Chapter 5
GIANA
Mom restsa hand on my shoulder as she places a glass of iced tea on the wooden table in front of me, then sits beside me. “What are your plans for today?”
“Painting. I’m creating more pieces to send to Isabella for their spring designs.”
“I’m so proud of you, Gigi.” Mom squeezes my hand. Her smile reaches her eyes, and the lines deepen at the corners. “I’m proud you chased your dream and didn’t give up.”
“I almost did, many times.” I sigh. “I wanted to come home. Not speaking the language and the loneliness got to me. But I’m glad I stayed.” I squeeze her hand. “And I’m also glad to be home. While I told myself it’s for a few months to see you both, it’s going to be a struggle to leave.”
My father’s dementia is progressing. While Mom manages Dad at home, we are discussing their options for the future. It breaks my heart to see him not himself some days.
It’s one of the reasons I came back.
I missed my family.
I missed my home.
While I enjoyed my adventure and advancing my career in Italy, I needed to come home. It’s where my heart is.
Mom glances at the glass doors. On the other side, my father putters in the garden. He loves being outside. Always did. When the gardener came on the weekends, Dad would follow him around, observing and learning. He nurtures every plant.
“While I understand you wanting to see your father…” her eyes glisten with emotion. “… you can’t put your career on hold.”
My mother is so brave. “I appreciate you saying that. Lucky for me, I can work anywhere in the world. If I continue with Isabella, I’ll travel back and forth if that’s what it takes to keep my contract. I might be gone for a couple of months at a time, but at least home can be my base.”
“Gigi…”
“And with the studio upstairs, I have everything I need.” I smile at her. “Today, I’m going to work outside while Dad is in the garden. Watching him warms my heart, and your flowers inspired my lines for the last designs.”
Mom swipes a tear. “When I saw the poppies on the model’s dress, I wondered if they were from our garden.”
“Oh, Mom. I draw so much inspiration from home. It’s why I wanted to come back.”
Her gaze meets mine. “And having your heart broken doesn’t help.”
“No.” I let out a long sigh. “But I didn’t love Dante. He was a source of affection, security, and comfort. For a while, I thought I loved him, but looking back, I was never in love with him.”
“Have you ever been in love with someone? Do you have something to compare your emotions to?”
I take a sip of my iced tea while gathering my thoughts. “No. Although it wasn’t how I imagined it to be.” There was a time I thought I was in love with Byron, as I had all those feelings of love, even at seventeen. I’m never this way with anyone else. But Byron didn’t give me the security and passion Dante did. Byron and I didn’t last long enough to discover if our love would thrive.
My cell vibrates with a message. Byron. My heart thuds hard. Is it a coincidence he is also thinking of me?
Do you have any plans today? I would love to see you.
I quickly tap out a reply.
Staying home to paint. Maybe another time.
While I wanted to say yes, I would love to see you, I’m not ready. My heart is still healing from someone tossing me aside for someone else with no explanation.
It hurts, even if Dante wasn’t the right person for me. Another lesson in love, and when the time is right, I’ve considered what I want in a lover. When it comes to love, I have also made a mental list of what I need and what I don’t. A gorgeous man with an equally gorgeous body is not a combination to say yes to, even if my hormones argue otherwise. He has to respect me. We have to be able to have long chats and connect on a level other than physical. I want to laugh and cry with him, and he has to be there when I need him most.
“Byron Hendricks,” Mom says. “Sorry, I saw the name, not the message.”
“We met for coffee the other day.”
Mom listens but doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. She knows how he hurt me the last time. She also knows he’s basketball famous and what fame can do to young men. While I have found fame in my own way, it doesn’t come with the stardom or fan base of a music, film, or sports star, and I’m thankful for that.
“I’d better get started before the morning is over.” I kiss Mom on the cheek, then head to the studio to grab what I need to sit outside and paint.
The purpleof the bougainvillea is my favorite color.
I’m creating a piece of art where, on a larger block canvas, the design can be transferred to fabric. I’m imagining a flowing white dress with all the colors of the bougainvillea. Dad comes to stand behind me and peers over my shoulder. “Do you like it?” I ask gently.
He steps aside and rubs his gloves. Dirt falls to the ground. “Very much, Gigi. Are you going to add the white variety?”
I smile at my father and wipe the smudge of dirt from his cheek. “I will. It needs more shading around the flower for it to pop.”
His eyes glaze as though he is remembering something. He stares at me for a few more seconds, then totters off.
The shade shifts, and before long, the hot morning sun is almost directly above me. Gathering my easel, I move closer to the house while still under the shade of the jacaranda tree. The purple flowers are beginning to bloom for the second time this year. We’re lucky to have a tree that flowers twice a year, and while I love the purple rain of the flowers falling to the ground, my canvas is not where I want buds to land. Mom is fond of seeing color throughout the yard, so Dad cleans the foliage from his mass of trees every Sunday. It’s his routine.
I retrieve my palette and stools and get back to painting, ignoring the sound of Mom chatting in the background. At least a half hour passes before I’m too hot to stay outside any longer, even after four years in Italy acclimatizing me to paint in the heat. I stand and wipe my brow, and all the air leaves my lungs. Byron is sitting on a chair, watching me.
“Um… hi.”
“Hey.” He stands and shoots his heart-winning smile, and it hits me right in the chest. “Your mom said I wasn’t allowed to disturb you.”
Oh my God, why?
“I don’t mind being disturbed. I can do two things at once.” How long was he watching me?
He closes the distance between us. Out here in the fresh air, I can smell him more than I care to. I close my eyes, remembering how good he smells up close. “Can I give you a hand?”
“I’d appreciate it.” I ogle his designer shorts and T-shirt while I wipe my hands on my old shirt. “Careful with the paint… you don’t want to get it on your clothes. I need to get this upstairs. Could you bring the easel?”
Byron follows me through the house. The last time he was here is something I have tried to forget. After speaking to him at the reunion, I sensed he barely remembers what happened that night, and I’m not about to remind him. I turn and watch his long muscled legs take two steps at a time. I wait for him to set up the easel inside the studio, then I position the painting on it and stand back to stare at it.
“It looks good, Gigi.” Byron turns in a circle, taking in my studio décor. There are more shelves, paints, markers, and pencils in jars on the table against the wall since he was last here. Plus, extra easels for sketching and blank canvases that line the wall ready for the next project. “I remember some of these.”
“You do?” There is an array of unfinished works. Many are my early pieces, but Mom refuses to throw them out.
“Yeah.” He picks up a smaller canvas of the beach—the one with the Santa Monica pier. “I remember you had just finished this and hated it, yet I thought it was brilliant.” He stares at me. “Why is it hidden up here?”
“It’s not that good.” I take it out of his hands and place it back on the floor.
“Gigi, we spoke about this. About believing in ourselves.”
“I do believe in my work, but this piece is from inexperience. If you like it, then it’s yours.”
“It reminds me of us,” he quietly says as he retrieves it from the hardwood floor.
He’s studying the painting as though it is an image of us. My heart races, remembering the fun we had at the beach. He was not a boy or a man back then. He was something in between. While he looks like a man now, with his thick biceps, muscled chest, and rounded shoulders, his decisions are yet to be judged. Byron was stubborn, determined, and loved attention. He had all the qualities of an elite sports star, but I got to see his gentle side when he was with me. Before his fame, my memories were of the skinny boy who was not strong enough, not tall enough, and couldn’t make foul shots under pressure to win games. He glances up at me, his face serious.
“What are you thinking about?”
I suck in a breath. “The school game when you missed the foul that would have put us in the finals for a second year running.”
His face falls. “Why were you thinking about that game? It was my worst moment.”
He doesn’t get it. “It’s when I was closest to you. When you started opening up to me, and we started to talk to each other. Really talk.” We were friends first.
He stares at me for a moment too long, then shifts his focus back to the painting. “So I can keep this?”
“It’s all yours.”
“Good, because this reminds me of a time when I thought we understood each other.” He walks over to me and takes my hand in his. “We had some good times, Gi.”
“We did,” I murmur. His beautiful blue eyes hold mine captive, and I sense he’s going to kiss me.
“Why don’t we head down to the beach for a swim this afternoon?”
“Sure,” I say without thinking. “I can meet you there. I need to do a little more to this piece before I finish for the day.”
“I can swing by around four? Does that work?”
“It works fine.”
He tucks the beach painting under his arm. “See you then.”
After he leaves, the realization hits that Byron hasn’t seen me in a bathing suit since high school. I’ve changed in more ways than one. Genetics hasn’t helped, but I also fell in love with Italian wine and pizza. What the hell was I thinking?
A minute before four o’clock,Byron pulls up out front.
I kiss Mom on the cheek. “I’ll call you later.”
“Will you be back for dinner?” Her eyes tell me she doesn’t expect me to be.
“Maybe not. Bye, Dad,” I call out. I’m out the door before Byron reaches the garden gate.
“Your garden is stunning.” He opens the door of his black Porsche for me.
“It is. My dad spends countless hours pruning and nurturing.” I wave to my mom, who is peering through the blinds.
“Your dad has retired? He looks so young. Mine is retired, but I have a brother twelve years older than me.”
“He has the beginnings of dementia. He had to retire in my second year of college.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
I stare out the window at nothing in particular. “It’s fine. We didn’t stay in touch.”
“For that, I’m also sorry. There are no excuses for my behavior other than being selfish and loving the limelight.”
“I also know the real Byron.”
“You’re one of the few people who do.”
It’s why we clicked. I didn’t have many friends at school, and neither did Byron. We formed our little group and kept to ourselves. Byron trained on the courts every lunchtime and sometimes before and after school. He was never a main player until the last three years, and that’s when he stepped up as he wanted a college basketball scholarship. He could have gone to any college based on his grades, except he hated being the smart geek. He wanted to be recognized for his basketball talent, something I remember his father not being happy about.
Byron finds a parking space, and we grab our bags and walk the path to the sand. We find a spot on the crowded beach to spread our towels. Byron removes his T-shirt, and I can’t stop ogling his abs. I force my eyes away only to notice the teenage girls surrounding us also ogling him and whispering.
Oh shit. They recognize him.
I sit on my towel, leaving on my top and sarong.
He rolls onto his stomach. “Do you have any sunscreen?”
He knows I do as I am a stickler for being skin-smart, even with my olive complexion. I ruffle through my bag and then hand it to him.
“Could you apply it to my back?” he says. “It’s the one spot I missed.”
I inhale deeply, knowing I need to touch him.
Being with Byron is hard. Touching Byron is breaking all the rules. I squeeze the cream from the tube, and it makes a fart sound. Byron chuckles.
“You’re such a child.”
I smooth the cream over his muscled back, and oh my Lord, he feels so good. Soft yet firm. My hand almost bounces over the mounds of each muscle. It sends my thoughts crazy. I slide my hands down to the band of his shorts, and his tight ass clenches.
My gaze lingers as I imagine him without his boardshorts.
I bite my lip.
I circle up to his rounded shoulders and allow myself the pleasure of feeling his skin for a few more seconds until a quiet moan comes from him.
Shit. I need to stop. We’re in a public space.
“All done.” I wipe my hands on the towel and pull out a book to read. I position my hat and place a small pillow behind my head. I read the first few lines before he interrupts.
“What else do you have in that bag?”
“Not much.”
“Am I bad company?”
Is he kidding? Does he know how nervous I am? I need to distract myself.
“No. I thought you were closing your eyes for a bit. Did you train today?”
“The standard five a.m. training.”
“You still get up and practice on your own, even with all your other commitments?”
“Five days a week. And I’m not closing my eyes when I’m lying beside you.” He rolls onto his side. My skin heats with his gaze tracing over my every curve.
“I don’t mind, Byron. If you need to rest, I understand.”
His gaze fixes on me. With one finger, he lowers the book from my face. “I thought we could talk.”
“About what?”
“Us.”
“Us?” There is no us.
“I want to spend more time with you,” he says softly.
“I’d like that very much.” We hold each other’s gaze for a few seconds. “But I can’t get past why you’re suddenly interested in me. I’m too scared to look around because I know every girl here is looking at you and judging me. I’m uncomfortable, and I thought I buried those feelings a long time ago.”
He leans in close to my ear. “I don’t care about them. I want to be with you.”
“You could have anyone…” He grins, and I shake my head. “It’s not attractive to know it.”
“No. But you know me, and girls never looked at me this way in school. I was the skinny, geeky guy. While I might like the attention, it doesn’t mean I’ll act on it. I’ve never had a girlfriend, and the one-nighters aren’t as regular as you might think.”
“I don’t want to think,” I snap. And he’s wrong. Girls have always flocked to him, even at school. He just didn’t notice back then because his focus was basketball. He wanted to be admired on the court, not for his good looks—even if he was a little geeky—or for the name on his back that represented his family more than his basketball ability.
He chuckles. “Are you jealous, Gi?”
“No.” I raise my book to my face, but he lowers it again.
“What about you? Did you have someone special in Italy?”
“Byron, I…” I place my book on the towel and roll onto my side to face him. “Yes. I don’t think you want details any more than I want to know about the girls you’ve slept with.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He grins at me. “I want to know who I’m competing against. Study everything about them to plan my attack.” His smirk remains.
The Byron I know would be seething inside if he perceives his opponent to be better than him, not that they were. No one came close to him. How could they, with his blue eyes and the longest lashes? The way he looks at me, God. One look and no words, and I would slide beneath him.
“It was Italy,” I confess. “Love is a second language.” His brow furrows. “While I had lovers, there was one guy. After a year or so, we called it quits. I came home not long after we separated.”
His smirk is long gone. “Is he the reason you came home?”
“No.” I sigh again, finding it hard to talk about this with Byron. “He was the reason I stayed longer than I intended. While I thought I might have loved him, I wasn’t in love with him.”
“Of course you weren’t.” He grins at me and takes his sunglasses from the top of his head. “You were in love with me.” He’s smiling as he rolls onto his back and covers his eyes with the glasses.
“You’re infuriating.” I raise my book again and begin to read.
We remain quiet for a few minutes.
“Why did you stay with him?” he whispers. All the cockiness in his tone has disappeared.
Stay with him?
Why is he thinking about this now?
While Byron exudes confidence, it’s a cover for how he feels on the inside, and right now, he feels threatened. He admitted to never having a girlfriend. He was, and still is, focused on his goal—his basketball dreams. If he lets someone in, they might discover he’s not the self-assured guy he makes out to be. He has this intense energy for anything to do with basketball. Away from the hype, he’s humble, kind, and rather normal. Fans are always looking for excitement. He can’t run on that energy twenty-four seven—it’s exhausting. I just admitted to being intimate with the same person for a year. He hasn’t done that.
I keep the book elevated. “I was lonely.”
“Why didn’t you call me? I didn’t know you were alone?”
I lower the book and glare at him. “If you remembered what happened the last time we saw each other, then you’d have your answer to why I didn’t call.”
“I’m sorry, Gi. It wasn’t a good time for me. If I could take it back…”
“It’s always about you, Byron,” I say louder than normal, and heads turn. I don’t want to stay here. I rip off my sarong and top.
“Finally,” he says with glee.
He is infuriating.
I storm toward the water. I dive in and enjoy the sounds of the ocean for a few seconds. The noise from the surface is muffled, and it’s comforting to escape, albeit only for a moment. The waves roll in, so I concentrate on floating over the swell before it breaks over me.
Byron appears beside me. “We need to swim farther out.” He flicks his long bangs, and water smacks my face. I giggle.
“Wait. Who is watching our stuff?”
“I promised some chick two tickets to the game tonight to guard it.”
“There’s a game tonight? Why are you here?”
“I’m being rested.” His eyes darken. “Tonight, I’m all yours.”
I swivel in the water to scope out my towel and bag. Paddling to keep afloat, I spy a bikini-clad girl standing near our belongings. “You picked her?”
“Yeah. She was sitting closest to us.”
“I doubt she could even tackle me.”
This is the Los Angeles I remember. Gorgeous women are slim. I now have curves—more than I did the last time I saw Byron.
“Twenty yards from our towels, there’s a guy with a red umbrella and a black top.”
I strain my eyes, barely making him out.
“That’s Colton, my security guard. If anyone touched you, they would have me and him to answer to.”
What?Butwe drove here together. “How is he here?”
“I gave him the details before coming to yours. And he tracks my cell.”
“Is he undercover?”
Byron’s lips curl into a grin. “Good security isn’t seen unless they need to be.”
“Your life is very different than what I remember.”
He reaches for me and pulls me close. Both hands are on my back, and we are squished together. This close, it’s difficult to stay afloat. Byron guides my legs around his waist. I use my hands to paddle like mad because I’m scared what it could lead to if I touch him. He takes my face in his hands and kisses me. It’s light and salty. Lost in the moment, a wave dumps over the top of us, and we surface, spluttering, my hair covering my face like Cousin Itt.
“Jesus. I’m used to swimming in Mediterranean oceans.”
Byron’s expression drops. He takes my hand. “Let’s go ashore.” He holds my hand while we paddle in, not letting go as we emerge from the water.
Thank God I’m wearing a one-piece bathing suit.
With my free hand, I adjust my red bathing suit, but it’s tight and has barely moved. Both girls are still safely tucked in. While I bathed in a bikini in Italy and topless at Dante’s private pool, I’m not as comfortable in my skin in LA, especially not around Byron.
Byron releases my hand and chats to the girl, who eyes me up and down. I lie on my stomach, my forehead balancing on the back of my hands.
“Lorraine, our PR administrator, will email the tickets to you,” he says. He then talks to someone on his cell. Byron has always been good on his word. “You should have them in your inbox any minute.”
“Thank you so much,” the girl says excitedly. “Will we see you there?”
“Not this week. Thanks again.”
There is movement beside me.
I take a discreet peek under my arm. Byron lies on his back, perched on his elbows. He’s staring at the water, deep in thought.
What am I doing? I’ve been home ten days. I go over my mental list about dating again.
Rule #1: Do not get your heart broken in LA.
I should have added stay away from Byron Hendricks.
Rule #2: Only date people you’re not attracted to.
I wanted to date people who are good communicators. I’m done with monologues with men talking about themselves. And there’s much more to life than seductive eyes and a hot body.
Rule #3: Be open to new things.
Number three is my new priority.
I barely hear his question when he asks, “Have you ever been to an NBA game?”
“No.”
“Would you like to come and watch me?”
I lift my head. While I watched Byron in high school, it was more about cheering for the pride of the school and my friend, not about the game. I’ve never been a fan of testosterone on the court. But the way Byron said watch me has my heart beating faster than it should. Be open to new things…
“Watch you, yes. But I’m still not a fan of basketball.”
He laughs. “I suppose you’re into soccer now?”
“It’s called football in Europe.”
“But you’re LA born and bred. It’s soccer.”
I laugh and lower my head. “I didn’t get into that either. When my friends were watching the games, I painted.”
“I’ll get you in the corporate seats with my family.”
I roll onto my side. “I don’t need special treatment. I’ll sit anywhere. I’ll be there to watch you, not cheer on the team.”
His brow furrows. His eyes lock with mine, then lower. My skin heats as his gaze trails lower, then lower still. His hand lifts to rest on my hip. “You will not be sitting just anywhere,” he says in a husky voice.
“I don’t mind.” I roll onto my stomach, and his hand moves to my lower back. “We’re friends, Byron. I don’t want to ruin it before we get to know each other again. We have both… I was going to say changed, but I think matured is a better word. There are things we should talk about. I don’t want to be hurt again.”
“Have dinner with me.”
“No. Being charmed by you at dinner is not what I need.”
“What if I promise not to charm you?” he asks, his voice flat.
A laugh bursts from me. “You can’t promise me something that comes naturally to you.”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “Giana Monroe finds me charming.” He rolls onto his back with the smirk firmly in place.
“You’re back to being infuriating, which also comes naturally to you.”
“Charming,” he repeats, ignoring my words.
Ugh.
We shakethe sand from our towels.
“Is it too late to eat now?”
He glares at me. “You’re not getting out of dinner that easily.”
I tie my sarong around my hips, then shove everything in my bag.
“Walk with me,” he says.
“Now?”
“Yes, now.” He stands and waits for me to sling my bag over my shoulder. He takes my hand in his, and we walk down to the water and stroll along the wet sand.
I inhale a deep, cleansing breath.
“You love it here,” he says.
“The beach?”
“The beach, home…”
I think for a moment before answering. “There is comfort in being home, but I also found comfort in being somewhere nobody knew me.”
“I thought you were lonely?”
“At night.”
A soft growl sounds from his throat.
“Most days, I painted or worked with people, and I loved it. Most nights during the first few years, I came home to an empty bed in an empty house in a strange country.”
“I was going to say my bed is empty ninety-nine percent of the time, but we are discussing different situations here.”
“We are. You were living in a familiar place, and if you wanted, someone would be in your bed within seconds.”
“I didn’t want people in my bed. But that’s me.”
I know it is. Byron’s focus is next level. “They never stayed the night?”
“Rarely.”
“You wouldn’t want me either.”
“Don’t tell me what I want, Gi,” he says in a gentle but firm voice.
I need to backtrack. “We should go. If we’re having dinner, I need to shower and make myself beautiful,” I joke.
“We could have dinner like we are.”
I pull a face at him. “Restaurants have standards.”
“Not at my house.”
It’s my turn to grin. “Are you going to cook dinner for me?”
“I am.”
God help me. I should tear up my rule book right now.
We drive directlyto Byron’s house.
On entering his driveway, we stop on a turntable, and it spins us around so we reverse into the garage. The huge space oozes class, with polished floors, inbuilt cupboards, a kitchenette, and two more lavish black sports cars—a Lamborghini and a Range Rover.
“Are these yours?”
“They are, although I mostly drive the Porsche.” He takes my hand and leads me through a door to the hallway. A little farther along, we come to a dead end with three more doors. We enter through the middle door and take the stairs to the next level, which leads us into a vast marble kitchen.
He points to the stools at his kitchen island. “Take a seat.” With every step, I have turned my head like a sideshow clown as I take in his impressive home. Black is clearly his favorite—black leather stools, black faucets, black light fittings. There is a hint of brass, but even the marble counter has streaks of black and gold.
“Who styled your home?”
“My sister-in-law and I did most of it.”
“It’s stylish.”
“She’s in the business, and I have great taste.” He looks at me and smirks.
“Finally, we agree on something.”
He pulls food from the refrigerator and specialty cookware from the deep drawer beside him, then turns on the induction surface plate.
“What are you cooking?”
“Seafood and a salad. I thought it would appeal to you.”
For real? “A Mediterranean meal?” His smile grows wider. “A meal straight to my heart.” I’m impressed by Byron’s attempt to please me. “Do you have any wine?”
“In the cellar.”
“Which is?”
“Downstairs. You need to walk through the movie theater.”
I slide off the stool and trot down the staircase to the ground level. The staircase to the lower levels is on the other side of the foyer. I head down the stairs, walk through a movie theater, a gym room, and then behind a wall of glass…
Holy Mother of God.
This is the cellar of all cellars—a complete room of refrigerators with floor-to-ceiling glass doors. I walk past each section—champagne, white, rosé, red. I open the red wine refrigerator door and step inside to browse over the labels. I choose a Nero dAvola, my favorite before leaving Italy.
I scan the other bottles, and all the air leaves my lungs. His collection is amazing and worth hundreds of thousands of dollars.
Who needs Italy when I have Byron Hendricks?