I should hate Stephen. He dumped me, fucked me, and now he’s out and about with some skank. Pictures of him and some leggy redhead are splashed everywhere—TV, magazines, tabloids, social media, everywhere.
But I don’t hate him. I miss him… His voice, his smile, his scent… The way he holds me, the way he makes me feel, the way he feels inside me… I can’t believe it’s over. He’s broken up with me before and he’s always come back to me. I’m sure I can get him back. I have to.
I fight the urge to text him all the time, to demand that he explain himself. How could he do this? How could he get over me so easily? Did our time together, the last year and a half, mean so little to him? Am I so forgettable? Because he’s not. He’s not easy to get over. And he wasn’t easy to get either. Worth it, yes; easy, no.
I had just turned sixteen when I first noticed how sexy he was—the kind of sexy that suddenly made the term “sugar daddy” seem okay. His dark hair, soulful eyes, easy smile… He was Dad’s best friend from high school who became a hotshot Hollywood TV producer. And the fact that I couldn’t have him only added to his allure. He had my stomach in knots every time he was around.
And then he and Dad must have lost touch for a while and we didn’t hear from him. I moved on but never really forgot about him. But when I was eighteen and trying out for a silly reality TV show, our paths crossed again. He was the producer and I wanted to prove to him that I was not only a star…but a woman. Not some silly girl with a silly crush.
I knew he wanted me too, by the way his eyes would linger on my mouth or my chest, the way he held his breath whenever I was near him, or by the tick in his jaw every time I touched his arm. Still, he had always turned me away. But I’m nothing if not persistent. I’ve wanted him since I was sixteen. Stephen Grant was and is the only man for me.
It had taken a year of gentle advances to seduce Stephen. It started with me wearing less and less during filming. One day I chose a skimpy dark-green string bikini that showed most of my ass and a good amount of my tits, not too much that I’d get in trouble, but just enough to tease. Over it, I pulled on a white tank top and shorts that showed the bottom curve of my ass.
Filming that day had been hard. All day I could think of nothing but Stephen watching me, imagining what he’d be doing alone in the editing room, thinking of all the dirty fun we could have. It only felt right to approach him and find out.
“Stephen, any good shots today?” I asked innocently, sitting on his desk so my bare legs brushed his knee.
He looked at me, his eyes practically devouring me. Then he pressed his lips together. “You shouldn’t be here, Liv.”
“But I am.” I leaned toward him, giving him a good view of my cleavage. “It’s fun to break the rules.”
“This is the wrong one to break.”
I was disappointed but far from deterred. On my way out, I turned back and saw him adjust his cock in his jeans. Within a year, that cock would be inside me and we’d be fucking on every flat surface we could find.
Every time I think about letting him go, of moving on, of letting someone else have me, I’d see his smile, his body wrapped around mine, and my interest would be captured again. Everything about Stephen made me greedy. I don’t want to imagine him with anyone else. I don’t want another woman crawling into his bed. I don’t want to picture another woman wrapped around him. And I sure as hell don’t want him looking at another woman the way he looked at me on our lazy mornings.
Groaning, I hold my head in my hands. It doesn’t matter what I want.
Because Stephen doesn’t want me anymore.
After another round of sobbing, I go down the staircase of my dad’s palatial home to get some cookie dough ice cream. Normally I love the feel of the marble on my toes, smooth and stable. Tonight, it’s just cold.
In the kitchen, I see my dad. He glances at my face, sighs, and reaches into the fridge to hand me the pint of ice cream I’m after. He offers up a spoon.
“What’s new, baby?”
I glance from him to the ice cream. I swallow a spoonful and shrug.
“You had a reading a few days ago, have you heard back?” he asks.
“Yes. They’re interested. I’m going in for the final audition tomorrow,” I murmur.
“Excellent. You need to capitalize on every opportunity. Strike while the iron is hot. Now’s not the time to stop working.”
I swear, my dad is convinced he’s my manager—despite signing the paycheck for my real manager every other week. I take another too-big bite of ice cream to keep myself in check. I want to lash out. I want to break things. I want to stomp my foot and demand he fix my breakup since I have a feeling that he caused it.
He rubs his balding head. “What else have you been up to?”
“The usual.” I shrug and commit to sitting at the kitchen island. “I’ve been going to the gym. Took up kickboxing. Spending time with friends and working on landing new roles.”
Dad likes playing pretend, as if he can’t find out what I’m up to with a text or a glance at any bit of social media or the tabloids. That’s how things have always been between Dad and me. He doesn’t like talking about problems with me. He takes care of them and we never discuss them again.
Simple.
Usually.
“You should come to dinner soon. Sophie would love to see you.” He tries to keep the conversation going.