Epilogue Colin
Epilogue
Colin
One year later
Los Angeles
“Colin!”
“Colin, over here!”
“Colin, who are you wearing?”
Lights flash from the crowd as I stand in front of the banner plastered with the name of my latest release. Moving between poses, I hold the smirk on my face that photographs the best.
Both hands in my pockets. Left foot forward. Right foot forward. Now one hand in my pocket.
Away they snap.
In my periphery, I see him waiting, his eyes on me. And when I feel like the photographers have everything they need of me alone, I reach out for him.
His eyes narrow with an expression that tells me I will have to pay for this later, but I only smile as he joins my side.
He can try to complain about this, but he’s too good at it for me to believe it.
The broody expression he holds as the cameras snap makes him look like a seasoned pro.
Not to mention how damn good he looks in this tux.
His dark hair is slicked back, and I find myself grinning at him as he holds me against his side, the cameras snapping away.
That’s going to be a good one.
“Enough,” he says in his gruff Scottish brogue.
“All right, let’s go,” I say, tugging him down the red carpet. The photographers are immediately diverted to the bombshell blond walking behind us. Declan breathes a sigh of relief once we’re out of the spotlight.
“You did so well,” I say before kissing him on the cheek.
“I don’t know why you do that. No one wants to see me,” he says, fixing his tie.
“Yes, they do,” I reply, dragging him toward the theatre. “You’re hot and rich, their two favorite things.”
Not to mention, a scandal. The public loves a scandal. So last year, when my wedding to an A-list celebrity was abruptly called off and I was seen only days later around LA with a rich Scottish man, the media ate it up.
As for Pierce, we’ve mended things as much as we can. He was never cut out for marriage anyway, and I think he’s accepted that. At least for this phase of his life. Our paths still cross in the industry and we keep it friendly, but any love I had for him is gone.
The next hour at the premiere drags on. Declan is a trooper through it all, really, the mingling, the ass-kissing, the networking.
But when it’s time to take our seats, I beg him to leave with me.
I hate watching myself on the screen, but he loves it.
And this one I’m especially uneasy about, because for one, it has the most sex scenes I’ve ever done in a film, and it’s more low budget and artistic than any of my more popular films.
Halfway through the film, when my character is having a mental breakdown and I look downright horrific, red face, blotchy cheeks, and dark, sunken eyes, I glance over at Declan to gauge his reaction.
And I’m surprised to find tears in his eyes and a look of adoration on his face. Then he turns toward me, bringing our linked hands to his lips and kissing the back of mine.
“You’re incredible, Shakespeare.”
For the rest of the movie, I try to relax. And when it’s all over, my costars and I receive a standing ovation as we join the director at the front of the theatre.
And who is in the front row hollering and shouting louder than anyone else? Naturally, my husband.
* * *
The champagne goes down far too easily at the after-party, which is something I never used to do. Drinking at these things always felt like mixing work with pleasure, and I could never let my guard down enough to let loose.
But I swear, Declan was made for this. He’s a natural, far more than I am. It reminds me of the Declan I met sixteen years ago. The young, charismatic life of the party.
He links his fingers with mine, a flute of champagne in his other hand as he regales the crowd around us with another one of his embellished stories, and they love him. I mean, how could they not?
“So we nicked a bottle of bubbly right off the blanket, and the couple was too busy staring at the Eiffel Tower to even notice. Then, this guy here took off in a sprint until the cops started chasing us.”
The crowd around us laughs, and I roll my eyes. “There were no cops, and I did not sprint.”
“That’s not how I remember it,” he replies with a laugh, taking a sip of his champagne and giving me a wink over the rim.
The energy tonight is amazing, and I can’t help but indulge a little. The rest of the cast is as drunk as I am, but I’m the only one with a hunk of a Scotsman to lean on and take me home when it’s time.
“You’re pissed, Shakespeare,” he whispers in my ear as I pick food off the hors d’oeuvre table.
“I’m so pissed,” I mumble in return.
“That’s disappointing,” he replies, turning me around to face him. “I was planning on taking advantage of you later, and I don’t feel right about that now.”
I quickly straighten my spine and try to paste a sober face on…and quickly fail. I break out in laughter as I stumble toward him, and he chuckles darkly in my ear.
“What a mess you are.”
“Take me home,” I reply.
“I plan on it,” he says, kissing my forehead. “Say your goodbyes, and I’ll call a car.”
The ride home is short. We purchased our place in Santa Monica this past winter, and it’s quickly become my own slice of heaven on earth. Overlooking the ocean, steps away from the sandy beach. I know without a doubt that Declan and I belong near the water.
We’ve talked a bit about considering another home in the UK, but so far, nothing has compelled us enough to go back.
I think his sister likes to see him living his life away from the manor.
That is, after she gave us the cold shoulder for three months because we eloped in Fiji rather than have the big lavish wedding she was hoping for.
But now that she’s over that, I think she’s happy that he’s happy.
When Declan and I get home, our small black cat greets us at the door, purring against my leg until I pick him up.
“I’m sorry, Romeo,” I say, nuzzling his face with kisses. “We left you home alone all day.”
“He likes being alone,” Declan adds, petting the cat’s head. “Don’t you, boy?”
Setting the cat down, I nearly tumble over onto my head, and Declan quickly grabs my arm and hoists me to my feet.
“Easy, Shakespeare. Let’s get you to bed.”
“Naked?” I ask with a slur and a coy smile.
He only chuckles as he slides my jacket off my shoulders and drapes it over the back of one of our leather chairs in the front room. Then he kneels in front of me and unlaces my shoes before helping me out of them.
As he drags me up the stairs to our bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the ocean, I nearly pass out as he continues disrobing me. And once I’m down to my knickers, I collapse into our bed, face-first, and shut my eyes against the silk pillowcase.
A moment later, the bed dips as he climbs in on his side. For some reason, even though I’m pissed out of my mind, I don’t fall asleep right away. Instead, I peel my eyes open to stare at him through the moonlit darkness.
Warmth radiates in my chest as I take in the sight of him. He’s gazing up at the ceiling, and I wonder what’s going through his mind—that beautiful, creative, stormy mind of his.
Does he still love this life?
Will he continue to love it after another year? Ten years? Twenty?
Is there any part of him that misses the freedom he felt when he was alone? When he didn’t have to go to therapy every week, and reopen old wounds and face the demons taking up space in his mind?
Will he ever resent me for the change I’ve brought to his life?
“Declan,” I whisper.
He turns his head toward me in response.
“I love you,” I say.
Shifting to his side, he hooks an arm around my waist and tugs me closer, until our bodies are flush on the bed.
“I love you too,” he replies.
“What were you thinking about?” I ask.
“How bloody good you were in that movie,” he says.
“You’re a shoo-in for an Oscar nod, for sure.
So then I started thinking about if I’d wear a kilt to the Oscars, because as you said, I do look really bloody good in it, but I don’t want to steal any of your thunder, so perhaps I’d just stick with a black tux…
” He pauses in his long ramble. “Why are you laughing?”
I can’t help giggle into my pillow as I listen to him go on and on, and it just seems funny to me that while I’ve been stressing about the past, he’s been planning our future.
“Nothing,” I reply with a hiccup. “I just love you. And you should definitely wear the kilt. That way, even if I lose, I’ll still be the guy who brought the handsome bloke in the kilt to the Oscars.”
“Deal,” he says before sealing our lips with a kiss.
“Good night, Declan,” I whisper as I close my eyes.
I can practically hear him smile as he replies, “Night, Shakespeare.”