CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
SKYLAR
BREAKING NEWS: Skylar Stone’s number-one fan has been unmasked by tiny traitors.
BEING ANNOYED WITH WEST WHEN HE CONTINUES TO SEND ME ADORABLE emails is almost impossible. And being irritated at him for volunteering to raise money for the food bank is beneath me.
But here I am, slumming it in the gutter.
I’d rather be drowning in you.
I play that one sentence on repeat in my head as I walk to the shore. After breakfast, I helped clean up and put on a happy face. I’m good at putting on a happy face, even when it doesn’t match what’s inside. Now, West is taking the kids to their soccer, and I’m going to sit by the water in the wake of whatever I’m feeling.
And I’m pretty sure what I’m feeling is jealousy. A white-hot, turn-your- stomach kind of jealousy.
I’m acutely aware of it being irrational, and that makes no difference.
It’s not a feeling I’m familiar with. In past relationships, the prospect of
other women never bothered me. And not because I trusted my partner not to step out. I just didn’t think about it. Possibly because I didn’t care enough to be bothered.
And I’ve never been jealous of my peers in my career. I love seeing other women top the charts or go home with awards.
So it’s fucking bizarre that West is not my boyfriend and yet I feel sick about another woman “winning” him.
My chest feels tight and temper flashes as my teeth grind. My emotions are out of control. If my parents saw me right now, they’d tell me to pull it together. To stay in character.
They’ve always wanted me to fake it until I made it.
But for the first time in my life, I’ve let go of worrying about how my feelings make me appear to other people. For the first time in my life, I feel childish and irrational and…like I have something to say.
So I sit down on a log, and I write.
An impressed whistle draws my head up as I walk down the stairs in West’s house.
“Hell. Yes. Girl.” Rosie looks me up and down from the entryway with approval. “That dress was made for you.”
I blink. “It actually was,” I blurt out honestly.
Rosie laughs as she takes in the dress. It’s one of my favorites. The white fabric has a dense print of tiny, repeating oranges, a small stem leading to a pop of green where the leaf fans out. Straps tie at the crest of each shoulder, and I’ve paired it with a simple pair of white sneakers and my new favorite red lipstick. Because it’s so ‘in’ this season and all.
“Of course it was. Where’s West?” Rosie snags a banana from the fruit bowl and peels it, hip propped against the counter. She’s wearing a flowy pink romper with a pair of strappy, nude wedge sandals for our dreaded trip
to the fair.
“Took the kids to soccer.”
“Oh, right, back to Mia this week. Is he heading straight to the fundraiser after?”
I swallow and glance away. I’ve been avoiding West for the past day, afraid of saying something unhinged. Like demanding he not take part in some stupid archaic man auction. I could donate and spare him the embarrassment.
But I didn’t tell him that. He’s a grown-ass man. Besides, I have no claim on him. I’ve only known him a short time, and I don’t want to be a stage-ten clinger.
And the truth is, the entire process of bidding on a person—well-meaning as it might be—is borderline triggering for me. In a world where I feel constantly whittled down to how I look or act being the basis for my value, the entire thing feels wrong.
So I’ve settled on being aloof, and that’s been simple enough because he’s been busy with new horses arriving and others departing. Turns out Ford’s office is a great place to hang out, even though I’m sure Rosie and I chattering away isn’t great for productivity.
“Not sure.”
She eyes me with an air of suspicion. “Is something going on with you two?”
“We’re friends,” I reply, swiping an orange from the same bowl.
“Right, but West doesn’t bring women around his kids—it’s a whole thing with him. And you’re staying here. And Ollie and Emmy have been here all week.”
I shrug, moving toward the door as though I can outrun this conversation.
“Yeah, he told me about that rule, but we’re just friends, so it’s different.
Plus, I enjoy hanging out with the kids. It’ll be weird next week without
them.”
“I heard Ollie talks to you.”
I smile, waving Rosie along and out the door. As I lock up, I think of our daily meetups down by the lake once he’s finished camp for the day. Where he reads and I write. When I get stuck, I hand my scribbler over and he adds a line in without saying a single word to me. “He does. A bit.”
When I turn to her, she’s staring at me rather seriously. “I hope you understand how special that is.”
I nod, matching the tone. She’s in protective-auntie mode right now, and I respect that about her. She’s fierce. I wish I had family members like this who would have gone to bat for me when I was forced to go on stage sick— or tolerate creepy, wandering hands to seal a deal.
My eyes lock with hers. “I promise you, I do.”
“West too.”
My brows jump in surprise. “What?”
“He might seem like a big, dumb, happy-go-lucky kind of guy, but it’s all an act. He’s cautious, short on trust, and a hell of a lot more sensitive than he seems. Please don’t hurt him if you can help it.”
I blow out a slow breath, as though I can feel the physical weight of what she just said to me. But words escape me. I settle on a nod, one she returns before spinning on her heel and marching away.
“But actually —”
Keys in her hand, she waves at me over her shoulder. “Don’t bother denying it. He’s had a hard-on for you for years, dumped his hookup the minute you got to town, and has you living under his roof. I know my brother.”
When she puts it like that, I feel clueless.
And a little sick for avoiding him.
But even more sick over attending an event where I have to watch other women ogle him when I’ve done nothing but push him away.
“Where’s Ford?”
Rosie smirks. “This isn’t his scene, and I know better than to drag him here. Poor guy would be miserable, but he’d do it for me.” She smiles wistfully, staring over at the sparkling water. “I suspect he’s reading by the lake or swimming laps obsessively. He’ll write Doris an anonymous check or something equally billionaire-hermit-like.”
My chest constricts at the pure affection in her voice, so I pivot, asking someone a little less in love about where her roommate might be.
“Is Rhys in the auction?” I ask Tabitha, who is nursing a beer in a plastic cup beside me.
She scoffs. “No. He’s away for work. Again. And I don’t want to auction him off for a day. I want to auction him off forever. To a serial killer.”
“Dark,” Rosie snorts.
“What does he do for work?”
“I don’t know. I try not to talk to him. Something in the entertainment industry.”
Huh. That’s the most information she’s ever given about the guy, so I press further. “What are you guys to —”
I practically watch a gate clamp down over her eyes. “Oh, look”—she points with her beer in hand—“they’re starting.”
Rosie and I exchange worried glances, but I don’t ask anything else. As much as my curiosity is killing me, I know how it feels to endure unwanted prying. And I may not know Tabby well, but she seems too fragile for that right now.
With our attention back on the stage, I focus on sipping my cider to cover for my nerves. Local apples, they told me, though I’m not sure I taste it at all.
We’ve taken a walk around the grounds. There’s a chili competition, various food and drink trucks set up, and sparse rides. It’s not big by any means, but it is bustling. It smells like popcorn and cotton candy, and the sounds of squealing children bring a smile to my face.
Everyone is so busy enjoying themselves that they don’t bother staring at me, and I feel almost normal, wandering a fair with a couple of friends. If I wasn’t stressed about West and what we are or what we are not, I’d be enjoying myself.
Instead, I’m thinking about all the places he told me he was going to fuck me and wondering who is going to win a day with him and when they’ll cash it in. In my effort to fly under the radar, I’ve decided to be a spectator only.
The last thing I want is for West to be splashed on some headline because my green-eyed monster came out to play.
Doris takes the stage, set up in the open, grassy space next to her pub, and my stomach flips. She stomps across it like she’s irritated by the mere presence of people here. She yanks the mic down, a loud rustling noise coming from the speakers. I clamp my lips together to cover the smile.
“Right, well. Thanks for coming. Again. Every year you all show up to help me fundraise for the food bank, and as irritated as I may seem by your presence, I appreciate it. As many of you know, I grew up relying on the food bank. And in small towns, sometimes those stores run dry. I’m fortunate to have ended up where I am, but your support today will keep cans of food in the storehouse and provide breakfast and lunch grab bags for the local schools. Our kids shouldn’t be hungry at school, I’m sure we can all agree.”
She swallows, looking out over the crowd. Her eyes shine with more
emotion than I expected from the woman. And suddenly I feel it too, a stinging at the bridge of my nose as I blink rapidly to keep my tears at bay. I may have been through the wringer, but I never went hungry. At least not by necessity.
Doris clears her throat and swipes a hand under her nose. “And, well, after years of living in a world run by the patriarchy, I feel like men could use a little objectification.”
That earns her a chorus of groans and barked laughter. “So bid carelessly and enjoy the show.”
She literally drops the mic, its loud bang echoing through the outdoor space, and stomps back off the stage while I laugh silently behind my hand.
Beyond the stage, fair sounds rage on, and behind us is the stillness of the pub. Farther back is a parking lot and…well, forest. One I feel I’d like to run and hide in right now.
But as an older man takes the stage and everyone presses closer, I’m caught in the crowd, wondering why the hell I’m doing this to myself.
To prove I don’t care. To keep my image in check.
The man picks up the mic and talks about the rules and what you get if you win and where to make your donation. And then the event starts.
Seeing it in practice isn’t as dehumanizing as I imagined. The guys all look happy and amused, cracking jokes to crowd-wide laughter. And they are all ages and all body types. Each man raises a couple hundred dollars, and I beat myself up for putting a kinky Hollywood spin on what is a charming little fundraiser for a worthy cause.
When West comes out, the hooting and hollering gets louder. Each decibel makes my stomach drop lower, carving out a pit just behind my ribs.
I press both my hands there and Rosie’s eyes follow the motion.
“You can bid, you know,” she whispers.
I scrunch my face and shake my head. I’m an interloper here, and I don’t need to be territorial over a man I barely know. He can go on a date with
someone.
I’ll be fine.
“We’ve got the town’s favorite eternal bachelor up now,” the announcer says. “Weston Belmont. He’s here for a good time, not a long time, ladies.”
West props his hands on his hips and drops his head, body shaking with laughter. He looks fucking edible. Brown leather lace-up boots, done up loosely so the tongue hangs down. Light wash jeans. Thick thighs. A plain
white T-shirt. So simple, but on his tanned skin, it pops. He glows.
The older man nudges him. “He loves getting into trouble. You can often find him on the back of a horse. Buck as much as you want, he’ll stick the ride.”
“Good lord, man,” West chuckles as he scrubs a hand over his stubble, cheeks flushing pink above the neatly trimmed line of his beard.
My shoulders heave under a labored sigh. His gaze finds mine across the sea of people and we’re caught in each other’s eyes for a moment. West’s body tenses, and I’m pretty sure I can see all his muscles through his shirt.
My fingers burn with the memory of touching him freely.
I itch to do it now. March up there and show everyone how fucking blistering the heat between us is. They can take him on a date, but they’ll never have that. I know because that kind of chemistry doesn’t come around every day. Or even every lifetime.
“Let’s start the bidding at one hundred dollars because I know y’all love
to spend on this hometown boy.”
Hands fly up.
My heart drops. I turn my head away to stare at the lake, pretending I’m bored even though I am anything but unaffected.
Two hundred.
Three hundred.
Four hundred.
Then a voice I recognize has my head whipping to my right. “Five hundred,” Bree shouts with a smirk on her lips. The women around her pat her shoulder like she’s done something impressive and not just forced a guy who ended things to spend time with her. Which he will because he’s a man
of his word.
I cringe.
Six hundred.
Seven hundred.
“Eight hundred,” she calls, shiny red nails glinting in the sun as her hand
shoots up.
I seethe.
Nine hundred.
“A thousand,” she screams. Her hand does this swirl of a flourish, and the crowd goes aww as though there’s something adorable about her and West.
Based on the tight set of his jaw, there’s nothing adorable about this. His
baby blues latch on to me and I glance down quickly to avoid showing him the insecurity I’m feeling.
“Seems like we have a new record, folks. Do I see eleven hundred?”
The man peers out over the crowd, and I stare at him. I refuse to look at West, though I swear I can feel his gaze on me.
“Going once…”
I peek over at Bree. She’s fucking preening—arms crossed, so sure of herself—and a part of me can’t blame her. West is special.
But he’s also mine.
In a world of things that have never been my own, it feels like he is. And I’m fucking sick of sharing. With my parents. With my record labels. With
Bree.
“Going twice…”
“Ten thousand dollars!” I yell, and my hand shoots up before I can think
better of it.
A wave of gasps breaks out around me.
From the corner of my eye, I see Bree’s furious gaze slice my way. I can sense the blatant shock rolling off Rosie and Tabby beside me.
“Oh shit,” Rosie murmurs right as the man on the stage shakes off his own shock.
“Well, now that is a new record, and I suspect one that might never be broken.” The host chuckles, and the crowd follows suit.
When I finally let my gaze travel back to West, he’s staring at me. I can’t place the expression. Anger? Hunger? Something intense. Something that makes it impossible for me to hold his gaze.
I find myself peering down at my perfectly white sneakers, wondering
why I went and did that.
Because you needed to.
My inner voice isn’t the least bit horrified. It’s only my anxiety-riddled brain that beats me up.
The announcer counts down again, though I know I won’t be outbid.
When I peek up at Rosie, her eyebrows waggle, and I roll my eyes.
“What? It’s for a good cause” is all I say as I turn and walk away.
Heading straight to the bar, where I’ll be giving my credit card a good
workout.
For a good cause.