CHAPTER SEVEN
SKYLAR
BACK IN THE BUNKHOUSE, I PULL UP A YOUTUBE VIDEO ON HOW TO MAKE A bed.
Fuck Weston Belmont and his thick thighs and his cocky smirk for implying that I wouldn’t be able to do it on my own.
I’m a grown-ass woman. I’m perfectly capable of making a bed. I’ve just never had to, and there’s no time like the present.
I decide learning how to do things I’ve never done before is part of my fresh start.
As my mom would have said with a smug smile on her face, “Living like the other half.”
Turns out, making a bed is simple. I speed through it, and truth be told, as soon as I take a look at the sheets, what I need to do becomes apparent.
It’s simple enough that my mind wanders as I complete the task.
I find myself thinking about dinner tonight. About watching West’s kids and the way they interact with him. About the cozy feeling of sitting outside under the patio lanterns strung above the front porch. The table we gathered around reminded me of a classic diner table, with red vinyl on top and a metal trim wrapped around the edges. The spots where the screws attached to it showed slight signs of rust.
There were six chairs at the table, and not a single one of them matched.
The same could be said for the plates, cups, and cutlery. And even though there was no fine china or crystal as far as the eye could see, I’ve never been invited to sit at a more charming table.
I don’t think I’ve ever spent time around children as relaxed and playful as Emmy and Oliver. And I don’t think I’ve ever seen a more hands-on dad
in action than when I sat there watching West.
As the night wore on, I retreated into my head. I couldn’t help it.
Watching them together felt like watching something that wasn’t meant for me. It felt foreign and inspiring and special.
Seeing them was a punch to the gut that I didn’t see coming. It was the family life I never realized I missed out on until I watched it play out right in front of me.
There was laughter and good-natured teasing, not a single mention of business, or money, or upcoming events. They didn’t engage in mean gossip about people who weren’t present. They just…talked about their day.
West didn’t criticize the way they sat or the way they held their cutlery— or lack thereof. He didn’t make a big deal about the ketchup all over Emmy’s face or say anything to embarrass her about the broken glass from before dinner.
Who knew a broken champagne flute could trigger me the way it did?
It dredged up a matching memory. Except it didn’t match at all.
My memory involved being forced to pick pieces of similarly broken glass off the floor with my bare hands. Apologizing profusely and trying not to bleed on the marble—thus creating more mess—while my dad screamed at me about needing to be less clumsy if I was ever going to be presentable in public.
When he got mad like that, his face would turn red like a tomato and his jowls would shake. I’d feel the spittle fly from his mouth and splatter against my face. For years after that one mistake, my mom would crack offhanded jokes about how I could dance so gracefully onstage but had a bad case of butterfingers around the house.
They never laid a hand on me in their mission to mold me into the perfect
doll.
But they scarred me all the same.
My heart sank to my feet the moment Emmy fumbled, and the sound of shattering glass tossed me violently back into my own strained childhood.
I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t West’s calm, kind words or the complete absence of anger in his response.
His first concern was for his daughter.
His second concern was for me.
The importance of the glassware didn’t even factor into his reaction. I braced myself for the shouting. I was prepared to be berated so that Emmy
would be spared. I was ready for the loud bark, the condemnation, the underhanded insults that were subtle as a child but became more obvious to
me as I grew older.
But none of it ever came.
In fact, the entire thing ended in laughter as West carried me out into the yard and acted as though he’d just rescued me from a burning building.
He’ll never know, but in that moment, he healed me.
Just a little bit.
A knock jolts me from my walk down depressing memory lane as I toss the pillow covered in the checkerboard case onto the bed.
I pause for a moment, not sure about how safe it is to answer the door at night in an unfamiliar town. With my luck, there will be a cougar at the door.
Whoever it is knocks again, so I pad cautiously across the hardwood floors and pull back the floral curtain to peek outside.
I smile as I take in the small figure standing at the door. She’s bouncing on the spot and twiddling her fingers, a ball of vibrating excitement. I’m not sure if she’s supposed to be out and about after dark, but I figure it’s better for her to be safe in the bunkhouse than wandering the property.
So I twist the lock and unlatch the chain before pulling the door open and looking down into the eyes of little Emmy Belmont.
“Emmy?” I say, using her name as a question.
“Hi!” The words practically burst from her mouth. “I was hoping you would still be up.”
“Yep, I’m still up. Is there something I can help you with?” I glance down at my watch and see that it’s 9 p.m. “I feel like it’s probably time for you to be in bed.”
She dismisses that with a casual wave. “Oh, nah. It’s the weekend. I don’t have anything to do tomorrow.” She taps a finger against her chin. “Actually, tomorrow is Saturday and I do have a soccer game before I go back to my mom’s house.”
“A soccer game? So you should definitely get a good night’s sleep.”
“Yeah, but I’m the best on the team. Even if I’m tired, I’ll be better than everyone else.”
I chuckle, amused by her confidence. Once again, I wish I had even an ounce of Emmy’s carefree surety in myself.
But I don’t.
Instead, I’m a bundle of anxiety, riddled by second-guessing. I’m a
woman driven by a bone-deep, simmering anger, who predicts disappointment at every turn.
I’m fucking Eeyore but make him famous. Saggy shoulders but never forgetting to put that bow on his tail.
I need to learn how to channel my inner Emmy. A little bit of her would be good for me.
I smile at her. “I have no doubt you are.”
“You should come watch,” she says so simply. Like we haven’t just met today. Like there’s nothing she requires of me other than to come watch her play soccer.
“You came here to invite me to your soccer game?”
I feel like, within twenty-four hours, I’ve become quite the interloper in
the Belmont family activities.
“Yes.”
“Sounds like fun. We’ll see how tomorrow goes,” I say.
She shrugs, satisfied with my noncommittal answer, and barges straight past me into the bunkhouse like she owns the place.
“So what are you up to? Are you watching something? Are you doing something?”
I follow her in, glancing around the small space, not really sure what there is to do or how I’m going to pass several weeks in this setting. Probably walking up and down the hill obsessively to stay thin so the tabloids won’t say anything about my weight when I inevitably have to face the paparazzi in the city again.
“I was just making my bed. I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”
“Take a hike!” Cherry squawks at the little girl, and I grimace. Bitching at West is one thing, but at Emmy, it’s just too far.
“Cherry, watch your mouth, young lady,” I snipe back at the parrot.
Emmy approaches the cage eagerly, hands clasped behind her back like she knows better than to reach for her. “I would take a hike, but it’s too dark.
Maybe tomorrow.”
Cherry blinks at her, like Emmy’s enthusiasm throws her off as much as it does me.
“Cool bird,” she announces, spinning back my way.
Cherry blinks again, and I bite down on a smile.
“Are you gonna write some music? Maybe if you wrote some music, I could choreograph the dance for you.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never written my own music.”
Her eyes bulge now, and I force my features into a happy expression.
“Really?”
“Really,” I say, trying to brush past the embarrassment I feel about this subject.
She sits on my bed and smooths her hands over the top of it. “Why not?”
I lean back against the counter and watch as she glances thoughtfully around the space. It gives me a moment to figure out what to tell her. Because I’m not that talented and everything about my public persona is carefully crafted to make you think I’m a lot cooler than I am probably isn’t the answer she’s after.
“There are a lot of gifted songwriters who help me with that” is what I settle on.
“I think you should try it,” the girl responds with a firm nod.
“I’ve never done it before.”
“Why not? Have you ever tried?”
“A couple of times. It was fun but not good enough to record.”
“So someone told you no, and you stopped trying?”
I groan, staring up at the ceiling. I didn’t expect an interrogation from a six-year-old to hit this hard. “Yeah, I guess that’s what I’m saying.”
As if she’s disappointed in me, she makes a low grumbling noise, crosses her arms, and looks me dead in the eye. “My dad always tells me that no means to try harder. So, if I say, ‘Dad, can I have a freezie?’ and he says, ‘No,’ I just try harder. I’m working on a pony now. He keeps saying no, but I’m not giving up.”
I can’t help but laugh. She really is a spitfire. “Does it work?”
Her head wobbles back and forth and a troublemaking little smirk touches her lips. “Sometimes. And sometimes I sneak a freezie and don’t tell him about it. But the times it works make all the other times worth it.”
Her philosophy is so simple. So elementary in its logic. Yet it only drives home what a pushover I’ve been. How I’ve never pressed back, questioned, or raised any complaints. I’ve been obedient beyond compare.
And this is where it’s gotten me.
Facing crippling anxiety and alienated from my family. Or, well, what I thought was my family.
“I’m going to take this advice into consideration, Emmy. I think you might be onto something.”
She smiles and kicks her feet, which don’t quite reach the floor from where she’s sitting. I strum at my bottom lip, not sure what to talk to her about now.
“Does your dad know you’re here?” I ask.
Her tongue pops into her cheek as though she’s weighing her answer. “He told me not to bother you, and I decided to try harder.”
“Does that mean you snuck out?”
“I don’t feel like I’m bothering you. Am I?”
I swallow a chuckle. I’m not oblivious to the fact that she’s smart enough to work her way around admitting she snuck out. I’m treading on dangerous ground right now. I don’t want to undermine her father, but she also truly isn’t bothering me.
“No, Emmy, you’re not bothering me. But from only knowing you and your dad for a day, I can tell he loves you very much. And if he can’t find you or is wondering where you are, he’s going to get worried.”
She heaves out a breath. “No, he’ll ask Oliver first.”
“Oh, you told Oliver you were coming here?”
“Yeah, he told me not to do it. He said I was gonna scare you away.”
I tilt my head at that. “Scare me away?”
“Yeah, he told me that I’ll annoy you, and you won’t want to stay with us anymore.”
“Emmy, you are not annoying me, and you will not make me leave. Truth be told…” I say sadly, not able to even look the girl in the eye as I admit to it, “truth be told, I don’t have anywhere to go.”
She nods as though she understands what could be going on in my life.
“Oliver likes you, you know,” she says.
“That’s good. I like Oliver too.”
“I mean, he has terrible taste in music, which means he listens to the same stuff that Uncle Ford does. But he likes you. He never talks to anybody, and he talked to you.”
That stops me in my tracks. “What do you mean by he never talks to anybody?”
“I mean, he doesn’t talk to anyone other than me and Dad and Mom. And Brandon sometimes. Ford, Rosie, Cora…” She lists off only enough names to fit on both hands, and I’m stunned into silence.
It’s not as though Oliver and I had some big conversation, but he did offer his name. I never thought about the fact that he was quiet. I’m used to people
being struck silent by my presence, or fumbling around me, or just generally treating me like I’m something special, which only makes me uncomfortable.
Oliver’s reaction was comforting. And so was his dad’s.
West hasn’t even mentioned recognizing who I am, though I know he does, and that’s why I feel relaxed here. Even if I’m staying in a tiny dump with a mouse for a roommate.
“Well, he only told me his name, but I didn’t know that. And it doesn’t matter to me. That’s his business.”
“Yeah.” She nods. “Dad tells me all the time that I shouldn’t tell people about it, but Oliver does like you. He told me so. So just…maybe he’ll talk to you. I think that would be nice for him. So just don’t give up on him yet.”
I feel my cheeks heat. It’s such a profound request from someone so small—someone I don’t even know. I’m not used to these kinds of
expectations.
Human expectations.
There’s no financial gain. There’s no priority placement in a magazine.
There’s no clout to be gained. It’s just a little boy’s heart and a little girl who’s looking out for her brother. It warms me to see how much they love each other.
Has anyone ever gone to bat for me the way Emmy does for her brother?
Just over something that makes me happy? Just over something that I want
for myself?
I don’t think they have.
And it makes me feel more appreciative of these two kids I just met. It makes me want to know them better. And since I intend to spend at least a couple of months here, they don’t need to worry about me leaving. There’s time. There’s time for all of us to get to know each other.
And there’s time to see if Oliver feels inclined to talk more.
“You don’t need to worry about that, Emmy. I’ve got no plans to leave. If anything, I’ll be moving next door into one of the guesthouses, but we’ll still be close, and I’ll still be around. I don’t know anybody here, so you’ll likely catch me wandering aimlessly, trying to figure out the purpose of my life and how I ended up where I am and what I even want to do with myself.”
I realize I’ve blurted out more than I should to a six-year-old, and her wide eyes tell the tale. So I scoff and wave a hand. “Ignore me. I’m just rambling. How about we get you back up to the house, so you don’t get in any more trouble?”
She hops off my bed, and I take in the perfect french braid in her damp hair. It’s pulled tight but not too tight, all artfully twisted down the back of her scalp into a rope that lands between her shoulder blades, topped off with a silk tie.
I can’t help but wonder if West braided his little girl’s hair himself. The thought of his big, gentle hands twisting strands of hair together with such care makes my chest pinch uncharacteristically.
It makes me wonder what else those hands could do.
It makes me annoyed at myself for continuing to think about him in that way.
I push my wandering thoughts away and walk to the house, hand in hand with Emmy. She doesn’t say a word, and I suspect that means she might be tired. When we round the corner out of the trees, West is standing at the front door, shoulder propped against the frame as though he knew we’d be coming.
He’s wearing boxers and absolutely nothing else.
Contrasted with his close-cropped, sandy-colored hair, his beard seems thicker than it did earlier today. Like it’s grown right before my eyes.
Warm light shines from behind him, illuminating every plane and dip on his chiseled body. What jeans hid before is now barely left to the imagination. Thickly muscled thighs. A body dusted with a masculine spread of hair.
He looks comforting and intimidating all at once. I wonder if he’d be gentle or rough. Or the perfect blend of both.
And then I hate myself for wondering about these things. Again.
I straighten when I see his jaw pop and his eyes laser in on his daughter.
“Emmeline Belmont, where have you been?” His voice is deep but not loud, yet I flinch.
I never realized how much my parents yelled at me until I moved out on my own and found my house to be incredibly quiet. I never realized how traumatizing it was for me. When I got in trouble, there were no soft tones or asking if I was okay. One wrong step and voices got loud. Words became vicious.
And when I got in trouble, it wasn’t for sneaking out. It was for not giving the right answer in an interview or for eating so much that my dress didn’t fit the way they wanted it to.
No, when I got in trouble, it was merely for being human in a way that may or may not have affected my parents’ paycheck. The one I’ve been
handing over to them for years because I trusted them implicitly.
And they fucked me over.
There is absolutely nothing similar about the way West says his daughter’s name and the way my dad would scream mine at me. There’s no berating her, no intimidation, there’s no cowering.
And it stops me in my tracks.
“Sorry, Dad,” she says immediately.
I don’t want to get her into any more trouble, so I add, “She just came for a quick talk. I walked her back almost immediately.”
West’s irises become a shade closer to midnight blue in the dark. Navy like the blanket of the sky above us. I could wrap myself in that blue and maybe finally feel some peace.
Emmy turns pleading eyes on her dad. “I only snuck out to tell her she can’t leave because Oliver likes her, and he talked to her, and Oliver never likes or talks to anyone.”
West stares at his daughter, eyes keen, but she trusts him enough that she holds his gaze. They have a stare off of sorts, but it’s not an intimidating one.
It’s as though they’re having a conversation, a silent one that only they can
understand.
It’s touching.
Eventually, he sucks in a deep breath and lets it out with a heavy sigh as he scrubs one hand over his close-cut hair. “Emmy baby, we really got to talk again about minding your own business. You know that, girl?”
She nods and gives him a solemn, “Okay, we can talk about it. But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to mind my business if it means lying because you told me I can’t lie, and all I did was tell Skylar the truth.”
Just like his daughter, West pushes his tongue into his cheek as he stares down at her, and I choke back a laugh. I don’t know Emmy well, but I’m getting the feeling that she’s a bit of a challenge. A test for his patience.
Regardless, the way he looks at her tells me he loves every minute of it.
“This is true, Emmy. You shouldn’t lie, but you also can’t be sneaking around the property after dark when I think you’re in bed.”
He turns his attention back to me. I can see the apology on his face.
Which is funny because I am also feeling apologetic standing on his front step. Again.
“Emmy, get your ass in bed,” he grumbles, gently gesturing her inside while ruffling her hair. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
She scampers past him, but after taking a few steps, she turns and gives me a full grin, displaying all her Chiclet teeth and the twinkle in her troublemaking eyes.
West must realize that he can’t hear her footsteps because he swiftly turns and catches her giving me that look. “Get gone, kid.” He raises his voice, but his tone is all exasperation and playfulness.
She laughs and barrels up the stairs as he groans and turns his attention back to me.
“Got your hands full with that one,” I say with a chuckle.
He scrubs a hand over his face. I can hear the bristles of his beard against his palm, and it draws my attention to his full lips. Shapelier than any man has the right to have. People would pay good money for lips like his. My brain is a horny little slut today, and she wonders what it would feel like to have those lips on my body.
I’m jolted back to the present as he grumbles, “Don’t I fucking know it.
Love her to bits, but good lord, that girl will be the death of me.”
“Well, she didn’t bother me at all, but maybe…” I bite down on my lip, hard enough that it could leave a dent. “Maybe we should exchange numbers? Just in case she finds herself at my place again? Then I could drop you a line, so you don’t worry.”
He studies me, keen blue irises bouncing between my eyes as though he’s searching for more answers. As though he’s searching for a clue. I hope he can’t tell I was thinking about his lips. Suddenly, I feel like I have my innermost thoughts written on my forehead in blocky capital letters for him to read.
“Yeah, sure, that seems like a smart idea,” he answers, but he doesn’t look into my eyes when he says it. Instead, his gaze drops to my lips, and I can’t help but turn my attention back to his.
His tongue darts out over the full bottom one, and I drink him in from top to bottom. Chiseled pecs to his narrow waist and that delicious V shape that makes me want to run my tongue over his hips. I glance quickly over the bulge in his tight boxers, trying not to be too obvious before I make my way down. His legs, his calves, his feet—everything about Weston Belmont is so goddamn masculine I can hardly stand it.
“You done gawking? Or should I flex while I wait for you to pull that
phone out and take my number?”
I start. And then I turn red.
God, I’m embarrassing.
“Yeah, sorry. I lost my train of thought there for a second.”
Now it’s his turn to bite down on his bottom lip, his cheeks pinching up in a knowing smirk. “Yeah, that train was a runaway all right.”
“I have no idea what you mean. I was only checking to see if you have razor burn from shaving your chest,” I say as I scramble to reach for the phone in my back pocket.
Google alerts and angry texts litter the screen. My anxiety surges. There’s a grainy photo of me talking to an airline agent at the airport with the headline, Skylar Stone throws fit to sit in first class. “Fucking assholes,” I
mutter.
“What’s wrong?”
I smile blandly. “Headline. Apparently politely asking if there were any upgrades for my flight here is throwing a fit.” I roll my eyes. Trying to act more unaffected than I feel.
I swipe past, vowing not to read the whole thing until I’m in bed. I swipe through the screens, mumbling, “For the record, I sat in economy. Middle seat. Not a single fucking complaint,” as I pull up a new contact. I type his name in without glancing back up, though I can see his amused smirk from
the corner of my eye.
He’s distracting.
“Okay, I’m ready for the number.”
With a deep chuckle, he recites it to me, and my fingers tap across the screen.
“Great, well, great.” I turn quickly to walk away. “See you tomorrow.” I wave nervously over my shoulder, hating myself for checking him out so blatantly.
He doesn’t take a hint, and he doesn’t lay off.
“Hey, fancy face!” he shouts. “You can take a photo of me like this for
my contact card if you want!”
But I don’t turn back to take a photo.
Instead, I hustle faster, to get away from West and his chiseled fucking everything before that horny little slut in my head turns around and takes him up on his offer.