Page 40 of Love You Always

I reach the top of the stairs and let out a deep sigh. It’s a moment when I’m acutely aware of a before and an after.

And also a choice.

Callum gave me a key to his San Francisco house so I could “come crawl in bed” with him when I’m in town. Even though I’ve been mostly staying with Tatum, I’ve spent a few nights here. Guess he wasn’t planning on seeing me tonight.

The implicit understanding in his invitation was that he’d be in bed alone, and on all the other times when I’d finished up at a movie premiere or publicity event, there he’d be, clad in silky boxer briefs, his broad chest naked and muscled from hours atthe gym. All of those times, I’d appreciated his attention to detail—from the time he spent honing his physical form into something anatomy professors could have used for a lesson, to the time he spent perfecting guitar solos in between tours.

I can turn back around and pretend that the press junket went late instead of ending early, allowing me to slip through his front door unannounced. Or I can confront my fate, even if I already hate that it’s been changed without my permission.

It’s not like turning around will undo the transgression if he’s in bed with another woman. It will just keep me from knowing about it for a little longer. But I’ve never been one to run away from my life, so I grab the doorknob.

Before I wedge it open, I hear the sounds of what can only be described as frantic, desperate humping on the eve of the apocalypse. How else to explain the guttural panting and moaning that makes what they’re doing sound like both ecstasy and pain?

Flinging the door wide, I find the lights on and clothing strewn all over the white carpet. Callum is such a neat-freak, prone to unbuttoning his shirts and hanging pants over a chair even in the heat of passion, that for a moment I convince myself the man grunting his way through an orgasm must not be the man I’m planning to marry in a few months. Through the fog of my revulsion and anger, I can’t help but note that Callum has never made me feel something so good that I sounded like that. Is it weird that I feel offended?

I’ve never been at a loss for words until this moment. Nope, scratch that. The words are here. “Callum, seriously. What the fuck?”

The grunting stops. The sheets flutter around, body parts untangle, and two surprised faces stare at me beneath just-fucked hair. Callum squints at me because he’s nearsighted.

Jenny, Callum’s tour manager, blinks long eyelashes that look like mini awnings that I can see from across the room. Her hair clip is askew, red lipstick smeared around her mouth, paleskin streaked with pink blotches in the shape of Callum’s fingers.

She’s normally the one who calls to tell me Callum has last-minute plans and can’t see me. I suspected she was covering for some tour bunny. Guess I should have looked closer to home.

And the worst thing about the whole situation is that I convinced myself that I could be satisfied with a marriage of convenience. I told myself I didn’t need real love as long as I stayed focused on the child I want to adopt. But this feels awful. Even if the tabloids haven’t discovered him cheating yet, I’ll always be worried about people finding out. Worried it will make my reputation look even worse. Worried it will jeopardize the adoption.

Worried I can’t go through with a magazine-perfect dream wedding four months from now. How can I pretend it’s a festive, happy event instead of a farce? Even I’m not that good of an actor.

CHAPTER 19

Ella

“Don’t do this,”Callum pleads, sounding genuinely sorry, as I methodically go through the drawers and cabinets where I’ve left a few things over the past year that we’ve been together.

The bedroom overlooks the Pacific Ocean, which glimmers under moonlight through a wall of windows. He’s owned the place for longer than I’ve known him, but it barely shows any signs of wear. White leather armchairs at the foot of the bed sit uncreased. The white carpet always looks freshly vacuumed, and the low wood table contains three arthouse books, arranged at a right angle to the bed.

Jenny is long gone, having thrown on her clothes and scurried out of the condo as soon as she saw my face. She knew Callum wasn’t going to ask her to stick around. Guess that’s what makes her a good manager—knowing what her boss wants. And giving it to him.

“Cal, I’m doing it.” Yanking open a drawer, I realize I don’tknow what I’m doing exactly. I’m also unsure what he’s asking menotto do, so I stop. “Don’t do what?”

“End us.”

Forehead resting against his fist, he sits on the bed where hours before he was thrusting his dick into his tour manager. The sheets are no longer in disarray, but I can still smell the sickly pungent scent of sex. I probably always will.

Exhaling a long breath, I stand with my arms crossed and wait for him to look at me. He does, eyes red from rubbing them, hair still askew, mouth pulled down into an anguished frown. “Don’t go,” he pleads, tilting his head in that way that lets a long lock of hair fall across his cheek. I always liked that. His dark eyes look bottomless, smoldering for me. I liked that too. So many times, I’ve looked into those eyes and seen our future. Now, I see a manufactured fairy tale I was dumb enough to believe. I’m not as mad at him as I am at myself for thinking he could be better than his reputation.

Callum Haywood had been linked with several different A-list stars in the two years before we met. But then, so had I.

Our manufactured love story was the kind of epic fodder that social media lives for. We were photographed at every turn. We were called Hollywood royalty. Our names were blended together so people could refer to us simply as Ellum.

And I do like him. Or, I did. Now, I don’t know what I feel except that I need to get out of his condo and think.

“I can’t be here with you. I can’t even look at you,” I tell him, shoving my toiletries into the bathroom trash can.

“Are you taking my trash can?”

“Were you fucking your tour manager?!” It’s the first time I’ve raised my voice and it feels good.

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine. Take the trash can.”

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