“I know. But there could have been. There should have been. And I know saying I’m sorry isn’t good enough. I know it doesn’t mean anything, but it’s true all the same. I’m so sorry that I didn’t think about what my demons would do to you. So sorry that I let my fears get in the way of what we could have been. But that’s on me, Veronica. It’s all on me. None of this is your fault. None of this is because of you.”
He looks up at me then, his beautiful dark eyes still glistening with tears and something more. Something I’ve never seen before and don’t quite know how to identify. And still just the sight of it cracks something open deep inside of me, a spark of warmth blooming in a sea of ice. No one’s ever cried for me before. No one’s ever cared enough to hurt like this just because I hurt.
“You are amazing, Veronica. You’re brilliant and kind and talented and beautiful and you don’t deserve any of the shit that’s come your way. None of it is your fault. None of it.
“William Vargas should have been protecting you. Your parents should have been protecting you. I—” His voice breaks and he clears his throat. Starts again. “I should have been protecting you. You have been betrayed by every single person who should have been looking out for you. Who should have been taking care of you. And for that I am so, so desperately sorry. I will always be sorry.”
He tightens his hold around my waist, pulls me so close that I can feel his heart beating frantically against my stomach. “I get that I’ve given you no reason to trust me—that no one in your life has ever given you a reason to trust them. But I love you, Veronica. I love—”
“Stop.” I force the word out past my too tight throat. “Please. Don’t say that.”
Suddenly it’s all too much. Ian’s words. The look on his face. The feel of his arms holding me like he’s never going to let me go. I can’t think, can’t breathe.
I push at him, struggling against his hold until he figures out what I’m asking for and opens his arms.
Lets me go.
I stumble back, stumble across the room to the French doors that overlook the patio. I shove them open and all but fall outside. I take great gulps of air, pulling it into my oxygen-deprived lungs. I don’t believe what he’s saying. I won’t believe it. I can’t believe it. Not if I ever want a chance at being okay again.
Because if I believe him and it turns out that he’s lying…If it turns out he’s lying then I might as well just give up right now, because I can’t take one more blow and survive. I have nothing left to give and nothing left to lose, except whatever small piece of my soul is still intact.
“It’s okay, baby.” Ian is right beside me, draping his jacket around my shoulders. Stroking a gentle hand down my back. “Just take it easy. Take a few deep breaths.”
I nod even as I do as he says. In through the mouth, hold seven seconds, out through the mouth. I do it again and again, until I can finally breathe without bleeding. I turn to look at him—Ian deserves that much, I think. “I can’t,” I tell him and I know that I should be more articulate. But it’s all I can think, the only phrase running through my head right now. I can’t. I can’t. Ican’tIcan’tIcan’t.
It must be enough, though, because he nods sadly.
“I know, baby.” His voice is filled with sadness, with a resignation that cuts deep into my already shattered heart. “I know.”
Still, he’s opened up so much I feel like he deserves something more than those two words, no matter how inarticulate it might be. “It’s not that I don’t…”
He freezes, his hand stopping mid-rub. “You don’t what?” he asks, his voice hushed in the cold night air.
But I just shake my head and look up at the endless stretch of star-strewn sky above us. I can’t say it. He can’t make me say it.
“I’m not writing the book,” he tells me for the second time tonight. “I know you have no reason to believe me, but I’m standing right here in front of you, promising you that I will not write that book. That no one will ever hear your story from me. I’ve already told the publisher I’ve hit a dead end and given back the advance money. The book is dead.”
“I don’t understand.” I turn to look at him, trying to figure out why he would do something like that.
But he looks as shattered as I feel. “I know you don’t. And that’s the worst part of this whole damn thing. That you’ve been hurt so badly and so many times that you don’t expect the man who loves you to put you first.
“But I am, and I swear to you, Veronica, that from here on out I always will. Even if this is the end. Even if you never talk to me again after tonight. I promise you, I will never betray you again.”
“Your career—”
“Means nothing compared to you. I would give it up today if it meant I could have you. If it meant that you would give me a chance to love you the way you deserve to be loved.”
“You don’t mean that.” He can’t mean it. No one does that, no one tanks their whole career for love. That only happens in the movies, not the movie business.
“I do mean it. I know you don’t believe me. Just like I know the only way to prove it to you is for you to see that there is no book. Not now. Not next year. Not five years from now or ten or fifty years down the line. There will be never be a book.
“And if you give me the chance, I will prove it to you. I will spend every day of my life loving you and giving you a reason to believe in me. To believe in us. But I can’t do it alone. I will meet you ninety-nine percent of the way, I will do whatever I have to to make you feel safe and loved and happy. But you have to take the first step. You have to go the one percent. You have to let me in, Veronica. Please, just let me in and I will do whatever it takes to make you happy.”
I want to believe him. I want to say yes. But I’m not strong enough and I never will be. Not for what he’s asking of me.
I shrug out of his jacket, then hold it out to him. “You should go.” For long seconds, he doesn’t move. He just looks at me, lips tight, jaw working, pupils blown wide open. But I don’t back down and eventually he reaches for his jacket. “You’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met,” he tells me, bending down to drop a tender kiss on my cheek. “And I will always be grateful that I had the chance to love you.”
And then he walks away, through the living room and down the front door. I don’t follow him, but I know he’s left when I hear the beep of the alarm that signals the opening and closing of the front door.
I don’t go inside once he’s gone. Instead, I stand out on the patio and watch the waves rolling in. They always follow the same pattern. Building up at sea, rolling in, crashing against the shore. Over and over and over again they do this. It’s an infinite cycle, the water washing back out to sea only to become a wave and crash on the shore once more.
I wonder what would happen, though, if everything changed. If the moon shifted radically and the waves no longer crashed into the sand. Would we miss it or would we just accept the new reality like it was always meant to be?
I close my eyes, listen to the roar of the ocean. The splash of the waves on the shore. The shimmy of the water in retreat. And know that I would miss it every day for the rest of my life. Even if the new reality was better. Even if it made more sense. There is something about the sound of the ocean crashing that speaks to my soul in a way that nothing else does.
Nothing besides Ian, that is.
I’m doing the right thing. I know I am. He’s only been a part of my reality for seven weeks—once he’s gone, I’ll adjust to the new reality of life without him in it. Of course I will. Seven weeks is nothing. It’s a press junket. An awards season. It’s nothing.
Or it could be everything. If I let it.
I can’t, I tell myself again. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.
But even after I close my eyes, Ian is all I can see. He’s all I can hear, all I can feel, all I can taste. And I ache with the need to touch him just one more time.
Except he’s gone and I’m the one
who sent him away.
It’s better this way. Better for him to go now when there’s still a chance I can recover. When there’s still a chance I can recover from needing him.
I don’t want to need him. I don’t want to need anybody. It’s better that way…for everybody. After all, I’ll never be able to trust him again. Not after he lied to me. Not after he used me.
Not after he…saved me. The realization slams through me. Because he did save me. Unlike the man I knew as Liam Brogan. Unlike my father. Unlike my mother. Ian saved me. What more could I ask of him? What more proof could I possibly want? He’s already humbled himself in front of me, already given me his word—and his tears. And I threw them back in his face.
Shit.
—
I turn around and dash through the patio doors before racing madly down the hallway to the entryway. I made the wrong decision. It was the safe decision, but it was the wrong one.
I lay on the speed, tell myself that I can still catch him. That I can still—
I freeze as I hit the foyer. Because Ian is standing there, leaning against the front door with his arms across his chest and his legs crossed at the ankles.
“Going somewhere?” he asks, eyebrows raised as he looks me over from head to toe.
That’s when I realize I’m still naked. Of course I am. “That’s the second time you’ve saved me from wandering L.A. in my birthday suit.”
“It is indeed.” He smiles. “Most people would say that’s reason enough to keep me around.”
“Maybe they would. But I’m not most people.”
“Believe me, I am well aware of that fact.”
“And yet you’re still here.”
He makes an agreeing sound. “I am.”
“Why is that?”
“Isn’t it obvious? I was waiting for you.”
It’s my turn to arch a brow. “Waiting for me to do what exactly?”
“Waiting for you to realize you love me, too. Obviously.”
“You were so sure that was going to happen?”
“Sure, no? Desperate for it to happen? Absolutely. On the bright side, I had a strong hunch you were going to come around.”
“A strong hunch, huh?” I cross the foyer to meet him, wrapping my arms around his waist so I can stick my hands in his back pockets. “And why is that?”
“Because this is Hollywood, baby. Happy endings are what you do.”
“They are indeed.” I lean into him, tilt my head up for his kiss. “You sure you want me to be your happy ending?”
“You’re already my happy ending, Veronica. I want you to be my everything.”
Fuck. “You can’t just go around saying things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I love you.” My eyes well. I’m not embarrassed, though, because his do, too.
“I love you, too, sweetheart. And I’m so fucking sorry I didn’t tell you—”
“Hey!” I slap a hand over his mouth. “No apologies after the credits roll. Hollywood rules.”
“Oh, right.” His grin turns wicked. “Well, then, is there anything we can do after the credits?”
I glance down at my still nude form. “Maybe. Since we’ve got the R-rating and all.”
“Forget R,” he says with a snort as he sweeps me into his arms. “I say we go for NC-17.”
Epilogue
“And the winner of the Academy Award for best actress is…Veronica Romero-Sharpe for Breathless.”
I’m out of my seat before she is, cheering like a crazy person as they call my wife’s name. Her eyes are huge as she stands up a few seconds later, her skin flushed. And then she’s in my arms, her cheek pressed to mine and her body trembling against my own.
“They did call my name, right?” she murmurs into my ear even as she holds on tight. “I’m not going to humiliate myself by walking onto that stage?”
The small show of insecurity makes me smile as I hug her even more tightly. “They called your name, baby. Now go get your little gold man.”
She laughs at that, just like I knew she would, a bold, rich sound that fills my heart and turns me on, all at the same time. Not that that’s a surprise—Veronica’s been doing that to me from the moment I met her four years ago.
“I bet those are seven words you never thought you’d say,” she murmurs as she brushes past me into the aisle.
I grab her hand, pull her back for one more quick hug. “I always knew I’d say them. Always.”
Her eyes fill with tears, and she glares at me through them. “Don’t you dare make me cry on live television.”
Then she’s turning away from me, moving up the aisle to the stage where she belongs. Where she’s always belonged.
It’s not a quick journey, because we’re not the only ones standing. The whole room is on its feet, the applause nearly deafening, and it seems like every second someone is reaching out to hug or congratulate her.
Eventually she makes it to the stage, though, and I hold my breath as she climbs the stairs. Somehow she makes the ascent look graceful despite her skyscraper heels and five months’ pregnant belly. Of course she does…she is Veronica Romero-Sharpe, after all. She can do anything—including wear that intensely sexy Atelier Versace dress like she owns it, despite her round little stomach.
She takes the statue—her first Oscar but not her last, I’m certain—then turns to the audience with a smile so bright it outshines even the Harry Winston diamonds dangling at her ears. My chest swells with pride, with love…with gratitude, that this woman is mine. That she didn’t let me fuck things up all those years ago.
The crowd is still on its feet, movie stars and directors and producers alike standing for Veronica with huge smiles on their faces. I think they know—as I do—that few people have ever deserved an award more than she deserves this one.
Eventually the cheers and the clapping quiet down and then she’s speaking. I’m still holding my breath, this time because this is the first I’m hearing her speech, too. No matter how many times I offered to help her with it over the last few days, she wouldn’t let me near the thing. Just told me to mind my own business every time I brought it up.
“Wow, he’s really pretty, isn’t he?” She holds up the statue for everyone to see, then purses her million dollar lips and kisses the thing right on the top of its shiny gold head. The crowd roars with good-natured amusement.
“Standing here before you is a privilege. Making movies is a privilege—and a responsibility, one I’ve been honored to have been graced with for over fifteen years now. We are so lucky to do what we do, to be able to tell these beautiful, poignant, important stories, and I for one am so grateful for every moment of this gorgeous life that I’ve been given. There are so many people I need to thank for making this movie what it is.”
She lists off the cast and crew and I stop listening for a moment, just a moment, because I am overwhelmed that we are here. That this gorgeous, dazzling woman can stand up there and say those words, and mean them. Despite everything she’s been through—despite every battle that she’s fought and every crippling wound inflicted on her—she’s still here and she’s grateful for the life we’ve built together.
She might not be crying, but I am, even before she says, “And most important, I need to thank my husband, the brilliant, talented Ian Sharpe, for writing this book. For telling this incredibly important story, and for letting me be a part of it. We met four years ago over another book, another movie, and somehow it feels like we’ve come full circle.” She slides one hand down to rest on the slight swell of her stomach and I pretty much melt right there in the middle of the theater. “Baby, you came into my life like a sledgehammer, knocking down every wall I could throw up between us. It’s been a long and bumpy road to get here, but I’ve got to say, the view from here is pretty damn awe-inspiring. Thank you, Ian. Thank you, Academy. And most important, thank you to every single person who goes to the movies and gives us a chance to do what we do. I love
you all.”
The music swells and she’s escorted offstage to more thunderous applause. And I’m left staring after her, wondering how I got so lucky.
For Sue Grimshaw and Gina Wachtel, for their encouragement, support, and never-ending supply of patience. I adore you both!
Acknowledgments
Some writers are solitary people, toiling away in isolation as they create their masterpieces.
I am not one of those writers, which means I have a lot of people to thank for helping me to make Lovegame what it is.
First of all, I have to thank my editor, Sue Grimshaw, who didn’t necessarily share my vision for this project but who gave me the space and the creative freedom to tell the story I wanted to tell. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for being the absolute best.
I also need to thank Gina Wachtel for being the most amazing guide and cheerleader a girl could ever ask for. Penelope Haynes for putting up with me and my incessant changes and lateness—I appreciate all you do for me. Cover designer, Lynn Andreozzi, for giving me the sexiest, most beautiful covers in the business, and everyone else at Random House, especially Matt and Ashleigh and Erika, who do so, so much for me. I’m so grateful to have found a publishing house that believes in me and takes such great care of me.
I’d also like to thank my agent, Emily Sylvan Kim, who makes it so easy for me to do what I do. She is the most hopeful, optimistic, talented, lovely person I know and I’m so thrilled to have had her on my side from the very beginning of my writing journey.
I have the best fans in the world and I’m so grateful to each and every one of them for taking me into their hearts and reading my books with such wonderful enthusiasm. Thank you so much for all you do for me!
And, finally, I’d like to thank some of my truly incredible friends, most notably Emily McKay, Shellee Roberts, Sherry Thomas, Julie Kenner, and Martin Torres, all of whom helped me in ways big and small to make this book as good as I could make it.
Thank you all so much! I don’t deserve you but I’m keeping you!!!!! xoxoxox