Dirty Girl (Page 38)

She’s nearly incoherent and keeps slipping in and out of consciousness. Trying to keep hold of her during the bumpy golf cart ride is an experience I’d like to avoid in the future. Guilt eats at me because I know I’m the reason for her slamming back three more mango margaritas.

“Greer, we need to get you ready for bed.”

“Don’t care. Wanna sleep.” Her words slur and she sounds so damn young.

Laying her on the bed, I strip off her shirt and pull the skirt down her legs. Her statement earlier about not wearing panties flashes through my brain, along with all the dirty things I want to do to this woman. Things I’ve wanted to do for years.

But we both know I fucked that up royally tonight. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her everything, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t watch the sparkle fade from her eyes as she comprehended the truth.

I tuck her into bed and she curls onto her side, facing the windows where the sun will rise so brilliantly in the morning.

Another day with her, and nothing beyond that is guaranteed. I grab her clothes off the floor and lay them on the dresser before venturing into the walk-in closet to find my phone.

Messages from my agent, a director I’ve been wanting to work with, and . . . Creighton Karas. I knew it wouldn’t take him long to track me down. I’ve got his little sister in my care, and he strikes me as a man who’d kill to protect her.

Well, that makes both of us.

I ignore the messages and shove my phone back into the spot between a pile of men’s swim trunks and T-shirts.

I’ll protect Greer against any threat that comes her way, but how the hell do I protect her from myself? I’d like to say I’m a good man, but I’ve never been able to make that claim. For Greer’s sake, I wish I could.

How selfish am I going to be? Can I really take what I want without a thought about the cost? That’s what I’ve been doing so far. And that’s exactly what I did when I stepped on that jet in LA after Peyton DeLong crowed over the ad.

More than anyone, I know that thoughtless actions have consequences that can cause immeasurable pain. Pain I don’t want to cause the woman sleeping only feet from me.

Fuck. I’m going to have to let her go.

The thought is quickly followed by, Over my dead body.

Toast. That’s the only thing I can force down this morning. Let it be known once more that alcohol and I can no longer be friends. I really need to work on that. Even the sweet-smelling freshly cut pineapple seems to mock me from the bowl on the table.

I crunch on the bread and groan. Why is toast so freaking loud? Shouldn’t the traditional morning-after remedy be quieter? My head pounds, and yet it doesn’t force away the memories I have of last night.

I’m so screwed. Does it help to know in advance? I mean, walking into this with my eyes wide open should make it less painful when Cav crushes my heart beneath his Hollywood heel.

No expectations, I tell myself. That’s the key. Recalling the deal we made yesterday, I decide it’s the only way I can keep myself intact. I’m going to pretend. Pretend I don’t care that Cav is keeping secrets from me. Pretend I’m not dangerously close to getting used to having him in my life. Pretend I’m going to be okay when this is all over.

I drop the toast and reach for my orange juice. It’s light, sweet, and freshly squeezed, but still I grimace at the acidity in my mouth.

“Are you going to survive?”

Cav’s been watching my attempt at enjoying a normal breakfast since I dragged my ass out of bed when the sun was too blindingly bright to keep my eyes closed any longer.

Thank you for the beautiful sunrise, Belize, but let’s work on respecting some boundaries.

After taking another sip of my orange juice and replacing it on the table, I answer Cav’s question. “I’ll survive.” Neither of us mentions last night, and I tell myself it’s a truce. We’re both going to adopt Greer’s fantastic pretending plan.

“Anything in particular you’d like to do today?”

When I consider doing anything that requires any sort of sudden movements, my stomach flops in rebellion.

“Nothing exciting. Laying around the pool tops my list.”

“Fair enough.”

He rises and disappears for a moment before returning with a bottle of ibuprofen. “I should’ve made you take some last night with more water, but you were out as soon as you hit the bed.”

That’s a generous assessment. I think I was actually out before we even made it in the house. Not that it matters, but my morning-after hindsight is incredibly clear.

There’s still one question I can’t answer. Am I ever going to be able to get over this nagging feeling of dread? We have limited time here—presumably until Creighton sends his jet back and demands my presence at home.

That can be at any moment. Am I going to get hung up on things I can’t change—at least, not until Cav decides to share whatever he’s not telling me? Or am I going to live in the moment and suck this opportunity dry like I promised myself I would?

The latter is my only logical choice.

My hangover gives up around noon, and Rea brings out an enormous cold lobster salad and a fresh baguette.

Cav, I’ve noticed, eats way more food than any man I’ve ever met. Probably because he isn’t like any other man I’ve ever met. For the last hour and a half, I’ve watched him turn this deck and the beach into a gym. Sprints, push-ups, pull-ups on the railing outside, and he even dug up some weights somewhere and used the chaise as a bench. Sweat glistened on his bronzed skin before he finally dived into the pool and began a solid half hour of laps.