While Heather considered herself a solid member of the B-list, she was convinced her new show would propel her straight to the top of TV royalty and was constantly reminding Mateo of how she could help introduce him to all the right people whenever he got tired of modeling, which she insisted he would.
Truth was, Mateo was already tired of
modeling, but he was resigned to being in it for as long as it took. The money was good, more than he’d ever seen on a single paycheck with his name on it, so there was no reason to stop, no matter how foolish he felt posing for the camera.
Still, Heather had gone out of her way to help him. And while he had no interest in adding actor to his résumé, he was grateful for all that she’d done. She’d even promised to set him up with her financial adviser—an absolute necessity, according to her.
“How good are you with money?”‘ she’d asked, just after he’d received his first check.
Mateo had shrugged. “I’ve never had enough to know.”
The look Heather had given him was long and considering. “I know the money sounds like a lot at first, but trust me, between agents and taxes, it gets chipped away pretty quickly. Which is why so many once-promising entertainers end up broke and in rehab.”
“That won’t happen to me,” Mateo had said, though the skeptical look on Heather’s face left him unsettled.
Actually, Heather left him unsettled. Ever since the photo shoot on the beach, Mateo had been distracted by the thought of kissing her again. Probably because their kiss marked the only moment since Valentina fell ill and he broke up with Layla that he’d been able to lose himself in the moment and forget just how desperate his life had become.
For the first time ever, Mateo understood why people like his brother Carlos gravitated toward the numbing effect of alcohol, drugs, and other addictions when life got too rough. Carlos never forgave himself for surviving the car accident that claimed their father’s life. Even though they ruled out driver error early on, Carlos refused to ever get behind the wheel again and dedicated what little remained of his own life in pursuit of numbing and forgetting, instead of accepting the fact that sometimes life just didn’t make sense.
Kissing Heather could easily become an addiction, a way to temporarily mask his painful reality. But he refused to use Heather in that way. And Mateo had never been one for random hookups. He was a solid relationship guy.
“Where have you gone?”
Mateo blinked at Heather’s curving pink lips, just inches from his.
“You’re a million miles away.” She tucked a renegade curl behind her ear and grinned in such a warm, appealing way, he could feel himself relenting on the deal he’d just struck with himself. “The stars are aligned.” She motioned toward a surprisingly clear and starry sky, courtesy of the late summer Santa Ana winds that had swept away the usual blanket of smog before mellowing to a much-welcomed breeze. “I don’t want to jinx it, but I truly believe we’re both on our way to greatness, and what better way to celebrate than in this ridiculously tacky, oversize party pad?”
Greatness translated to multiple zeros in his bank account and the best care for Valentina—a total win. And yet, so much had happened in the span of a week, his feelings were all over the place, though they didn’t necessarily veer toward celebratory.
His gaze met Heather’s. With her long golden hair cascading over her bare shoulders and her blue eyes flashing on his, there was no denying the attraction pulsing between them, like an invisible string pulling them together.
Next thing he knew Heather was leaning into him, pressing her body flush against his as his arms instinctively circled her waist. In his pocket, he felt his phone vibrate with an incoming text, but with Heather’s lips so warm against his, it was easy to ignore, easy to forget they were in a public place. Easy to forget he shouldn’t be doing this.
“Uh-oh, blogger alert.”
Heather pulled away and straightened her dress, as Mateo followed the length of her gaze all the way across the yard to the place where Layla stood watching.
TWENTY-THREE
USED TO LOVE YOU SOBER
Layla had arrived at the party unfashionably early, but that was only because she wasn’t there to have fun; she was there to do her job and make sure everything ran smoothly, or at least that was her assignment, according to the speech Emerson had given upon meeting her at the door.
She was only an hour in when she’d decided it was a lot more fun to be a nightclub promoter. Which was really saying something, considering how she’d been as completely unsuited for the job promoting Jewel as she was in her current position as junior marketer, or party fluffer, or whatever the hell Ira was paying her to do.
Still, the crowd was starting to grow, packing the expansive space with so many big-name athletes, actors, musicians, and models that the celebrity blogger inside her couldn’t help but feel gleeful at all the possible stories surrounding her. Though she’d been warned, by Emerson no less, that gossip blogging was strictly off-limits, she was encouraged to write about the event, but only in the most complimentary, product-friendly way. And even then, using only the preapproved photos supplied by the hired photographers. In other words—the usual obligatory, snooze-fest puff piece she had no interest in writing.
A quick trip to the gifting suite told her it had come together nicely, and there was no shortage of sexy, barely clad girls serving endless shots of Unrivaled tequila, which seemed to keep the male guests happy and sated. There was a DJ set up in the disco, and thanks to copious amounts of tequila, people were already dancing. There was also a putting green, a bowling alley, a game room stocked with purple felt billiard tables and vintage pinball machines, so many bars she lost count, and a multitude of bedrooms that, by the looks of the crowd, would be put to good use at some point.
There was even a cigar den on offer that was rumored to be well stocked with Cubans. Last she’d looked she’d found herself gaping in horror at the sight of her dad, haloed by foul-smelling smoke clouds while a woman Layla had never seen before perched on his knee. For one thing, her dad didn’t smoke. For another, her dad didn’t flirt or date or hook up or whatever it was he was doing with the blonde. As if seeing her dad at a party wasn’t bad enough, even worse was the nagging worry that it was all due to Ira’s influence.
Ever since her dad had started working for Ira, his nights were spent painting the mural and his days spent crashing for a few hours while Layla was at work. Ira had him on such a tight leash, Layla barely saw him. Initially she was worried about his health and well-being—he was really pushing himself. But after seeing him smoking a Cuban and acting so out of character, she wondered if she should be even more concerned.
Then again, maybe he just wanted to cut loose and have a little fun. It was a party, after all. And maybe, just maybe, Layla should stop acting like she was the parent and lighten up a little.
For the moment, she resolved to not only shelve her concerns, but to do whatever it took to avoid going anywhere near that room.
She glanced across the long stretch of lawn, where a stage was set and one of Ira’s minions fussed with the mic in preparation for Ira’s official greeting, after which Tommy would make his debut.