Chapter 9
CONFESSIONAL 1151.5
Judson, Lana (Public Relations Director: Juniper Ridge)
Being a Judson in Hollywood came with all kinds of crazy pressures, but here? It’s different, I guess.
There’s still pressure, still the expectation to act a certain way. To live like there’s cameras rolling twenty-four seven, and guess what? They are.
But it’s a different kind of pressure.
Maybe it took moving here to feel more like myself. Work on becoming who I’m meant to be. The best possible version of Lana.
[glares]
I said working, okay? As in work in progress.
I’m getting there.
* * *
Mari squeezes my knee outside the video frame. Her eyes stay fixed on my laptop, but I feel tension in her fingers.
In other words, a normal video brunch with our mother.
“When will you be back in the States, Mom?”
I side-eye Lauren, who’s working hard to look excited. Mostly, she looks like she’s hoping the answer is “next year.”
“Soon.” Mom speaks to someone off-screen, then looks back at the camera. “Was everything to your liking at Maison de la Mer?”
She’s talking to me, since that’s the snobby name she gave their Cherry Blossom Lake place. I’m the only one to visit lately, so that’s my cue.
“Very nice, thank you.” Please, Lord Jesus, say she doesn’t have video cameras in the kitchen. “Cassidy was a gracious hostess, and the chowder at O’Brien’s was outstanding.”
“Delighted to hear it.” She purses her lips. “And your companion?”
“Excellent,” I say. My sisters shift on the couch beside me, but I refuse to squirm. “Chef Yang said to thank you again for your hospitality.”
Mom studies my face like I’m nine years old and fibbing about finishing my homework. “Did the two of you stay in the Driftwood Suite or the Azure Studio?”
She knows damn well we didn’t share a room, but I feel my sisters’ eyes on me. “Dal took the room at the end of the hall, and I stayed in the one with the blue duvet and the big metal sculpture that looks like a penis.”
“Lana Jean.” Our mother attempts to scowl, but Botox has other ideas. “You don’t need to be crass.”
I kinda do. Because see how we’ve shifted the subject?
“Hey, Mom,” Lauren says, jumping to save me. A nice gesture, though I was doing fine by myself. “Did you see there’s an opportunity for a cameo next month?”
Our mother preens, always placated by an offer of screen time. “My agent’s reviewing the terms,” she says. “We’d like to time it to maximize promotion of Lemon Light.”
“Of course,” Lauren says, not bothering to hide her eyeroll. “We’ll have our people call your people.”
If our mother picks up Lauren’s sarcasm, she opts to ignore it. She’s got bigger fish to fry. “Your father asked that I remind you we’re hosting an anniversary dinner at Maison de la Mer in September,” she says. “We’re doing it on the sixteenth instead of the seventeenth.”
“Whose anniversary?” That’s Lauren, poking the bear.
Our mother huffs and opens her mouth, but Mari jumps in.
“We know you’re celebrating forty-two years, and we’ll be there.” She catches baby Sawyer’s chubby hand and holds it up to wave. “We need to run. Say bye-bye to Grandma.”
Clever exit strategy on Mari’s part, but Mom makes a face. “Don’t start with that ‘grandma’ silliness, Marilyn.” Mom toys with her hair, making sure we admire her new extensions. “I expect all my grandchildren—present and future—to call me Gigi.”
“Will do!” Mari smiles brightly as Lauren kicks her outside the frame. At Taylor’s birthday bash, I heard Gabe coaching his son to say “granny.”
We’re almost off the call, but nope! Mom’s not done yet. “Wait just a minute, young lady.”
I glance at my sisters. Who’s in trouble now?
“You, Lana Jean.” Mom tries to frown again. “Is there something going on with this chef fellow?”
Stifling a groan, I shift to spin mode. “We’re crafting Chef Yang’s storyline to focus on?—”
“Because he seemed like a very angry young man in the season finale.” Mom gives an Oscar-worthy shudder. “I didn’t like the way he yelled at that reporter. It’s just bad PR.”
I’ve seen Mom dress down a waiter for using red wine vinegar instead of balsamic for the dressing she gets on the side and never uses, but why split hairs? “It’s part of the show, Mom.” I’m doing my best to sound chipper. “Just doing my job.”
“Hmph.” That doesn’t seem to satisfy her. “Call me later, sweetheart. I’d like your opinion on my gown for the Australian Film Institute Gala.”
That’s a lie and I know it. Mom’s not attending this year.
Which means she wants to talk to me alone. Goddammit.
“Will do!” I reply, because what else can I say?
“Gotta go, Mom.” Lauren’s turn to try to end the call. “I’m filming a segment with the angry young man’s brother.”
Mom cocks her head. “The fellow in the wheelchair?”
“Ji-Hoon has a date.” Lauren’s off the couch and grabbing her purse. I know damn well she isn’t filming until two, but I’ll take the excuse.
“Wait,” Mom says, not ready to let us go. “He’s not driving, is he?”
Her tone suggests Ji-Hoon should run all his life plans past her, but Lauren’s unfazed. “Yep! He’s got a car with adaptive controls and a healthy sex life like the rest of us. Bye, Mom!”
Mari clicks off before our mother gets a chance to protest. I let out a long, slow breath as Lauren pats my back. “Sorry you’re stuck with gown duty this time.”
Juggling her son, Mari gets to her feet. “Just pick whichever one makes her look thinnest. That’s what she wants, anyway.”
“I know.” Like I haven’t spent my whole life tiptoeing around our mother’s ego. I look at Lauren. “Ji-Hoon’s letting you film his date?”
“Not the date, per se.” She slings her purse over one shoulder. “The lead-up to it and a few canned shots of the two of them together.”
“Backlit for privacy,” Mari adds. “We won’t show her face. Not unless things turn serious, and they both sign off on it.”
I think about Cherri Chiffon and her quest for fame on Dal’s coattails. “You’ve checked her out?”
“Ji-Hoon’s date?” Lauren nods. “Nick knows Rosa Pato from Denver. In addition to being a world-class activist for individuals experiencing disability, she’s also a kickass interior designer.”
Mari takes it from there. “Her older brother suffered a spinal injury when they were kids and passed away a few years ago. She saw Ji-Hoon on the show and developed a crush.”
“And then she slid into his DMs,” Lauren adds. “They chatted for months before meeting at a charity event.”
“She ticks all the boxes for being a good human,” Mari concludes. “Plus, her last name means ‘duck’ in Spanish, which I think is just adorable.”
Most of that I knew, but I file the info away in my head. “I hope it works out.” I’m not sure if I mean the date or the relationship overall.
“Her background check is clear,” Mari assures me. “And Ponderosa Resort is super-accessible, so?—”
“Dal shouldn’t worry.” I’m pretty sure that’s what they’re getting at. “I’ll reassure him if it comes up.”
Lauren grins. “If by ‘reassure’ you mean ‘hand job,’ that sounds like a plan.”
Mari pretends she’s appalled, but the quirk of her lip gives her away. “You may as well keep him company,” she says, shifting Sawyer on her hip. “It’s not often a chef gets two whole evenings off in a row. Maybe pay him a visit.”
“And while you’re at it, skip the bra.” Lauren laughs at Mari’s scandalized look. “Just trying to be helpful.”
“Thanks,” I mutter. “I’ll consider stopping by.”
“Unless Mom grounds you for choosing the wrong dress,” Mari points out.
“Go home,” I mutter, though I desperately want them to stay. Without my sisters here, it’s a matter of minutes before Mom moves in on me. “Unless you want more coffee?”
Mari pulls me in for a one-armed hug. “I have to get this little guy over to his papa.” She waits while I smooch Sawyer on his bald little head. “They’re doing ‘Daddy and Me’ story time at the bookstore.”
“Have fun, sweetie.” I smooch little Sawyer one more time as he tries to grab my hair. “How about you, Lauren?” I turn to my oldest sister as Mari troops out the door. “Coffee?”
Lauren folds her arms. “Are you finally banging Dal while his brother’s out of town?”
“So that’s a no on the coffee?” I somehow manage not to blush or flinch. As far as she knows, her quip has no effect on me as I stride for the kitchen like a well-composed grownup. “I’m having some.”
“You forget I changed your diaper.” Lauren follows me into the kitchen. “I know when you’re full of shit.”
I spin to face my sister. “You did not change my diaper. We had nannies to do that.” Dozens of them over the years.
“You know what I mean.” She opens my cupboard and pokes through my mugs. With a snicker, she sets down two of them.
Congrats on being my sister, you lucky bitch
A giftfrom Cooper for my last birthday. That’s sitting next to one I got from Lauren last Christmas.
If you think I’m psycho, you should meet my sister.
“Perfect.”She folds her arms and leans on the counter as I fill both from the pot on my counter. “Seriously. What’s keeping you from taking off your bra and going over there with a can of whipped cream and an open invitation for Dal to lick it off whichever parts he chooses?”
“Lay off, Lauren.” I put the pot back in its cradle and shove the cream and sugar across the counter. “Besides, an award-winning chef wouldn’t be caught dead with canned whipped cream. Besides, he’s lactose intolerant.”
“Tahini then.” Lauren fixes up her coffee. “Melted chocolate?”
I sigh and pick up my mug. “He doesn’t like spin doctors.”
“They’re a fine nineties band.” One edge of her mouth quirks. “Remember ‘Little Miss Can’t Be Wrong’? I loved that song.”
I roll my eyes as I’m required to do, according to the little sister handbook. “Be serious for once.”
“I am serious.” She takes another slug of coffee. “Whatever hang-ups he has about your job, he’s hot for your bod. I’ve seen how he watches you.”
“He does not.”
“Does too.”
“Does n—” This is ridiculous. “What if I want him to want more than my bod?”
She’s quiet a moment, thinking. As much as I’m required to be a pain in her ass, I want to hear what she says. “Your job isn’t you, Lana,” she says at last. “Anyone who knows you can see that.”
I’m not so sure. “What if I am my job?”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I mean…” I trail off because maybe I shouldn’t say this out loud. “Sometimes I think my whole life is one big publicity spin.”
My big sister stares like I’ve shoved sugar cubes up my nostrils. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
Unease churns my gut. Part of me wants to say it. Just spit out the truth I’ve hidden for years. Since I was ten years old. What would it feel like to unburden myself? Just be totally, completely honest with everyone. With the people I love most.
I draw a deep breath. “Want biscotti to go with that?”
Lauren shakes her head. “Thanks, but I’d better run.” She hoists my mug as she heads for the door. “I’ll bring this back later.”
“Okay.”
“Love you,” she calls, and that feels nice.
“Love you, too.”
The second the door slams, my phone starts to ring. I wish I could say I’m surprised, but I’m not. I’ve long suspected Mom stuck trackers under our skin at birth.
“Hi, Mom.” I squeeze my eyes shut and lean on the counter. “You want to switch to video so you can show me the dresses?”
I already know there’s no dress. No way to outrun what she’s been hounding me about these past few days.
“Christie Chaplin’s new book is a ticking time bomb.”
My stomach lurches. “How do you mean?”
“I mean,” she says slowly, “I got my hands on a copy of the chapter where she mentions me. Mentions us.”
I sit down hard on the edge of the sofa. All my training, all my years in the PR spotlight, has trained me not to react. To show no fear when confronted with a twist.
I’m not in the spotlight now. I’m scared and I want my mommy.
But my mommy needs me more, so I paste on a smile. “Okay,” I say slowly. “Are we talking libel suit, or?—”
“She’s cagey,” Mom interrupts. “I talked to my lawyer, and they don’t think there’s anything we can do about it. She implies plenty, but doesn’t outright lie.”
“She tells the truth, then.” That’s not as comforting as you’d think. The truth is what we’ve been dodging. “Enough of it to be damning.”
“Yes.”
Mom’s eyes hold mine. For the first time in my life, I see the scared child inside my mother. I want to snuggle that girl to my chest and tell her I can fix this. That maybe it won’t be so bad if?—
“She’s such a bitch,” Mom snaps.
I let out a long, slow breath. “Send me the chapter.” That’s the first step.
“Done.” She clicks a few keys on her laptop. “That’s Christie’s whole book, if you want to read it.”
I don’t, but I will. “I’ll call the publicity team at Preston Publishing. See if there’s anything we can do preemptively.” Seeing fear in her eyes, I try to reassure her. “Remember that all press is good press.” I don’t really believe that, but Mom sometimes does. “And Christie stirring up drama can only stoke sales for your memoir, right?”
My mother has a look like she’s not really listening. “What if we start a counter rumor? Maybe she’s relapsed or something. Didn’t she have a coke habit in the early aughts?”
“This is not how we operate.” I’ve never played that game, and never will. “Give me a chance to think.”
She bites her lip. “If we had a distraction?—”
“Don’t start with that again.”
“Well, why not?” Mom waves a hand ringed with diamonds and gold. “You have to admit, your chef friend is very buzz-worthy. If you’re dating now?—”
“I won’t use him like that.”
Mom rolls her eyes. “Don’t be dramatic, Lana. I’m just saying, that season finale made everyone sit up and notice him. If romance rumors start swirling, it would take some heat off this situation.”
I grit my teeth so hard they squeak. “I won’t use Dal to hide your dirty laundry.”
“My dirty laundry?” Here’s where she’d quirk one eyebrow if Botox allowed it. “It’s as much your laundry as mine, young lady.”
The knot in my belly gets bigger. She’s got a point. “Let me come up with another idea.”
My mother huffs. “It’s not like I’m suggesting you sleep with someone hideous. You’re attracted to the man. Who wouldn’t be?”
She’s baiting me, laying down treats she knows I can’t resist. I feel myself warming, then want to punch myself in the face. “Whatever may or may not be happening between Dal Yang and myself is too new and uncertain for the public eye.” There’s a canned statement if I’ve ever said one. “I’m not going to use him for PR spin.”
“You wouldn’t have to.” Mom sighs. “But if you happened to have a very public fling with Dal, and it happened to draw attention away from?—”
“I’ll think about it.”
“He’s quite easy on the eyes, and so volatile,” she continues like I haven’t spoken. “The public loves seeing an angry young man with a sweet, beautiful?—”
“I said I’ll think on it,” I snap. “Stop pushing me.”
Mom goes quiet. Even she knows when to quit.
My gut clenches tight as I consider my options. One thing’s clear to me now. “I need to talk to Dal.”
Her pupils flare. “You’re not going to tell him.” It’s a statement, not a question.
“I might.”
My mother’s jaw clenches. “Let me give you a piece of relationship advice.” She must see doubt in my eyes, because she doubles down. “From a woman who’s been married more than four decades.”
“Okay.” Say what you will about my parents’ marriage, but they’ve held it together a long time.
“Sometimes,” she starts like it’s a talk show, “choosing not to discuss something is a kindness.”
That doesn’t sound that far from my own philosophy. “Okay.” I turn to the wall, to the fireplace where the clock rests. The one she gave me more than seventeen years ago.
It ticks on the mantle, a time bomb set to explode.
“I want you to have this,” Mom said as she put it in my hands. I stared at the bright gold face. At the jittery second hand, ticking an anxious circle. “I know you’re ten and it’s a funny gift for a little girl, but you’re growing up fast.”
I nodded and tightened my sweaty grip on the wood. “Thank you.”
She watched my face for a quiet moment. “My mother gave it to me the day she asked me to help keep a secret. You remember what I told you?”
Not the secret. She never shared that, not then and not now. “Women keep each other’s secrets,” I whispered.
“That’s right.” Mom beamed, stroking my hair like I’d made her proud. “Very good, Lana.”
I shake myself back to the lecture Mom’s giving now. The one that concludes with these sage words of wisdom.
“Sometimes,” she says, her voice shaking a little as I turn from the clock. “Sometimes, it’s best to let sleeping dogs lie.”
* * *
There’sa dog biscuit in my pocket and treats for humans tucked in the tote I grip tightly in one sweaty hand. I walk past the pond on my way to Dal’s house, feeling itchy and unsure of my plan. I covered all my bases, just to have options.
Besides snacks in my tote, I’ve got printouts on some of our next chowder stops, plus a plan for our piece on the gardens with Entertainment Weekly.
Also, I’m not wearing a bra.
Like I said, options.
Drawing a breath, I turn my attention to my surroundings. The jazzy hum of crickets matches the buzz inside me as my sandals crunch gravel. My heart shakes my ribcage like it’s trying to get out.
I’m nervous, okay?
But another breath of evening breeze takes off some of the edge. Whispers of pine needle and apple blossom thread the night air. Clouds puff fat and pink above the mountains as a hawk dips down to grab a snack from the pond. I stop to watch, conscious of my pulse thrumming, my nipples naked under the simple gray T-shirt that I’ve French-tucked into white denim cutoffs.
With one more steadying breath, I turn and stride the rest of the way to Dal’s front door.
He answers on the first knock, barefoot as he throws open the door with his T-shirt in a fist. As my eyes trail his bare chest, I can’t decide if that makes this harder or easier.
“Hi,” I manage. “Nice shirt.”
“Thanks.” He watches my eyes drag his chest. “You here to critique what I wear in the privacy of my own home?”
“Not really.” I forget why I’m here for a second. That’s a lot of skin on display and?—
“Lana?” The concern in his voice lifts my eyes from his chest. “You okay?”
“Yes.” I bite my lip. “Mostly.”
Dal drops the tease. “You look like you need a friend.”
My chin tilts up. “Is that what it looks like I need?”
His dark eyes flash as Mouse bounds over to greet me. “Hey girl,” I squeak, gathering myself to scratch her soft ears. Plucking the biscuit from my pocket, I hand it over. “How’s it going?”
She wags in response and takes the treat gently. Dal studies the tote in my hand. “What do you have there?”
I swallow my nerves and hold out the bag. “I brought Nutter Butters and canned whipped cream.”
The edge of his mouth quirks. “Your secret favorite dessert.”
“Yes.” I gulp back another wave of nerves. “I brought plenty to share.”
“Seems like a culinary crime, but all right.” He steps aside, holding the door as I slip past him. “I’ve got the house to myself tonight.”
“I know.” I run a hand over an accent table, set low and close to the wall for Ji-Hoon’s wheelchair. When I turn to face Dal, there’s a question in his eyes. “I didn’t come here to seduce you, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
Amusement lights his eyes. “That’s unfortunate.”
“Is it?” There goes my pulse, pitching a fit again. “After our failed car hookup, I wasn’t sure where things stood.”
His eyes lock with mine. “You’re not here to pick up where we left off?”
“No.” I’ve been thinking all day, and that’s not what I want. Not all of it, anyway. “I’m looking for something a bit more intimate.”
“More intimate than me inside you.” He gives a sharp nod. “Got it.”
I’m not sure he does, but he will. Hoisting the tote, I head for his kitchen. “Can we have snacks first?” I’m going to need reinforcements. “I’ll feel better with Nutter Butters.”
If he’s judging my snack, he says nothing as he opens a cupboard and gets out a platter. Napkins, too. The fancy cloth kind, plus a pair of dessert plates I’m pretty sure are real china. “Do you drink milk with Nutter Butters or champagne?” He pokes around in his fridge fridge. “There’s soy milk and a little vanilla almond milk.”
“Bubbles, please.” I sit down on the couch, not sure what to do with my hands. I settle for opening the box of cookies and placing the whipped cream beside it.
Dal returns and sets the tray on the table, along with two flutes of bubbly. With precise movements, he plates the cookies, arranging the peanut-shaped biscuits to form daisies. He grabs the can of whipped cream, and before I can blink, a dollop of whipped cream forms each center.
“I assume you want to dip the cookies in the whipped cream,” he says, and I find myself breathing easier.
“Yes, please.” I bite my lip. “Is this weird?”
He studies my face. “Artfully plating cookies filled with hydrogenated oil and high fructose corn syrup so we can dip them in more corn syrup and carrageenan?” He shrugs and picks up a cookie. “I’ve seen weirder.”
“Good.” I take a deep breath. “I want to tell you something that I’ve never told anyone else.” My tongue feels thick as I force out the words. “Something…big.”
Dal sets down his cookie and gives me his full attention. “I’m listening.”
I can’t look at him, so I stare at the bubbles in my flute. They’re tiny and neat, fizzing like frantic bees. Where do I start?
“My mother had an affair.” The air leaves the room as I force out the rest of the words. I look at Dal, calmed by the steadiness in his dark eyes. “My father found out, and they worked through it years ago.”
“Okay.” He waits to see if there’s more. “Was this recent?”
“No.” I look down at the platter of cookies. “Twenty-eight years.”
“Oh.” He’s doing the math in his head.
“I’m twenty-seven.”
“I see.” His voice says I don’t need to spell this out for him.
But maybe I do for my own peace of mind. “I found out about it when I was ten.” I skip over the details. How I walked in on Mom’s private chat with her lawyer. How she swore me to silence, told me it was a secret for just us girls. “I—um. I’ve never discussed it with my father. The father who raised me, I mean. Laurence Judson.”
Dal’s eyebrows shoot up, but he doesn’t reply.
“He knows,” I rush to explain. “It’s just—we have sort of this don’t ask, don’t tell understanding about it. There was a paternity test, years ago, and…” I’m babbling now, getting my story out of order. It’s not like me to botch the delivery like this.
But I’ve never told this story before. Never been so naked with anyone. “I’m not telling this right.”
“Breathe,” he says softly, and I do. He touches my hand, and that calms me, too. “You want to start at the beginning?”
I shake my head slowly, not sure I do. The beginning part isn’t what matters. “I’ve kept this inside for seventeen years. At this point, I’m not even sure who I’m protecting. My mother, I guess. My father. Maybe myself.”
The tip of his finger strokes my knuckles. “That’s a pretty big secret to carry.”
Hearing him say so unleashes a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “Yeah,” I admit, relaxing a little bit more. “I guess it is. Um, so. It was a co-star of my mother’s. Not even a star, really. A guy with a minor role in one of her films.”
I’m glossing things over, protecting some details that aren’t mine to share. If Dal notices, he doesn’t say so. I’m telling my story the best way I can, and we’re letting it unfold together. “You’ve been sitting on this since you were ten?”
“Yeah. Yes.” My voice sounds shaky. “I guess—It’s stupid, really.”
“What’s stupid?”
I manage a wobbly laugh. “It’s no secret my father’s had affairs, right? I mean, you’ve read the tabloids.” His incredulous look says maybe he hasn’t. “Laurence Judson’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar more than once. It’s so common in Hollywood. Just boys being boys. Most powerful men get away with it, but?—”
“Not the women.”
“No.” I swallow hard. “Not the women.”
I need to say more because I’m not sure he gets it. How could anyone who didn’t grow up like I did? “For most actresses—all but the biggest stars—it’s a career killer. She’s a slut or a bitch or a homewrecker or maybe all of those things. And the guy she cheated with? Hero status.” I’m waving my hands, getting into the story. The fast rush of words is a shock to my system. “He did it, too, but that doesn’t matter. It’s different for men.”
Dal’s eyes search mine, and he nods. “I believe you. I don’t follow Hollywood gossip, but the double standard sounds right.”
At least he’s not questioning me. I’m grateful for that. “It’s a different story though, for the guy who gets cheated on.” My father, I mean, or the man I’ve regarded as Dad. Laurence Judson, Hollywood star, the biggest big man of all. “At best, the husband who’s cheated on is an object of pity. Usually worse.”
“People assume he’s a chump,” he supplies, and I nod. “Or bad in bed.”
“Right.” I lick my lips, which suddenly feel very dry. “So it’s a delicate situation.”
“I see.”
I wonder if he does. If Dal’s childhood on camera bore any resemblance to mine. He looks at me a long time. The kindness in his eyes makes my chest hurt. “Thank you for sharing that.”
I bite my lip. “It goes without saying I’d like you not to tell my siblings.”
He blinks. “They don’t know?”
Shaking my head, I look down at my lap. “No. They don’t.”
Dal’s quiet a long time. I feel his eyes on the top of my head, but I don’t dare look up.
“The affair partner,” he says softly. “The other man. Is he in the picture?”
I shake my head slowly. “He died twenty years ago in a boating accident. If he even knew, he took the secret to his grave.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah.” I finally get brave enough to look up. Dal studies me with warm, kind eyes. “So that’s it. My big secret.”
The word pings a memory lodged deep in the back of my brain.
“It’ll be just our secret, Lana.”Mom smoothed back my hair, her blue eyes so much like mine. Not like my siblings, whose hazel gazes match our father.
Their father.
“Sweetheart.” Dal’s voice stirs something inside me. “I can’t believe you’ve been carrying that around all this time. That you’re sharing it now with me.”
“Yeah, well.” I shrug helplessly. “There’s this new book coming out. Something that might spill the tea.”
He watches me, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Why not just put it out there? Go public with things so it can’t control you.”
“That’s an option.” Does he understand why it’s not such an easy decision? “Ultimately, though, it’s not my secret to tell.”
One brow lifts. “Isn’t it?”
“I’m not the one who had the affair. I’m also not the husband who’ll have his paternity questioned. His masculinity.” I look up at the ceiling. “And there’s a part of me that wants to protect my parents. My mother, the man who raised me. My dad. Laurence Judson.”
He doesn’t nod, but doesn’t argue, either. He waits with the patience of Job. Maybe he knows what’s coming.
“Mom wants me to create a distraction.”
Dal doesn’t flinch. “Is she sending a tutu, or do you already have one?”
I try to smile, but I can’t. “The distraction is you.”
He blinks. “Huh?”
Here we go. “Mom knows I’m hot for you because—” Well, because it’s obvious to everyone. “Because she’s seen you on TV and I’ve maybe said your name a few dozen times.” Make that a few thousand. “She thinks if we start dating?—”
“No.” He starts to get up, but I stop him with a hand on his knee.
“You misunderstand.” I look deep in his eyes. “I’m not asking you to date me to cover up my mom’s dirty secret.”
His dark eyes narrow. “What are you asking?”
I lick my lips, conscious of the lingering taste of champagne. “I’m putting it out there that I’m attracted to you. That I wouldn’t mind dating you or—or whatever.”
“Whatever?” There’s that brow lift again.
Ignoring the ripple in my belly, I press on. “I didn’t want to show up here and seduce you and leave even the faintest possibility that you’d think I’d done it for my mother.”
“I see.” He’s guarded now, and I get it.
I lick my lips again. “But that doesn’t erase the fact that I wanted to show up here and seduce you for my own reasons.” There, I said it. “And I thought maybe you’d appreciate the honesty.”
Pluck—or is it stupidity?—forces me not to look away. To hold his gaze and await his response. At least I put it out there. I came and said what I wanted to say, and maybe that’s enough.
“Lana.” The gravel in his voice stirs something in my chest. It’s the first time he’s said my name like that.
“What?”
He stares at me a long time. “That was really fucking brave.”
“Thank you.” It feels good to hear, though it’s not what most girls want to hear in response to seduction.
Holding his eyes, I manage a hint of a smile. “I guess that wasn’t my best seduction attempt.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” His eyes dip down to my cleavage, and I shiver. “That might be the hottest thing ever.”
“My tits without a bra, or?—”
“You telling the truth.” He drags his eyes back to my face. “You have no idea how much I want you right now.”
My eyes dart to the front of his pants without permission. “I might have some idea.”
A low, throaty chuckle rumbles out of him. Slowly, so slowly we may as well be swimming through mango pudding, he slides his fingers through my hair. As he draws us together, I whimper.
“Dal.” That’s all I get out before his lips find mine.
He’s kissing me deep, slow, and so sure of himself I feel my toes curl. It’s different from last time, more intense. As his tongue sweeps into my mouth, I let out a gasp that sounds like I’m drowning.
Dal pulls back and looks deep in my eyes. “Tell me now if you don’t really want this.”
Is he crazy? “I’ve wanted you since the moment I met you.” That’s the God’s honest truth, and it makes him smile.
“Same,” he whispers. “What took us so long?”
I don’t answer because I honestly don’t know. As he eases me back on the couch, he breaks the kiss to look deep in my eyes. “Is it okay we’re not in a car?”
I laugh and wrap my arms around him, anchoring my nails in his bare shoulder. “Yeah,” I murmur. “More than okay.”
His muscles bunch and tense beneath my palms, then relax as he goes back to kissing me. The thick length of him grazes the sensitive heat between my legs and I grind back, hungry for more. More friction, more heat, more Dal.
“Please,” I whimper and he pushes up on his forearms.
“You’re so beautiful.” He looks at me a long time, undressing me with his eyes. I feel practically naked, with no bra shielding me beneath this thin gray tee.
Then his hand finds the hem of my shirt and I can’t wait for him to peel it off. “Please,” I beg again.
He yields this time, stripping me bare from the waist up. As he tosses my T-shirt aside, his eyes rake my torso. Not just my breasts, though my nipples pucker under his heated gaze.
“Soft,” he growls, dipping his head to the hollow of my throat. “You’re so fucking soft.”
I arch up again, crying out as he kisses a path between my collarbone and the top of one breast. One big hand cups me from the side, guiding my nipple to his mouth. As his tongue strokes the peak, I come unglued.
“Oh my God.” My voice sounds ragged. “Don’t stop.”
“Never.” He sucks me again, harder this time. He’s feasting on me like I’m a five-course meal he ordered off an exclusive menu.
By the time he moves to the other breast, I’m breathless and moaning and wetter than I’ve ever been. Can he feel me through the denim of my shorts?
I swear I didn’t say that out loud, but the way he grinds against me makes me wonder if he read my mind. He does it again, almost fucking me through his clothes and mine.
“You’re so wet.” He dips his head again, teeth dragging down, down, down as he slides to his knees on the floor. He pulls me toward him, shoulders hinging my thighs apart.
As his eyes meet mine, Dal licks his lips. “I need to taste you again.”