Chapter 19 Shaw #2
“Yeah,” I muttered. When I’d been grumpy for months, my youngest sister had smacked me upside the head and told me to spill. She was nearly as invested in this apology as I was.
“Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good. How’d it go?”
“Not good. She’s dating someone.”
“Ooof.” She hissed. “Do you think you’re too late?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” Was I too late? Had I hurt Presley beyond the point of repair?
“But you’re going to fight for her?” Matine asked.
“Of course.” The answer was automatic. Presley was the woman of my dreams, and I would not let her go easily.
“Good.” There was a smile in Matine’s voice. “How cold is it?”
“Cold.” I chuckled. “You’d hate it.”
She laughed. “I’ll plan to visit you in the summers.”
“Good idea.”
“Keep me posted?”
“Yeah.” I nodded.
“Have you talked to Dad?”
“You know the answer to that question, Matine.”
“But I’m going to keep asking it, Shaw.”
Matine and my other sisters had been pressuring me for years to speak with Dad. Before the story came out about his retirement, they hadn’t understood our divide and my hard feelings. The story had answered a lot of questions.
It’d been hard for them to hear the reason Dad had left the force. Matine had taken it better than anyone else, maybe because she’d confessed to always having felt like she was missing something in our estrangement.
All three of them had been hurt, but my sisters were strong.
The story faded into the archives after a few weeks thanks to a cheating scandal and surprise pregnancy with other celebrities.
It was old news, and my sisters had already moved past it, loving Dad no differently than they had before.
They’d been relentless in pushing me to do the same.
But I wasn’t there yet. When I thought of calling Dad, bitterness crept up my throat and made it impossible to speak.
One of Matine’s daughters squealed in the background.
“I’d better let you go,” I said. “Thanks for calling.”
“Good luck with Presley. Sounds like you’ll need it.”
I hung up and tossed the phone aside, then surveyed the room.
It was a far cry from the enormous house I had on the beach, but it was home. I’d miss the sound of waves lulling me to sleep, but I’d trade them for Presley tucked into my side each night.
I made a mental list of everything I’d have my assistant pack and ship here.
Most of my clothes were already on their way, not that my shorts and flip-flops would be useful for another few months.
I’d have Juno pick out some sweaters and jackets, plus I’d need another winter coat and some gloves.
But then I’d be set. Everything else could stay in California because it wasn’t like I’d need my suits or tuxedos here.
As of yesterday, I was on a break.
Dark Paradise had officially been moved into postproduction. It would take months of editing to get to the final cut, but no one expected I’d need to shoot another scene. My time on camera was done for now.
My staff members were freaking out. Ginny and Laurelin were sure that this extended leave—I’d refused to give them a firm return date—would destroy my career. What they didn’t understand was that I didn’t care.
Fame was lonely. Fortune was empty. This was not how I wanted to live my life, avoiding public places and fearing that every action would be misconstrued.
There were more important things than money and a legacy.
Presley was more important. Her happiness. Her dreams. Her love.
I’d fallen in love with her.
I’d fallen in love with her every time she’d told me no, sitting across from her at the Clifton Forge Garage.
Yeah, I’d fight for her. I’d die trying to earn her trust.
I was going to live in this house and make it my own. I’d show her, every day, how special she was to me.
This time, I’d take care.
I picked up my phone and made my way to my bedroom, flipping off the lights in the house as I walked.
It wasn’t even eight o’clock yet, but I’d had a long day of packing and travel.
I stripped off my clothes, leaving on only my boxer briefs as I slid into bed.
The sheets were cool and smelled like soap, but the bed was too empty.
I turned off the lamp on the nightstand and stared at the dark ceiling.
Above my head, the window glowed.
A light shone from next door.
I sat up, flipping on the light and grabbing my phone to call a number I hadn’t called in months. A number I’d blocked and deleted, then begged Laurelin to hunt down for me when I’d realized how much of a dick I’d been.
It rang and rang.
I knelt on the mattress, my bare shoulder pressing against the window’s frame. The call went to voicemail.
Hi, this is Presley . . .
I hung up.
I called her again.
This time, she answered on the second ring. “What do you want?”
“You didn’t delete my number.”
“An oversight.”
“Come to your window.”
“No.” She huffed. “Good night.”
“Pres, come to your window.”
“Ugh.” Marching footsteps sounded through the phone, then her blinds whipped open. She stood there, so close, with her phone pressed to her ear. “What?”
“I’m sorry. I should have made this phone call months ago.”
“Yes, you should have, but it doesn’t matter now.” Her bravado slipped. “None of it matters now.”
“It matters. You matter.”
She held my gaze through the glass and the ten or twelve feet that separated our homes. Did she feel it? Even after the time apart, even across this distance, did she feel it?
“Goodbye, Shaw,” she whispered.
I lifted a hand and pressed it to the cold glass. “See you tomorrow.”
Never again would I tell Presley goodbye.