CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
SKYLAR
“OH BOY. HE’S GOT THE SMART ONE HANGING OUT WITH HIS SISTER NOW.”
Doris places a glass of wine in front of me before moving to the opposite side of our private corner booth.
“Thank you, Doris. It’s so nice to see you again.” I grin up at the woman and catch a twitch of her cheek when she meets my eye.
“The smart one?” Rosie asks, looking between us.
“You know that boy, always out gallivanting with someone new. They’re all starry-eyed over him until they’re teary-eyed over him. This one, though…she flipped the script on him. About time.”
I blink because Doris is totally misreading West and me. He definitely isn’t starry-eyed over me. I’m accustomed to starry-eyed, and he’s treated me like nothing short of painfully normal since our first run-in.
“You’ve got a big fucking mouth, Doris,” Tabitha mumbles, giving her head a soft shake as she reaches for her glass of wine.
I don’t know what I expected from Tabitha, but the woman we picked up from a small house in town is extremely petite, rail thin, and looks like she hasn’t slept in weeks.
Doris must notice it too because, rather than snapping back, she pets her dark hair in a maternal way and says, “Drink your wine, Tabby. You need it.”
“Is this —”
“The one you told me to bring in because…how did you put it? ‘I’d rather drink a grape juice box than this swill’?”
With a soft smile, Tabitha peeks up at the older woman. “Sounds about right.”
“Yep, this is the one.” With that, she squeezes Tabitha’s bony shoulder
and leaves us.
Rosie lifts her glass in a cheers motion. “Thank you for your service, Tabby. This wine is far better than what we drank down by the lake as teenagers.”
I toast to that too, feeling out of the loop. Lake parties were definitely not part of my life as a teenager.
Our glasses clink, and Tabby chuckles. “Anything is better than that garbage, Rosie.”
We drink, and I realize that, much like on my night here with West, the wine is excellent for a small-town pub.
I glance over at Tabby, and she catches me, but she doesn’t look away.
Instead, she smiles and offers, “It’s really nice to meet you, you know? I hope everyone has been on their best behavior. Let me know if anyone hasn’t. I’ll accidentally drop a ghost pepper in their dinner next time they’re in.”
She’s been polite and didn’t make a fuss over me, which had me letting out the world’s biggest sigh of relief.
It’s freeing to feel like I don’t need to wear my usual mask around these women. And to be honest, people have looked a little wide-eyed at me in town, but they’ve been pretty chill. Except for whoever snapped that photo of me with a bleeding nose. But rather than being angry, I hope they at least got a good chunk of change for it. If the paps are too lazy to fly to Canada and drive three plus hours to find me, I hope they paid through the nose for that
shot. ’Cause I sure did.
Ford offered me security this week when we met at his office, but I didn’t feel the need. It’s been nice not being followed around everywhere.
“Tabby owns the best restaurant in town, the Bighorn Bistro,” Rosie says.
“You and I can drop in sometime. I promise it’s not just small-town good.
It’s better-than-big-city good.”
Tabby scoffs. “That’s my new slogan. Better than big city good!”
“It is! You grow your own herbs and vegetables. You bake your own croissants. You harvest your own roses for the tea. Oh, Skylar, you have to try the tea. I’ll bring you some.”
I watch these women. These normal women. Women who harvest their vegetables and offer to drop tea off for no good reason. I feel like I’m living in an alternate universe. One I actually like.
“Maybe I’ll just swing by and grab some,” I say. “I’d love to see your
restaurant.”
Tabby, with her elbow propped on the table and head against her open palm, brightens a tad, but her voice still comes out monotone when she replies, “I’d love that.”
Rosie analyzes her friend. Eyes moving up, down, side to side. Head tilt.
Brows down. “Tabby, my plan was to fill you with a bit more wine before starting my interrogation. But…what’s going on?”
The woman’s head turns slightly, still propped up by her hand. Like she’s too tired to sit up straight. “If I tell you what’s going on, you’ll both think I’m the world’s biggest downer and I’ll ruin the night. I’ll perk up, I promise.”
I worry my bottom lip as I watch her. She looks…sad.
She’s got sad eyes.
I wonder absently if that’s how I looked a week ago.
“My parents are getting a divorce and I found out I only own a small percentage of all the songs I’ve produced and all the contracts I’ve fulfilled.
All the hours I’ve put in…I think they’re more invested in the money than in me. Maybe they’ve always been. I’m officially that former child star,” I blurt.
It’s an overshare. So much so, Tabby sits up straight and stares at me
head-on. “What assholes.”
I sip and nod. “I know.”
“Is that why you contacted Ford about doing an album?” Rosie pipes up.
“Yep.”
“You think that has anything to do with how rough your interviews have been lately?” Tabby asks, her eyes brighter than they have been all night.
I shrug, not offended at all by her curiosity. In fact, I feel accepting of the question. It’s one I’ve spent several days mulling over myself. “I guess.
Probably.” I take a drink of the French rosé.
They both stare at me, and it’s almost comical.
“Yeah, actually. I’m positive it is. I don’t know what to say when everything that comes out of my mouth is a lie. Lying, man…it catches up with you. Rots you from the inside out, I think.”
“Facts.” Rosie exhales the word as she flops back in her chair and takes a deep swig of her matching pink wine.
The vibe around the table seems more relaxed.
Like my honesty brightened the mood.
But it doesn’t last because Tabitha’s next bit of honesty darkens it.
“My sister died.”
Rosie and I both freeze, staring at her. In the game of who has the saddest story, Tabitha just laid down a trump card.
“About a month ago.”
Rosie’s blue eyes bulge from their sockets, a glittering sheen covering them. “A month? Oh, Tabby, I’m so, so sorry.”
Tabitha swipes a hand under her nose and slices her gaze away, avoiding eye contact. Rosie reaches across the table and clasps Tabitha’s hand, still curled around the stem of her wineglass. “It’s okay. It’s fine. I always knew this day might come.”
My heart cracks. I’m an only child and I don’t know her, but I can feel the devastation rolling off the woman beside me. It’s thick and bitter.
“I thought she was doing better,” Rosie urges.
Tabitha sighs. “Same.”
I watch in silence, feeling like an interloper, who is intruding on a private
moment I shouldn’t be privy to.
“And Milo?” Rosie’s face is pinched.
“He’s here. With me, for now. Almost three and running me ragged.”
“For now?”
“It’s complicated.” Tabitha lets out a melancholy laugh. “Erika made it complicated. Because of course she did.”
“Does it have to do with the big hunk of a man you donated to the bowling team?”
Tabitha’s teeth clench. “Rhys? He’s not a hunk. He’s an overgrown pain in my ass. I’d sooner donate him to the local crematorium than have him in town.”
Rosie whistles, and I stifle a laugh. It’s not a funny moment, but I am entertained by Tabitha’s creative insults.
“Tabby…a month? Why didn’t you say something? I would have helped.”
Her friend’s eyes drop again. “You’ve been blissed out on billionaire dick, Rosie. I didn’t want to burst that bubble. And you know Erika’s reputation in town.” Tabitha’s voice cracks and her shoulders curl down ever so slightly as she wipes at her nose again.
“Sometimes it feels like I’m the only person in the world who really loved her in spite of how she struggled. I wanted to grieve without having to hear people tell me that drug addicts overdose, so it shouldn’t really come as a surprise.” She says it like she’s not grieving anymore, but her body
language gives her away.
When her hand flops down on the table beside me, I eye it up carefully.
And then I decide fuck it. I cover the top of her small hand with my palm. She shoots me a sweet smile and edges closer, as if being near people who aren’t
judging her is a comfort.
I can relate.
“I don’t want to turn tonight into a big, lame public boo-hoo. I’m being a normal twenty-seven-year-old tonight. The restaurant is covered, and my parents have Milo for a sleepover. So let’s turn our frowns upside down and drink too much rosé.”
Rosie and I exchange glances and then lift our glasses for another toast.
And as the glasses clink, Tabby adds, “And shit-talk Rhys because he’s the fuckin’ worst.”
I’m still holding Tabby’s hand as I watch the gears turn in Rosie’s head before an amused smirk forms on her lips.
“You know what we should do?”
Tabitha and I glance at each other and back at Rosie with a shrug.
“Drink this glass and then go shit-talk him in person.”
My heart thunders in my chest because if I’m piecing this together correctly…Rhys is on the bowling team. Bowling is tonight. And going there means seeing West. With his friends. In his element. Not in a quiet barn or around his kids. Somewhere busy and public.
Nerves build, but so does my anticipation.
And I realize I always look forward to seeing him.
When we walk into the dingy bowling alley, the place is humming. Music.
Chatter. The loud thump of balls followed by the noisy clatter of pins falling.
But when the door slams shut behind us and heads turn, the noise drops several decibels.
My body heats and my stomach drops. Too many eyes land on me, and all my limbs seize, freezing me in place. No one has asked me anything, so I can’t make an ass of myself by struggling to speak my first language.
Instead, I’m reverting to my babyhood and feel like the ability to walk
has fled me entirely.
Pretty challenging to be a performer with crippling anxiety. And just knowing that my life’s work is spiraling because of this newfound anxiety
amplifies every feeling of failure.
It makes it worse.
Tabby forges ahead, a tiny spitfire who doesn’t give a shit what people think. She walks to the bar and pulls out a well-worn stool. I want so badly to follow her, but I feel like a deer in the headlights.
Frozen.
I look for a safe place. I look for West.
When I hear his laughter, the tension in my body eases a bit.
Rosie slings her arm around my shoulder and whispers, “Think of how good the wine here will be. Tabby is going to be in fine form.”
I snort a very unladylike laugh and, just like that, my body unlocks, and I let my new friend guide me forward. By the time we get to our seats, Tabby hasn’t ordered wine—she’s ordered tequila.
“Thanks, Frankie,” she says with a radiant smile to the man behind the bar.
“Anything for my girl,” he singsongs before turning away to another customer.
I settle on my stool and take in my surroundings. Our three stools are near the bottom of the U-shaped bar, right where a swinging gate divides the bowling alley section from the equally dated drinking area.
Neon signs illuminate the windows and old license plates decorate the walls, along with paper bills of various currencies and the occasional signed sports jersey. I only recognize one—Jasper Gervais, a famous hockey player.
The place has a run-down dive bar sort of charm. It feels totally different from the Reach, as the locals call it.
Rose Valley Alley feels exactly like the type of place Skylar Stone shouldn’t be seen in. And that just makes me like it more.
Now that the chatter is back in full force, I no longer feel like the center of attention. In fact, now that I’m breathing evenly enough to take a proper look around, I’m wondering if the halt in activity was simply because women were standing in a bar full of men.
“Goddamn, this place is a sad little sausage fest,” Tabby remarks from beneath a dark fringe of lashes before sipping on her tequila.
“Take that back, Tabby Cat. Those claws hurt,” West announces, popping
up from behind us like a fucking jack-in-the-box. I start, but then the weight of his warm hand rests against my lower back and I instantly relax. “Plus, it’s a big, happy sausage fest. And why are you sipping tequila like it’s tea? That shit is meant for shooting.”
“Because I don’t want to be so drunk that I can’t enjoy the hilarity of grown men dressing in matching outfits and playing games together.”
“What are you doing here?” Ford saunters through the swinging gate, staring daggers at Rosie.
She grins maniacally. “Came to cheer you on.”
Ford doesn’t take the bait. In fact, he continues scowling at her. “You’re
not dressed like a cheerleader.”
She shrugs. “I could be later.”
“No. Please, god, no.” West has his hands over his face, laughing. “I am so happy for you guys, but please do not have these conversations in front of me.” When he drops his hands, the amusement is clear on his face. “The real question is, why are you ladies here on men’s night?”
His sister’s eyes narrow. “It’s men’s night”—she points over his shoulder —“over there. Behind the fence where you belong. Here, though? Here, it’s
just a regular night.”
“This night is sacred,” West says.
Tabby takes another sip of tequila, head shaking. “Listen, West. You’re scared of women. We get it. Go throw your balls and pretend we’re not here.”
My head whips between everyone. I’m beyond amused. This level of camaraderie makes me feel like I’m living in a sitcom.
“I’m not afraid of women. I love women. I respect women.” He leans toward her, propping a hand on her shoulder. “I just get a little nervous when they watch me throw my balls,” he whispers.
Tabby smirks. “You’re a child. That why you’re such a commitment-
phobe?”
“I’m not —”
“You’re not the one who had to listen to Bree vent about you as she picked up her coffee. Do you know how shrill her voice is first thing in the morning? Who am I kidding? Of course you do.” The more Tabby lays into West, the wider his mouth opens. “Anyway, you’re definitely a commitment- phobe. And she kinda sucks, but my dude: boys’ nights and friends-with- benefits… How old are you again?”
Ford has covered his lips with his palm, and Rosie is laughing so hard
that she’s making no noise at all.
My eyes lock with West’s, and I get a soft wink from him. God, he’s like Teflon—everything just rolls right off him. He’s not offended, but I sense her ribbing smarts a bit. And I know he’s reflective enough to consider what she’s telling him.
“You are in fine form tonight, Tabby Cat. I’m not even mad. After all, it’s you who inspired our team’s name.”
“What’s your team’s name?” I finally pipe up, taking a measured sip of the world’s most toxic tequila.
“The Ball Busters,” West announces, puffing his chest out a bit and giving Tabby’s shoulder a one-finger poke.
She chuckles and rolls her eyes. “What an incredible honor. Thank you.”
It’s then that a tall, thin man waltzes up, leaning his elbows against the bar on the other side of the gate. He has a severe face, and gel saturates his hair to the point it looks almost wet.
“Oh joy, Stretch is here,” Ford mumbles, not sounding remotely excited about the man’s presence.
“Strikes me that if you wanted to name the team after Tabitha, you could have called it the Tongue Twisters. Can you still tie a knot in a cherry stem?”
Tabby stares back at the man, not a stitch of embarrassment on her face.
In fact, it’s more like she oozes pity. “Still dreaming about the only blow job you ever got, Terence? Was that tenth grade? Shame that you peaked so young.”
My attention volleys to Rosie. She rolls her eyes but doesn’t miss a beat.
She’s so comfortable in this setting.
The man flushes right as Ford turns to Rosie and mouths Terence?
“You know —”
He doesn’t get to finish because a man so tall, so broad that he looms like a mountain over Terence approaches from behind. He is beautiful and terrifying all at once. Built like a warrior, scowling like a predator.
He doesn’t hesitate to rest an oversized palm on the back of the skinny guy’s neck. It could be a friendly gesture—but it’s not.
“You know what I could tie a knot in? This long fucking neck. And then no one would have to tolerate your presence here. Anyone have any objections?” His voice is so deep that it shouldn’t be possible to make it out over the social hum of the bar.
And yet, it feels like everyone hears him.
Except Tabby, who has taken a sudden interest in the water-stained foam
tiles on the ceiling.
This must be the infamous Rhys.
His obsidian eyes land on each of us but rest longer on Tabitha. A flicker of something passes there, and I find myself invested in whatever is going on with them. It seems to me like she may have glossed over some key details where this man is concerned.
“Wow, not a single objection. Imagine that, Terry,” Ford says with dry amusement. And when the man jerks himself free and hustles away with his tail between his legs, he adds, “I fucking hate that guy.”
Tabby takes another drink and stares at Mr. Dark and Foreboding.
“Everyone hates that guy,” she says simply.
His jaw twitches as he watches her keenly. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looked downright green with jealousy.
But he says nothing, just turns to leave.
West claps his hands, always on a constant mission to lighten the mood.
“Okay, fine. You guys can stay.”
Now it’s my turn to roll my eyes. And this time, rather than sipping my tequila, I toss it straight back. It burns, making me feel alive. “No one asked for your permission, West,” I say as I slam the shot glass down on the bar top. “Now beat it. This is girls’ night out.”
“Hear, hear!” Rosie echoes before following suit. “Drink up, Tabby.
You’ve got a real embarrassing blow job to explain.”
Tabitha glosses over the jab with an eye roll, zeroing straight back in on West. “Never thought I’d see the day that Skylar Stone walked you like a dog, but here we are.” She tosses her drink back with a thoroughly amused twist to her mouth.
West doesn’t have time to respond because another man pops up from their lane farther back. Thick brows, threads of silver in his sideburns, and a bored scowl grace his masculine face. “Let’s go, you fucking clowns,” he calls out. “This isn’t high school. Leave the girls alone.”
“Coming, Dad,” West shouts back, garnering himself a chorus of laughs from around the bar. The man shakes his head like he’s disappointed before turning and flopping back down onto their bench.
West and Ford make their way to the guy, giggling like schoolgirls the entire way. They exchange a few shoulder punches, and I grin like a fool at their boyish interaction. It’s wholesome.
“Oh shit,” Rosie whispers from beside me. She’s close enough that I can
smell the tequila on her breath.
“What?”
She flashes me a conspiratorial smile and I know she busted me staring at her brother with stars in my eyes. “Nothing.”
Relieved she doesn’t call me on it, I casually change the subject. “How
long have they known each other?”
She shrugs. “A couple of decades.”
“Ford might be the only non-blood relative West has committed to,”
Tabby says.
Rosie slings a soft hand at Tabby. “Quit picking on him. He’ll leave Neverland when the time is right. Plus, we need to talk about you more than him.”
She gets up and slides onto the stool on the other side of her friend, so we make a little Tabby sandwich.
“I’m not fun. I thought we were here to shit-talk Rhys.”
“What are we going to say to him?” I ask, trying to contain my laughter.
“Your physique is too much like Jason Momoa, Rhys,” I mock-shout with a
hand cupped by my mouth.
Rosie laughs.
Tabby does not.
Then Rosie follows suit. “The way you fill out those jeans is criminal, Rhys.”
Then me. “Your hands don’t need to be that big, Rhys.”
Then Rosie. “How dare you defend Tabby’s honor, Rhys? You piece of shit.”
Tabitha drops her head into her hands, rolling her head against her palms.
“You guys are not helping. We hate him, remember?”
Rosie blinks her baby blues. “Why do we hate him again? Visually, I can think of no reason at all to hate the man. I mean, I know you were avoiding so much as glancing in his direction, but have you seen him?”
“It’s complicated.”
“Didn’t you sign him up for the bowling team yourself?” Rosie prods.
“I needed him out of the house.”
We both stare at Tabby now, and I don’t know why my voice comes out as a whisper when I ask, “He’s living with you?”
Tabby groans and slaps a hand against the bar. “Frankie. I need more
tequila.”
“Comin’ right up, babe,” the man with the belly calls back from his leaning position on the bar.
We watch silently as Rhys walks up to take his turn. He’s rigid and uncomfortable, and I get the sense he knows we’re watching him.
Perhaps it’s the pressure, but he throws the ball so hard and so crooked that it fires straight into the gutter. He does it with such force that I wonder if that’s where he meant to send it.
Rosie stands up on the rung of her barstool, pressing her palms onto the bar top. “Hey, Rhys,” she shouts across the small space. “You’re supposed to aim for the pins. Get this man some bumpers, Frankie.”
He turns his head and glares at her over his shoulder. While several of the men chuckle, he does not. His response only makes Rosie tip her head back and laugh, blond hair streaming down her back.
When she sits back down, Tabby smiles into the freshly filled shot glass.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “Now I’m having fun.”
We then proceed to have a little too much of it.