Chapter 7
“B
etter?” Tom asks as I stuff the last morsel of delicious pasta salad into my mouth.
I nod and lean back in the chair at the family-sized dining table by the wall of windows.
Sitting here opposite him feels so damned good. Irritatingly, infuriatingly good. And I could not be more frustrated with myself. How did I let him talk me into staying?
Over the years, the anger and hurt had turned into more of a tragic disappointment. But the shock of bumping into him the other morning brought all the fury roaring back to the surface.
This evening, though, his charm and apparent desire for me to stick around have somehow turned my emotional dial down from painful animosity to reluctant tolerance. And now, with the bottle of wine emptied into our glasses, some food in my belly, and an awful lot of surprisingly easy casual chatting, the reluctant tolerance has somehow morphed into a reluctant good time.
We’ve talked about everything, but also nothing—nothing of substance, at any rate.
We haven’t touched on anything to do with our actual lives, I just asked him to tell me about how he started the business, and we took it from there. Nothing about his ex-wife, nothing about Dylan’s dad, nothing about the guy I just left, and nothing about the real reason we’re moving to California.
But what he said earlier was right—we do have to live under the same roof for at least a couple months. And spending every day hating him would be exhausting. I have more important things to spend my energy on than resentment.
However, there is no way I’m going to be his friend. I can’t be friends with someone who destroyed all my trust in them. But there’s a huge gulf between non-hate and friendship, and this evening has brought me to the conclusion I need to exist somewhere in there. I just need to keep it as far away from the friendship line as possible.
“Excellent,” Tom says.
He stands up, his crotch appearing above the level of the table, drawing my eyes to the neat denim package.
If I could slap myself across the face without it looking weird I would. Instead, I reach for my wine and try to focus on its suddenly mesmerizing golden depths. My eyes catch my watch. Good God, it’s just after ten o’clock. How have I been here for almost three hours?
There’s a rattling noise behind me as Tom puts the plates in the dishwasher.
“So why are you moving to Los Angeles?” he asks.
And now it’s that time of the evening where he tries to make the conversation real.
The sound of the dishwasher closing is followed by the clink of fresh plates being taken from the cupboard, then the sucking noise of the fridge door being opened.
Better to keep this chat meaningless. I’ll just tell him the bare minimum. “Remember Rachel Leighton from school?”
I stare into the dark mirror of the window opposite, watching Tom’s reflection make its way back toward me, hands full.
“Of course.” His voice is right behind me now.
“She lives there. And invited me to stay. Fresh start for me and Dylan after…everything.”
Tom walks around the end of the table, back to his seat.
“For good?” he asks, placing the chocolate cheesecake between us, and next to it two plates with small forks and a sharp knife resting on top.
“Probably.”
“What are you running away from?”
“That’s a bit of an assumption. Maybe I’m running to something.”
“Are you?”
“Maybe.”
“What will you do when you get there?’
“Rachel says everyone in LA has an assistant and it’s a great way to get into anything. And since I have no qualifications but am practical and good at organizing things, I thought it’d be worth a try. She and her husband are well connected and can help me get my foot in the door somewhere.” Tom twirls the thick silver-and-black ring around the third finger of his right hand as he concentrates on what I’m saying. “And I’m using my spare time to teach myself all the usual office software stuff. I know a bit already, but I want to get good enough to talk about it in interviews.”
“Maybe something in the music biz?”
“I don’t know. Whatever I can get to start. Can’t be too picky with not only zero qualifications but zero experience and zero references.”
Tom picks up the knife and holds it over the cheesecake, about to plunge it in.
A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Wait a second.” I hold up my hand to stop him from cutting into it, my eyes scanning the surface. “Shit.” A chill passes over me, and goosebumps erupt on my arms and legs.
Tom pauses, baffled, knife hovering. “What?”
I look from the cake to Tom.
“There are sixteen,” I say.
His brows pinch, the lines at the corners deepening. “Sixteen what?”
“Stars. On the cheesecake.”
Tom falls silent. His eyes rove over it, lips moving as he counts to himself. It’s the longest opportunity I’ve had to study his face without him looking at me since he got here—the same face I fell in love with, except even more attractive with age.
He does look tired, though. But there’s a weary wisdom to it, along with the ever-present chance he’ll break into a smirk at one of his own smart comments.
“Shit. There are.” A tight muscle in his neck twitches.
Maggie decorated my sixteenth birthday cheesecake with stars, one for each year of my life, because she always told me I’d be one.
It was the inspiration for Tom and me to get the matching tattoos on our hands the week before he left.
One of the kids at school had an older brother who was a tattoo artist, and the kid “borrowed” the kit one evening, claiming to know what he was doing. He didn’t. That’s why both our stars are slightly wonky. Mine has one point longer than all the others, and Tom’s looks a bit like it’s been sat on. I wouldn’t be surprised if that kid launched a wave of hepatitis outbreaks. Thank God Tom and I were first in line.
Tom shakes his head, mouth curling at one corner. “She certainly pulled out all the stops tonight, huh?”
I smile and nod.
“Are you going to break it to her or am I?” he asks with one of those smart smirks.
“Break what?”
“That her little scheme has no chance because you hate me.”
Christ, I wish I hated him. I thought I did. It’s what I’ve told myself all this time. And it would certainly be easier.
But then he goes and does all this stuff. Insists on putting together a doggie bag for me, makes me laugh, and looks at me from under that piece of hair that flops across his face exactly as it always did back then, and I have no fucking clue what this is I’m feeling.
All I know is that in a couple months Dylan and I are moving to California and Tom’s going back to London.
“I want to hate you,” I tell him.
“I knew it.” He plunges the knife into the cheesecake, cracking several stars in half. “But I also knew that if you spent a few minutes with me you’d find me as irresistibly charming as ever.”
“The only thing I find irresistible right now is that cake.” Ignoring the flutter in my lower belly, I pick up a plate and hold it up for a slice.
“Tell me something fun about your life,” I ask. Not just to change the topic from where exactly I am on the hate-o-meter, but also because I’m interested.
“Not much fun about mine. But I can tell you something fun about my best mate’s life that happened today.” He slaps a huge chunk of cake onto my plate.
“Good God, Tom. That’s enough for me and Dylan. And Dylan can eat.”
“I’ll put a hunk of this thing into a container to take back for him too.”
“What’s the story with your friend?” I slice the point off the cake with the edge of my fork.
“You know Hugo Powers?”
“The guy who dated the redhead from Girl Force? And the lead singer of The Rising Tide? And, I think, the woman from Fairport Hope?”
“Probably. But as a sideline in his spare time from famous singer shagging, he’s Britain’s most talented footballer.”
“As in soccer, you mean?” I pull the mouthful of creamy chocolatiness onto my tongue where it instantly starts to melt.
Tom shakes his head and throws his eyes to the ceiling. “No. As in football. But sure. Yeah. Soccer.”
“What about him? Ooh.” I point at my mouth. “This is good.”
“He’s my best friend.”
I stick my fork back into the cake. “And that’s your most fun story? That you know someone who bangs pop stars?”
“He punched a reporter this morning. Live on TV. Around the globe.”
“Holy shit. Why?”
“He has a bit of a short fuse. And he’s got a seriously bad injury. Will probably never play again.” Tom transfers a slice of cheesecake to his plate.
“Oh, wow. That must be big news. I mean, I know nothing about soccer, and even I’ve heard of him.”
“Yeah. The club held a press conference to announce it. It was packed with football,” he pauses and raises his eyebrows, “soccer journalists from all over the world.”
He picks up his fork and stabs a corner off the cake. “Anyway, it was dragging on and on about all sorts of technicalities about Hugo’s ACL. I could see him getting more and more tense as they were showing images from the MRI and stuff. So I was super relieved when the press person called an end to the questions and Hugo, the manager, and the doc all got up from the table to leave.”
He waves the cake-laden fork around as he talks. “But as they were walking out of the door at the back of the pressroom, a reporter leapt up, chased after them, shoved a mic at Hugo and virtually yelled in his face, asking if the injury meant he’d be able to spend more time on his social life.”
“Ah.”
“Yup. Hugo snapped. Lumped him on the jaw.” Tom swings his non-fork-holding fist to demonstrate. “The guy went down like a sack of potatoes. And the manager and the doc scuttled Hugo out of the door.”
“Jesus. Was he arrested?”
“Thankfully, no. The reporter didn’t press charges.” Tom wraps his lips around the cake on his fork, slides it into his mouth and savors it for a moment. “Hugo asked the reporter for his favorite charity so he could send it a check. But the guy couldn’t even think of one. So Hugo made a big donation to a women’s domestic violence shelter.”
Wow, that is quite the drama. “Is that what your life in London’s like, then? Hobnobbing with big bands and star athletes?”
Tom nods at the cake. “I’m by no means the chocolate fiend you are, but you’re right, this is great.”
A shiver runs through me at the comment that hints he thinks he knows me. That I’m still the girl from way back when. But that girl’s been through a lot and is now a woman who’s probably nothing like the person he remembers. Maybe I’m now someone he won’t like. Maybe the only thing that hasn’t changed is the chocolate fiend part.
“But, no,” Tom continues. “That’s not what my life’s like. It’s more talking to lawyers, going over the spreadsheets I’m so brilliant at now…” He quirks an eyebrow and one corner of his mouth at the same time, making something inside me quirk too. “And meetings. Oh, the never-ending fucking meetings.”
He rests his elbow on the table, twiddling the fork hanging from his fingers, the star tattoo that matches mine winking at me.
“So yeah,” he says, “I want to get back to doing more of the thing I love most, and the thing I’m best at—scoping out new talent.”
“And that’s what you were doing last night in the city?” He nods. “See anyone good?”
He blows a dismissive breath through his nose. “I was trying to see this band called Divine Justice, but I missed them.” He shakes his head at himself as he stabs at the cake again. “By a fucking week.”
“A week?” I can’t help but giggle at the ineptitude. “How did you manage that?”
“By being crap at organizing myself.”
“You might want to think about hurrying up the timeline for getting your new helper.”
“Hell, no. Whoever that is will be an executive assistant. Office stuff only. I’m drawing a clear line. Band scouting is too personal to me to have anyone else meddling. I don’t want a stranger telling me which events to go to, what to wear, who to be seen talking to, what I should say to them. No way.”
Well, Tom really knows what he doesn’t like, huh? “It seems you have a similar passionate hatred of personal assistants as you do of LA.”
“And avocados.” He points at me with his fork. “Fucking hate avocados too.”
“Noted.” A sip of wine cuts through the sweetness on my tongue. “Will be sure to not invite you on a PA-guided tour of Los Angeles avocado restaurants.”
I pick one of the white stars off the top of the cake and pop it into my mouth.
“Yeah. Anyway, that was super annoy–” Tom stops with his fork halfway through slicing off another lump of cheesecake and looks up at me, eyes wide, like he’s been struck by an idea as brilliant as the invention of the record player.
He drops the fork onto the plate with a clatter and laces his fingers together under his chin. The silver-and-black ring on the middle finger of his right hand clicks between two other chunky bands on the middle and index fingers of his left. “Want to be my interim assistant?”
“What?” The gasp sucks the star to the back of my throat, and I almost choke. Is he joking?
“Are you okay?” he asks as I cough and reach for my wine.
My cheeks burn from the wheezing and the embarrassment of it. A swig of wine solves the problem of the chocolate star, but it would take a whole vat to make what he’s suggesting look like a good idea.
“Fine. I’m fine.”
“While I’m here and you’re here,” he says, still enamoured with his genius plan. “And I’m between assistants. You could do it. You’re obviously great at getting things done. And, importantly, you’re not a stranger.”
“Being able to locate Tupperware and fix an outside faucet doesn’t qualify me to work for the owner of a global billion-dollar company.” Or how about I set aside the excuses and am honest. “Also, fuck no. Of course not. You can’t think I want to spend more time around the man who shat on me. Why would I want to do that?”
“Perhaps this is a way for me to make up for shitting on you.”
“And exactly how would spending time with you—and I don’t want to spend time with you, by the way, I really don’t—be such a treat to make up for that?”
“I pay well.”
The realization of what he’s trying to do hits me like a raging torrent of boiling lava.
I push my plate away. “Ah, right. Now we get to it.” I slam my hands onto the table and stand up. “You want to buy away your guilt.”
“It’s not that.”
“It’s totally that. Why else would you ask me, the last person on earth who’d ever want to work with you, to do it?”
“Because I don’t want to miss bands I want to see again. And I’m certain you appreciate and understand how important that is.” His demeanor doesn’t change. He doesn’t rise to meet my temper. He stays still and calm, his eyes soft. “I came here to rest and relax, not go through the mountains of paperwork being sent to me from London. You could sort out some of that too.” He picks up his fork and gets to work on the cheesecake again as if everything’s fine and I’m not leaning over the table virtually yelling at him.
He shrugs. “And it would only be temporary.”
His calmness is infuriating. I’d prefer it if he yelled back. “Is this what happens to people who make money? Even to you? They think they can just buy people?”
The backs of my eyes and my throat burn. This is insulting and offensive and upsetting, but there’s no way this man is going to see me shed one more tear over him.
“You might be the mighty Tom fucking Dashwood now. But I’m Hannah Hepburn and I am not for sale.” I spin around and head for the door, the burning in my eyes turning to prickles.
Before I’m halfway across the kitchen, the front door flies open and Dylan hurtles in.
“It was amazing,” he says, wide-eyed and obviously high off robots and aliens beating the crap out of each other. “Best movie ever.”
I sniff and run my fingers under the lower rims of my eyes. “Did you?—”
His arms drop to his sides like they’re being pulled down by giant weights. “Yes, Mom.” He adds an eye roll for the full teenage effect. “I wore my ear plugs.” He turns to Maggie as she walks into the kitchen behind him. “Didn’t I, Mrs. Dashwood?”
Maggie’s dazed eyes meet mine. “He did. I checked. Wish he’d had a spare pair, to be honest.” She sticks her little finger in her ear and jiggles it. “But I’m sure this ringing will stop soon.”
“Then we went for pizza,” Dylan says, virtually bouncing again now. “Best night ever.”
Seeing him happy is all I want. All I wish for. Every day. It’s my whole life’s purpose. Not a single other thing matters. Least of all the cool, rich, hot guy sitting at the table behind me, eating chocolate cheesecake.
I pull Dylan to my side as I look at Maggie. “You took him for dinner too? Thank you so much.”
“You are very welcome. He is delightful company. And, until this evening”—she rubs her ear with the heel of her hand—“he made me feel young.”
She wanders toward Tom. Her face lights up as she scans the dining table. “Well, I’m happy you two had a nice dinner and made a dent in the food.”
Tom gestures to the counter where the Tupperware containers are still laid out. “I’m making Hannah a takeaway box too.”
“Excellent,” Maggie says, looking at him the way I look at a happy Dylan. “I hope you both had a lovely evening.”
Tom leans back in the dining chair, stretching out and linking his hands behind his head. “Hannah’s going to be my assistant while I’m here.”
Bastard. “Oh, no. I’m?—”
“What a fantastic idea!” Maggie clutches her chest, like all her dreams just came true. “I never even thought of that.”
“You thought of most other things, though,” Tom mumbles.
“What’s that?” Maggie asks, cupping her ear and leaning toward him. “Can’t quite hear you over the ringing.”
“I said, ‘She starts tomorrow,’” he says loud and clear.
I let go of Dylan, the fury again boiling inside me at his overconfidence and audacity. “Really, no, I’m not?—”
“It’s perfect,” Tom says, as if we’ve talked it through and agreed. “She’ll get the experience and fantastic reference she needs to get a PA job in California. Not to mention a nice paycheck to set up her new life. And I won’t miss any more bands I want to see.”
“It is perfect.” Maggie smacks her hands together.
“You’re going to work for Garage Records, Mom?” Dylan’s voice is filled with awe. “Mrs. Dashwood told me Tom runs Garage Records.” He looks at me like I’m a real human, with abilities and skills he never knew about.
For a second, I’m not the mom who tells him to do his homework, that we can’t afford the shirt he wants, and that he has to wear his earplugs when playing video games.
For a second, I’m a cool person about to start a cool job.
A cool job that would give me much needed PA experience. And a reference from Tom Dashwood. And a paycheck that would make starting over in LA much less stressful.
A cool job with a cool and ridiculously hot boss I was once head over heels in love with but who drove a tank over my heart.
The ridiculously hot boss’s eyes meet mine as he sweeps his hair off his face and rakes his fingers through it, pushing it over the top of his head.
I’m frozen, mesmerized, unable to say no as much to him as to my son.
“She definitely is,” Tom says.
“So cool,” Dylan says. “See, I was right. Best night ever.”
Tom’s eyes finally leave mine to look over my shoulder. “Hi, Jim.”
Jim walks by me.
“Hmm,” he mumbles, eyes half closed, rubbing his temples. He grabs a glass and holds it against the cold water dispenser in the fridge. “I’m taking a Tylenol and going to bed.”
Tom folds his arms, and his shoulders shake as he chuckles.
And a smile spreads across my new boss’s face, making his eyes sparkle.