“And to think, I complained one year when my mother got mesocksfor Christmas…”
* * *
My hands shakethe whole drive across town. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel to keep them steady and attempt to distract myself with a glance at the odometer. I’m stunned to see my new convertible has traveled less than fifty miles total, since I drove it out of the dealership last month with Harper riding shotgun.
That’s what happens when you spend a month curled up in a ball of misery and forget to live.
I take the long route up Mulholland Drive, in no rush to get there. Masters offered to accompany me, but I wouldn’t let him.
This is something I have to do by myself.
Twenty minutes later, my tires crunch over gravel as I glide to a stop in front of the mansion. Oversized terra-cotta pots are evenly spaced along the driveway perimeter — at night, they’re filled with dancing flames but now, in the mid-morning light, they stand like empty sentinels lining the walk.
My heart is slamming so hard against my ribs I’m worried they might crack under the pressure. I feel weak at the knees, like some swooning handmaiden in a fairy tale in need of smelling salts and a dashing prince to sweep her to safety. But this is no fairy tale, and I am certainly no princess.
I’m the villain.
I reach out and rap my knuckles against the door so faintly, I doubt the sound even passes through the thick mahogany. Hauling in a deep breath, I steel myself and try again. Three resounding bangs of my fist, booming in an indisputable announcement of my presence. If he’s home, there’s little doubt he heard me.
Two minutes pass. I count them down on my watch, berating myself a little more with each passing second that the doors remain closed. I waver, suddenly uncertain, and contemplate making a run for my car.
Sure, Cynthia will sue me for every cent in my bank account, and I’ll wind up penniless, homeless, and jobless. Somehow that still sounds like a better alternative than waiting another moment on this stoop.
Perhaps it was a bad idea to show up without calling first. Perhaps he’s standing just inside the door, staring through the peephole, waiting for me to give up and go away. Perhaps—
The door swings inward. “Katharine?”
I suck in a breath.
He’s wearing a white bath towel wrapped low around his hips and nothing else. The stark contours of his pelvic bones form a deep v shape, framing a chiseled chest and defined abdominal muscles that are currently dotted with water droplets. His hair is unbound, hanging in a damp curtain to his shoulders. I watch a single bead of water roll from his neck all the way down to the line of hair that trails into his towel, my eyes tracing its journey with the purest form of envy. I’m overcome by the insane desire to lean forward and lick it from his skin with the tip of my tongue.
“This is a surprise.” His voice is deeper than normal. “Sorry, I didn’t hear your knock — I was in the shower.”
I make an incoherent sound.
“Katharine, what are you doing here?”
Forcing my eyes to unglue from his abs, I glance up and find he’s studying me with unguarded suspicion and something else — something I can’t quite define. His gaze flickers down to the folder in my hands, and purpose returns in a swift instant.
“I’m sorry to bother you. I wouldn’t be here unless I had absolutely no other choice, believe me.”
He stiffens, insulted by my words.
Shit.
“No — I didn’t mean—That came out wrong.” I exhale sharply, trying to remember the speech I practiced over and over again on the drive here. It was the perfect balance of civil and composed. Friendly but factual. By the time I reached his street, I had it damn near memorized.
Yet standing here before him, every word has evaporated. My tongue is tied into knots.
“I— I have something I need to— to talk to you about.” I pause. “Business! It’s about business. Not about… other… things.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop the babble.
Wyatt crosses his arms over his chest and levels me with a stare. I could be imagining it — in fact, it’s almost certainly a by-product of wishful thinking — but I’m reasonably sure there’s a tiny bit of humor lurking at the back of his eyes as he regards me standing here melting down like a faulty nuclear reactor on his doorstep. Whatever the case, he decides to take pity on me.
Swinging the door wider, he steps back so I can enter.
“Just get in here. I’ll go throw on some clothes and you…” His lips twitch. “Try to remember what you’re doing at my front door at ten in the morning the day after Christmas.” He starts ascending the extravagant staircase up to the second floor. “If you get stuck, I’d suggest looking inside that folder you’re clutching like a security blanket.”