The Redhead Plays Her Hand (Redhead #3)(38)
Author: Alice Clayton

He was exhausted, that much was obvious. As well he should be—the partying was beginning to take its toll. But he still was stunning. Long and lean, still tanned from working in the desert, he was beautiful. He stood with his back to me, stretching his arms over his head and running his hands through his hair, which was just beginning to grow out again.

“You going to say something or are you just going to ogle me?” He smirked, looking over his shoulder at me, his eyes going a much darker shade of green. The body might be tired, but there was no doubt this man was still very much only twenty-four.

“What do you want me to say?” I asked, wisely staying in the doorway. I knew us, and if I got too close, the only talking tonight would be of the dirty variety.

“You’re pissed again?”

“Pissed, yes, but I’m hurt, Jack,” I replied, getting a roll of his eyes in return.

The lust that had come up in his face was quickly replaced by irritation.

“Because I brought Adam?”

“If you have to ask that question, then—”

“Listen, okay? He really felt bad about the last few times he’s been around. He knew how important tonight was, I’ve been going on and on about how proud I am of you. He wanted to come along and show his support. How is that such a bad thing? Bloody hell, Grace, the guy can’t win with you!”

He walked past me and into the bathroom. As he splashed water on his face, I counted to ten. I didn’t want this to escalate further, but now I was getting more than pissed, I was getting mad.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“What?” he asked from under the towel.

“You don’t get to be pissed at me, okay?”

“I’m sorry I was late, I really am. I can’t believe you’re getting so upset about this.” He turned off the water and looked at me in the mirror.

Pie-eyed, I stared back, incredulous that he still didn’t get it. “This was my night. The only one here that gets to be pissed is me!”

“Oh, that’s rich. You complaining about a big night getting ruined? What about the f**king meltdown you had on me last year?” he yelled, turning and throwing his towel into the corner.

“Jack! Look, we can all agree I was a jerk that night, but it’s like you went out of your way to be an ass tonight!”

Eyes blazing, we stared each other down. Tension radiated off him in waves. Every muscle was drawn tight and ready to snap. He looked as though he was going to say something else, but then a shadow passed over his face. Resigned, he moved past me into the bedroom.

“Grace, look, I’m tired. I don’t want to talk about this anymore. I’m going to bed.” He yanked the sheets down and got in. Shutting down and getting in.

“Wait. Wait a minute. We’re not done talking about this,” I insisted, following him and tugging on the covers.

He tugged them out of my hands and pulled them up, slumping down against the pillows. He rubbed his eyes, his hands dragging down across his face. “Christ, does everything have to be such a big f**king deal? I’m sorry I was late. I’m sorry I brought Adam. It will never happen again. Now I’m going to bed.” He sighed and turned off the light.

I stood there for a moment in the dark.

“Not kidding, Grace. I’m done talking about this.” His voice floated across to me.

Shaking, I walked away.

I grabbed a bottle of red wine and a glass, then headed out to the back porch and curled into the love seat. I filled the glass almost to the rim, covered up with a throw, and let the tears flow.

What was happening?

I sat in the quiet, looking up at the stars for at least an hour. Even though my mind was whirling, I felt almost numb. Things were so very off right now between us. I didn’t even know where to turn, what to think, whether to be upset or just concerned. Was I blowing this up out of proportion? There was no primer for this, no checklist of knowing when your celebrity boyfriend was going off the rails or just being a normal twenty-four-year-old guy.

A normal twenty-four-year-old guy who was chased by paparazzi on a regular basis and screamed at by adoring fans whenever he went out in public. A guy who couldn’t get ice cream with his girlfriend without it showing up on Twitter, and a guy who couldn’t have a bad night without TMZ questioning whether he was in the middle of a breakdown.

I sighed.

“I hate when you sigh,” a voice said from the porch. I looked over and could make out his silhouette, leaning in the doorway.

I smiled into the darkness. “It’s just deep breathing, really.”

He crossed the patio to sit next to me, taking my glass of wine and draining the rest. “I hate when I make you sigh. How about that?”

“Good thing you weren’t here when I was crying then,” I responded softly.

Now he was the one sighing. He moved his hands under the blanket, pulling my feet into his lap and kneading at my toes, rubbing my skin. I leaned down and flung the other half over him. He was in his skivvies after all, and it was chilly. With his hands anchoring me, I stretched out a bit, leaning back into the pillows and watching him thoughtfully.

“Can I apologize for real now?” he asked, looking at me.

I had my Jack back. I nodded.

“I’m so sorry for being an ass tonight. You were right to be pissed. And may I tell you again, for the record, you were amazing.”

“Thanks.”

“Seriously, Grace, I’m so proud of you. You killed it. It’s gonna be a huge success.”

“Well, we’ll see about that. Right now I’m not so worried about whether my show does well. I’m a little more focused on how well a certain Brit is doing.” I shifted a bit toward him to sweep my hand across his brow. He squeezed my foot.

“See, that’s the exact opposite of the thing I want you to be focused on right now. You should be enjoying this, focusing on you and everything you have going right now. Don’t worry about a prat like me. I’m fine.” He pulled me across the love seat and into his lap.

“I wish I could believe you, George.” I breathed into his neck as he clutched me close.

“I wish you could too,” he answered, lifting me and carrying me into the house.

He pressed countless kisses into my skin, shifting me in his arms so I could wrap my legs around his waist as he walked, feeling his strong body underneath and all around me. In between the thousand kisses, his lips told me how beautiful I looked tonight, how lovely, how he couldn’t believe I was his, how he didn’t deserve me. I tried to argue with him, but each time I tried to speak he planted another searing kiss on me, stopping my thoughts right in their track and funneling them into an entirely different thought process—one where we existed alone, just mouths and lips and arms and legs and tongues and all the time in the world.