38
“What Does Boyfriend Kieran Alexander Think of Aldridge’s Ex-Husband, Jeremiah Evans?”
—KLY
“THE ONLY REASON Ms. Aldridge’s team is allowing you at this event is because she wants to see you, so don’t screw this up.
This charity event is no joke,” Nari ordered over the phone as I got out of the car.
The city street looked the same as it always did; a stream of gold blinking in apartment windows and light fixtures under the dark summer sky.
A woman tried to direct me up a set of stairs where others in formal attire entered and mingled at a bright entrance.
“I’m actually going to wait for someone, thank you, though,” I responded, standing off to the side as more cars pulled up. “Nari, I don’t need a speech.”
“Do you know who’s going to be there? What the event is about? The dress code?”
“I have a suit on, isn’t that all that matters?”
“Not my point. There’s going to be a lot of people who were at the Madrid Open. Investors, socialites, players. Ms. Aldridge will probably know more people than you, so the less talking, the better.”
“Don’t plan on it anyway,” I muttered. My plan was to watch Luna soak in her win while I waited for the in-between moments to hold her waist and cover her in congratulations.
“Are you done now? Shouldn’t you be watching The Nanny in bathrobes with my grandmother by this time?
” I nudged my sleeve up and checked my watch.
“Hey,” she threatened. “The Nanny is a superior show.” And she hung up. I shut the phone and turned anxiously, worried I had missed Luna. Eagerness had a heavy hand, one with a tight grasp and the determination to plunge its fingers through my chest.
But it was as if there was a string that tethered me to her. It tugged at the bones under my skin, shifting my focus anytime she was close—exactly as it was doing now when a car door swung open and the most beautiful woman I had ever laid my eyes on stepped out.
A lavender dress hugged her waist and flowed like a blossoming flower past her hips, ending just above her ankles. The front of her dress, held up by thin straps, cut down the center of her chest. Her dark hair fell in long, soft waves down her back.
I rushed forward, stepping out of the mental fog and opening the car door the rest of the way. Her gaze flicked up in surprise.
Dread churned in my stomach, making me second-guess this entire idea.
She had wanted space. When I was back home, she said she wanted space.
Seeing her match was one thing. To expect her to be pleased to spend time with me was another.
The last time I had seen her this close, I was barging in on her in the bathroom, for God’s sake.
Why couldn’t I have just waited another week?
Well, I could answer that: Because I loved her.
I loved her so much that I struggled to breathe around her. But even then, I’d give her every breath that was keeping me alive.
I could feel the pulse of my heart all the way down to the pads of my fingers, intertwined with hers. Every part of my body was painstakingly aware of how close we were. How much I wanted her.
Her parted lips quickly shifted to a smile so ridiculously genuine and gorgeous that I almost tripped.
“Kieran!” She hopped, wrapping her arms around me. I lifted her without hesitation, taking the opportunity to squeeze her and breathe in her sweet vanilla perfume. “I wish I could’ve seen you after the match, there was just so much press and then I had private interviews after and—”
“Luna, breathe.” I laughed.
“I can’t believe you were there,” she gasped, her breath warming my neck. “And Abuela!”
“We had the best time. We’re so proud of you.” I spoke into her hair. Impatiently, I pressed my lips to her neck before putting her down so we could walk upstairs to the venue.
For an hour, I stood to the side and simply watched her. She answered questions. Pretended to smile at bad jokes. Laughed with people who were kind but still told bad jokes. Shook hands with those who looked forward to seeing her win again.
I was pulled into separate conversations here and there, forced to look around heads to see her. I’d rather watch the chandelier light bounce off her lip gloss than talk to anyone.
“Do you have any brandy? Two glasses would be great, thank you,” I told the bartender. When I turned, the older gentleman she had been speaking with was replaced by a younger man, his back facing me.
I went to return to the bar, but the forceful grasp on her empty glass made me stop.
She parted her lips and responded to him.
I couldn’t hear her, but I knew that look.
It was a more intense, flustered version of the stare she had given me the past three years.
Crease between the brows. Narrowed eyes. Pink cheeks.
But her eyes… they looked watery from here. Something was wrong.
Then the guy’s hand reached forward and grabbed her wrist.
I pushed off the bar and took six long strides before I was moving his hand off her and stepping between them.
“Not sure if anyone taught you this, but it’s rude not to keep your hands to yourself,” I said. Facing him now, though, I realized who it was.
Her ex-husband.
Jeremiah looked down at his arm before sparing me a glance. I waited for him to argue. Maybe defend himself. But he smirked.
“Ah yes, the actor, Kieran Alexander.” He had a British accent. Ironic, since I thought that was supposed to help you sound more polite. He directed his focus to Luna behind me. “Even with this whole stunt, you’ve still managed to make him quite smitten with you. It’s cute.”
I tensed. I didn’t know she had told him about the PR stunt.
He stuck his hand out. “Jeremiah Evans, Luna’s husband, nice to meet you.”
“Jeremiah—” She tried to cut him off.
I ignored his hand. “If you want to talk, then we can talk, but don’t call yourself her husband, and don’t take another step toward her,” I told him.
“This is none of your business. And I don’t think she appreciates you involving yourself in her relationships.” He looked at her, attempting to step around me. “Come back to my hotel, and we can celebrate your win before we’re back in New York.”
I stopped him with a hand on his chest. “This is my business because she’s upset.
I may not be her husband, but neither are you.
You may think you know about our relationship, but you don’t.
So the next time you want to question my position, I want you to think about the fact that she’ll be in my hotel room tonight,” I finished, turning—
With a pinched red face, he said, “That’s sweet, Luna, he cares about you. Has she told you how she feels about you? Probably not.”
I froze. I don’t know right now, she had whispered on the beach.
“You probably love her despite the fact that she hasn’t affirmed any of those feelings, because she’s still speaking to the first man she fell in love with,” he pointed out.
It was like I was inside an elevator that dropped. My heart was in my stomach. I had déjà vu of the night my ex walked through the door with someone else.
I could never love someone like you anyway. You must know that, don’t you?
He kept going. “Does she wear that red dress for you? Pass you notes on Uno cards? Did she show you the room we shared at the Mansfield where we—”
He stumbled backward, throwing his hand against the wall in an effort to catch himself, falling against a group of people behind him. Glasses shattered against the marble floor and gasps bounced off the walls. His other hand clutched his nose as blood spewed.
Luna flicked her wrist, shaking out the pain in her knuckles. She leaned over him, where he sat stunned on the ground, and whispered, “You’re a washed-up tennis player who was only good when I was there.”
Holy shit.
Then she took a glass from a random woman and poured it over his lap. With a rapidly swelling nose, his face was a mask of red.
“Do you finally get the message?” she asked. He stared at her, eyes open and frozen, but said nothing. She nodded calmly, responding, “Fabulous.”
Handing him the glass, she stood back up, taking my hand and pulling me away. Down a hall and into a—
“Why are we in a closet?” Hung jackets brushed my shoulders as she shut the door.
“Because I need a minute.” She exhaled, walking back and forth in the short space between me and the door. She flexed her fingers while her other hand gripped her hip.
“Luna—”
“Kieran, I need a minute.”
I could see how exhausted she was, but I was exhausted too. I felt sick. I loved this woman. I loved her so much. But I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. For the “You’re wonderful, but I could never love you” to come out.
“Talk to me,” I said. “I’m here.”
She stopped her pacing, looking to the ceiling. She took a second to trace her nails before whispering, “I’m not sure I was built for love.”
I stepped forward. “That’s not true.”
She stepped back. “No, I mean it, Kieran.”
“Explain it to me, then.”
She bit the inside of her cheek and shook her head.
“You can’t keep everything buried, Luna. All it’s doing is suffocating you. Why can’t you talk to me?”
“Because I’m ashamed! I’m ashamed that you’re going to find out how much I gave up and had to suffer for because I wasn’t enough.
That maybe my love wasn’t enough or maybe that it was suffocating—is suffocating.
I had devoted everything to him. I gave up everything for him.
I was giving up my ranking in tennis for him.
My time, my sanity, my happiness, my career, and then he cheated on me.
I tried so hard to be perfect, and it wasn’t good enough. What does that say about me?”
He cheated on her? I resisted the urge to turn around and hunt him down, trying to focus on her only.
“It says that your heart is big enough to love someone who didn’t deserve you. He never deserved you in the first place,” I told her. “He doesn’t deserve a single part of you. He isn’t enough for you, Luna.”