Chapter 8
Maddy
I’m twenty-five now, and it’s been three months since I finished filming season two of the smash hit Palace of Lies: The Princess’s Repentance.
Exactly one month since Ace Archer, whom I spent most of the last two years catering to on set and in our shared flat in London, ripped my heart out of my chest when I was expecting an engagement instead.
The idea of getting renewed for season three makes me vomit, literally, but not enough obviously, since I’ve gained ten pounds of misery weight from ice cream and pinot alone since I’ve been home and thoroughly dumped.
Lola and Jude invited friends over for an impromptu pool party to cheer me up, but I’ve planned a little cheering up for myself today, too.
Currently, I’m in the pool house bathroom stuffing myself into a plunging-neckline black one-piece covered with white bats from my mum’s new goth swimwear line when I hear a little rap at the door: “You all right, Maddy?”
It’s the sexy, low but still playful voice of Gage Carter, a fellow TV star who plays the main warlock on the most popular witchy academy-type show on streaming.
We’d messaged back and forth last week on Raya, and I’d drunkenly asked him if he was okay with being my rebound buddy, yes, I really fucking said that!
Ugh, I hate dumped Maddy almost as much as I hate Ace and his new girlfriend, Imogen, the one he cheated on me with.
I may have gotten really pissed and told a couple of news outlets he was fucking her for weeks before we broke up, because he was, but really just to try and soften the blow for myself.
Tarnishing Ace’s gentlemanly reputation made me feel a little better. But still, this month has been rough.
“Of course!” I lie. I haven’t felt all right in quite some time. “Be right out! Go jump in. I’ll meet you out there.”
“‘K, I’ll get you a margarita,” he says, and I hear the door shut.
Great, Margarita calories are probably the last thing I need. I run my hands over my torso, checking for a visible belly outline, picking myself apart, wondering how I’ll feel tonight when I plan on getting naked with Gage for the first time. I have a feeling I’ll be turning the lights off, ugh.
I hear the pool house door open and shut again, and a little rap on the bathroom pocket door.
I shout, “Seriously, I’ll be right out, Gage!
” I huff at myself in the mirror, adjusting my chest until my cleavage is borderline inappropriate for a family pool party.
Next, I fluff my hair, waist-length and curled at the ends as always, and decide this is as good as it’s going to get.
I whip the pocket door back in its pocket while I take a step outside it. But someone’s blocking me, a shirtless someone, and it isn’t Gage. Our chests bump together before we lock eyes. The skin-on-skin sends goosebumps everywhere.
“I’m not Gage, and this isn’t a Stephen King novel, Baby. Like what the hell kind of name is that?”
I jump backwards, surprising myself with a delighted and thoroughly shocked squeak. “Jett?!”
“Baby, as I live and fuckin’ breathe, darling, bloody come here!”
Jett grabs me, and my throat goes bone dry.
My brain has absolutely no say in what I do next.
He picks me up as I jump, and my legs wrap around his firm – firmer than I ever imagined – body without my consent.
He spins me around, his black nails gently scratching my back the way they’ve been known to do.
So why is my whole body suddenly reacting?
Maybe it has something to do with his other hand holding me up by my barely covered ass.
“Missed you, Princess,” he rasps in my ear.
Full. Body. Chills.
Okay, now my throat isn’t dry, exactly, it’s like … so thick I keep trying to swallow but I can’t. My Jett doesn’t give me goosebumps or chills or restrict my airway! Does he? I mean, the first two when he sings, sure. Certainly not that last one, never!
Finally, I reel back and he sets me down, one hand still on my shoulder. I rub my eyes like a sleepy toddler who’s just woken up.
“Jett?”
“Jett Raven Jones, at your service, Baby. And that is my real name. We established this, what? Nearly eight years ago? Who else would it be?”
But he runs his fingers through his slicked-back hair, jet black without any crazy puffs or dye in sight. A dead giveaway that he knows how different he looks. How polished, how grown. The face, the body. Are you kidding me?
My God. This is my Jett? Since when did Jett become mine? His carved cheekbones and sharp jaw catch my eye. Where did those round cheeks go? The messy black liner is gone, but rather carefully applied just at the waterline, and I feel like those pale green eyes can see straight into my thoughts.
Jett is like family. But I can’t help it.
My eyes wander down this new body of his as if it were the latest art exhibit at the Getty.
The farther down my gaze goes, the blood in my body moves south, too.
I can’t ignore his newly defined chest and the fresh tattoos that cover it.
Some are very traditional, very black panther baring it’s jaws, his namesake bird in flight, and the year his grandad was born.
Some are very cute like a coconut cocktail with a little umbrella and straw but the coconut is a skull, and a ghost holding a grim reaper scythe that says born to raise hell.
And lower, there’s Led Zeppelin lyrics along his rib cage, which I swoon over because instead of lullabies as a baby, I had Ramble On and Going to California. Then there’s, holy shit. I don’t know how, but it just … comes out.
“Fuck, Jett, how many abs do you have?”
He releases a loud laugh. “I think eight, last time I counted.” This Jett is cockier than old Jett and why do I like it?
Now it’s time for his eyes to wander, lifting an eyebrow as he squeezes my hips. “How many fucking curves do you have, Baby?”
My throat closes entirely at that, and I just shake my head so he continues. “My personal trainer hates me, that’s all. Wanted to be in the best possible shape for my world tour in a few months. What happened to Asshole Archer and who’s that tall, dark, and handsome twat out there, hmm?”
My throat relaxes enough to squeak out, “What happened to that AnnaBella?”
His eyes are laser-focused on me, and neither of us needs to say anything. Mum and Lola are the queens of spilling tea, and we both know damn well how those relationships imploded. A wave of déjà vu washes over me as I look lower at his board shorts.
“Jett, why the hell are we matching?”
His eyes light up like he hadn’t noticed, either. “Jesus, that’s just so fuckin’ us.
We were both asked to pick from a plethora of swimsuits, and both chose the matching black ones with white bats. It reminds me of when that stylist made us lie down and blended our hair because they thought we looked so perfect as a pair.”
Maybe we do. Fuck, how long have I been this blind? When did there become an US?
I pull him over to the full-length mirror and my voice shakes. “Do we?”
Those teeth and tongue burst out in an insane grin. “Baby, sometimes I think you’ve got blinders on.”
Suddenly, I remember that clip again, the one of us jumping off the table dressed as Alice and the Mad Hatter, the night we met. I think of how the Brit media went particularly nuts for it; their hometown star with their king of rock’s daughter.
In the mirror now, we look nothing like those kids in costume. We look like an incredibly hot, goth couple hired specifically by my mum to model her new line that’s set to launch next week. I think to snap a pic because, looking at us, I think we’d sell out the whole damn collection.
“I’m fucking daft, aren’t I?”
He pulls me into him, and heat curls down my spine. Jett tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I think you’re bloody brilliant, Baby. You just don’t always see what’s standing right in front of you.”
Now I can see, all I can see are those pouty lips, and my pulse is off to the races.
“You mean … you?”
“Eight years of me standing in front of you, yeah, waiting to be seen. Although I think maybe today—”
The pool house door swings open, and Lola gasps. “Holy shitting hell! Look at you two!”