Love, Chloe (21 page)

“Why didn’t you tell me Carter had a girlfriend?” I flung open the door to Joey’s trailer and glared, my hands braced on the open doorframe. Next time I rushed across town to confront someone; I was going to pack flats. I pushed that thought aside and was stuck with the mental image that had been playing on repeat: Carter and a brunette, running hand in hand across the street like they were on a freakin’ Hallmark card.

Joey glanced up from the sofa, a half-eaten donut in hand, mouth full. Setting it on a napkin, he reclined against the leather and wiped at his mouth. “Hi, Chloe. It’s great to see you too.”

“Uh … do you guys need privacy?” Hannah piped from the recliner, her feet tucked under her butt, a clipboard on her lap.

“I hope so.” Joey smirked.

“No,” I barked, pulling the door shut and stepping closer, my hands settling on my hips, my feet burning. “Well?”

Joey finished off the donut, taking his time, my fingers itching to yank open his mouth and pull out a response. “Carter doesn’t have a girlfriend,” he finally said, sucking the end of a powder-coated finger.

“I’m gonna head out,” Hannah interjected with a loud whisper, her exit barely noticed in my irritation.

“Stop covering for him. I
saw
them. The brunette with the long legs? Giant boobs?”

“Oh,” he grinned. “You mean Brit.” He laughed. “God, Chloe, you should see your face right now.”

I wondered, in that moment, if I could kill the movie’s lead and not get kicked off set. If Hannah would help me hide his beautiful body or if she’d turn me in. I wasn’t paranoid. In their cross of that street, I’d had seen the grin on her face, the way their fingers were linked, the affectionate pull of her hand. Not that I had a claim on Carter but WTF. “Who’s Brit?” I gritted out the name.

“Brit. She’s … ah…” He grinned at me in the naughty way that made moviegoers everywhere swoon. “She’s a fuckbuddy.”

“A fuckbuddy.” I repeated the crass term, not sure how I felt about it. Should I be happy that it wasn’t a real relationship? Then again … I frowned. Was I just two or three nights away from being a fuckbuddy myself?

“You look stressed,” Joey remarked, reaching forward and grabbing another donut from the bag. “I can see your wrinkles from here.”

“Bite me.” I stumbled right and collapsed into the recliner that Hannah had so conveniently vacated.

“You like him, huh?” He passed me the bag of donuts, and I took one, careful not to get powdered sugar all over myself.

“I don’t know,” I grumbled, picking one. “Where’d you get these?”

“Hannah.”

“I need a Hannah.” I sighed, sinking deeper into the chair, and he laughed.

There was a long pause while we chewed, and I took a sip of coffee from his offered cup. “Don’t worry about Brit,” Joey said, glancing over at me. “They’re just friends.”

Friends
… who have sex
. The words hung in my mind even if they didn’t leave his lips. Men didn’t understand. They thought there could be sex without emotion but that didn’t work. You couldn’t get along, enjoy each other’s company,
and
have smoking hot sex without someone’s feelings getting involved. At least I couldn’t.

“Besides,” he drawled, leaning forward and patting my leg. “She’s got nothing on you.”

Oh yeah. What man liked giant breasts and a supermodel smile? I was dusting powdered sugar off my shirt, a smartass response on the tip of my tongue, when the trailer door opened, and the last person I expected to see stepped in.

And I’d thought my day was bad before.

There were times when you wanted to see an ex. When you were looking fabulous and hanging on the arm of a billionaire. When you were out with your girls and having the time of your single life.

You didn’t want to see him in Joey Plazen’s trailer with powdered sugar smeared on your skirt, your ego recently trampled by a
maintenance
guy. I jerked to my feet, a chunk of donut dropping to Joey’s floor. “Vic?”

He stood in the doorway of the trailer, the sun streaming in behind him in a halo effect. The man always did know how to make an entrance. He stepped inside and closed the door, Joey moving forward, his hand outstretched. “Mr. Worth. I wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon.”

Mr. Worth? I grimaced and crossed my arms.

“Plans changed,” Vic said smoothly, shaking Joey’s hand, his Rolex glinting from under the sleeve of his suit.
I
gave him that watch, back when I spent weekends with Daddy’s AmEx in my wallet and eight inches of Vic in my hand. He’d never wore the watch much then; go figure he’d wear it now. “They’re giving me a tour in twenty minutes, then we’re going over the budgets. I wasn’t sure if I’d have another chance to come by. Sorry if I interrupted anything.” He turned to me and smiled. “Hey beautiful.” He stepped forward, his hands outstretched as if he was going to hug me, and I stopped that shit right there—moving away, my hand held up.

“What are you doing here?” I sounded accusatory and bitchy, and Joey stiffened, but I didn’t care how it came out because this was
my
world and
Mr
. Worth didn’t have a place in it. He didn’t belong here, in Joey’s trailer, his arms reaching for me.

“Mr. Worth is our newest investor,” Joey supplied, stepping forward with a smile, his glare sending a dozen messages, the main ones:
be nice
and
this guy is important
.

“The newest investor?” I repeated slowly. “On
Boston Love Letters
?”

“Joey, could we have a minute?” Vic asked smoothly, moving aside to clear the exit.

“Absolutely, Mr. Worth,” Joey said, and I swore on my life, if he kept calling Vic that, I’d chop off his balls myself. The trailer door opened, then shut, the trailer infinitely smaller even though there was one less person.

“Chloe,” Vic said softly, and I knew, right then, in that one word, I was in trouble.

That’d always been the problem with us. I just couldn’t resist the man.

I was not a strong woman. I was weak, and still, over a year after our parting, deeply in love with this man. This man who was not good for me. This man who had a hundred faithful and dedicated bones in his body, but four or five wildly promiscuous ones, bones that jumped out of order occasionally and had their fun. Bones that shattered promises, ruined happily-ever-afters, and broke apart soulmates.

The sound of my name on his lips … it was a drug. A narcotic high heightened by Joey Plazen shutting the trailer door and leaving the two of us alone in this small, dim space. Vic stepped closer, and a light hint of his cologne flooded me with a hundred memories. For a thousand mornings, noons, and nights, this man was my future. I had picked out apartments, made post-graduation plans and browsed engagement rings, all with his hand in mine. And despite his lies and my broken heart, hearing him whisper my name was all it took. I crumbled.

“Don’t, Vic.” The words were a plea, my feet stepping back and hitting the wall, his eyes darkening as he stepped forward, his hand reaching out, brushing up my bare arm before his palm settled on the wall by my head. A breath eased out of me as I closed my eyes and pressed against the wall, feeling the familiar warmth of him, the press of his body as his legs brushed across mine. I waited for the touch of his lips even as I stiffened, searching for a word, a protest, something to keep from falling. And through it all, my skin yearned, inches of exposure pulled between desire and distrust, the rough slide of his sigh letting me know exactly how close his mouth was to mine.

“Chloe.” There was such torture in his voice, such unexpected pain, that I opened my eyes. I could see his whole face, the tight line of his jaw, the piercing stare that had pinned me from the first moment we’d met. “Chloe,” he repeated, so soft it was almost air.

“Yes?” I should have said something else.
Vic, get off me. Vic, you’re an ass. Vic, I watched you fuck her and our future, all in that minute in time.

“I need you to want this.”

I wanted it. I wanted it so badly that I was already wet. I wanted it so badly that my fingers twitched against my side, wanting to reach forward and grip his suit. I wanted it so badly that I looked at him and said nothing. Prayed he would turn and walk away because I wasn’t strong enough to just say no. I closed my eyes, knowing he’d see desire in them. “Please, Vic. Don’t.” It was the best I could do, the best my weak voice could manage. And still … it sounded sexual. A plea for more instead of for less.
Please, Vic. Don’t. Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop chasing me.

My skin jumped when the soft skin of his lips trailed down the side of my neck, a light skim of pressure, hot breath floating out between his lips, his journey occasionally punctuated by a kiss. Then, he moved from my mouth and to the place that always weakened my resolve, a hand settling on my hip as he pushed a gentle kiss on my forehead.

“I need you to want this,” he whispered through the kiss, his hips against me, showing me exactly how much he wanted it.

And that was the other problem. He didn’t need me to just want hot passionate trailer-shaking sex. He needed me to want forever, too.

I lifted my fingers, running them up his arms, across his broad shoulders, and dug my hands into hair I had missed. His eyes met mine for one last moment of hesitation, and then his mouth crashed down onto mine. And there, in that frantic collision of tongues, I found my Vic. A man who took the lead, his fingers greedy as they ran down my body and up my legs, pushing my skirt up, my ears registering the sound of his belt as he yanked at its buckle.

“Wait,” I gasped out the word in between kisses. “We can’t, not here.” It was a waste of words. This was the man who finger-banged me in a crowded theater, then threw enough cash at the manager to have the auditorium cleared so he could do a better job with his cock. This was the man who bent me over the kitchen sink at his parents’ house during Thanksgiving dinner, the faint sounds of conversation floating down the hall as his hand covered my mouth and his hips pounded against my ass.

“Are you kidding? Joey Plazen would get down on his knees and suck me off right now if I told him to.” He gritted out the words as he yanked down my panties, his mouth greedy on my neck when I turned my mouth away from him. “No one’s coming in.”

My response died when he got past my panties, his fingers pushed inside causing my knees to buckle. Two years of sexual history had taught the man exactly how, when, and where to touch me. In the last months of our relationship, that had felt like a problem. Too formulaic. But now? When his other hand got his belt loose and his pants unzipped? It didn’t feel like a problem. It felt like Pompeii: no point in running, no point in fighting. I slid my hand under his jacket and gripped his shirt, spreading my feet slightly and tilting my pelvis, his mouth lifting off my neck, his eyes hard on me as he pulled his fingers out and pushed the full length of himself inside.

I cried out his name on the first thrust. Let him lift up one of my legs and wrap it around him on the twentieth. Ripped an expensive button on his shirt off when I came. Sank in his arms when he followed suit. He lifted me, our bodies still connected, and laid me down on Joey’s couch. Pulled up my panties as he kissed my thighs, then my stomach, then my neck.

I didn’t look at him. I couldn’t. I couldn’t bear to see myself reflected in those eyes. I curled onto my side, and wanted to take it back. I closed my eyes, my cheeks against the cool leather of Joey’s couch, and prayed he would just leave.

Then, when he did, the door quietly shutting behind him, I wanted him back.

Life might be a bitch, but love? She kicked that bitch’s ass.