from the window, then leaned against one of the support beams while he looked back at Noah. "Okay, enough catching up. Pleasantries over, time to get real. You going to tell me what's up?"
So much for shifting gears. "What makes you think something's up?"
"Oh, let's think. You joked about being on the market--and yet you haven't been on the market since I met you. And you used Kelsey as part of the schtick, even though you had to know I'd either kick you in the balls or ask you what's wrong. So there you go," he added. "Now tell me what's up."
Noah hesitated. The truth was . . . well, the truth was that he'd never told anyone the truth. Not even Kiki--not all of it. Maybe not even himself. Not fully, anyway.
But it was time. He needed to put it out there. Articulate his thoughts. Most of all, he needed someone to be his mirror. And if Wyatt dropping by tonight wasn't kismet, he didn't know what was.