Page 10 of Love You Always

Having ignored my tiles, I start to rearrange them on my two boards. “Hold on. I’m not ready.” Tatum taps a finger against her wineglass, impatient to use her crazy sharp memory to block my every move.

“Hemetyou. No one thinks those things once they know you. Even grouchy guys.”

“People see what they want to see, and I haven’t exactly helped my cause by dating so many people and never having it work out.” I pull my knees up and wrap my arms around them, hating that my reputation is cemented in the minds of most people based on a few bad choices.

Okay, maybe more than a few.

“Why did I keep thinking that guys wanted to be with me, Ella, the goofball actress who loves the craft and the deep, nerdy dives into characters, when they really just wanted Ella, the famous person?”

“Because you were a starry-eyed optimist and that’s a beautiful thing.”

“Yeah, and you know what happens to optimists? They start to believe in the fairy tale—the one with the guy who makes meswoon and fall head over heels. And maybe it doesn’t exist. At least I knew enough to cut ties and move on, but then I ended up with the ruined reputation as a girl who can’t keep a man? I mean, it’s so sexist. Hot, famous men who sleep around are revered like gods, and women get ‘reputations.’”

She gestures at my two boards. “Are you going to play or what?”

Growling at her insistence, I pick a tile from the wall and discard it just as quickly. “Five dot.” I watch the wheels turn in Tatum’s head, already thinking about what hands I might have based on one discard. If I didn’t love her so much, she’d annoy me.

“Your reputation isn’t ruined. It’s just…in need of settling down. And people need to stop judging you. You haven’t done anything wrong, but society and the media are hard on women. Try to ignore it and focus on what you want. Didn’t your lawyer say things look good for the adoption process?”

“Yes, now that I’m engaged, I’m off the naughty list. And at least I know what I’m getting with Callum. It’s not love, but he needs this marriage to work as much as I do, so he’s committed. And I filled out the applications in to adopt.” I can’t suppress a smile at the idea of raising a child.

“Hey, troublemakers,” Donovan’s voice booms from inside the house, peppered by the jumbled shouts of Lucy and Dennis, the twins. They’re tumbling out the door and climbing on Tatum’s lap before she has a chance to move her mah jong racks out of the way.

Tiles clatter to the wood deck, and Tatum pushes the racks aside to hug her kids tight. A second later, they’re running back into the house, and Donovan peeks through the open sliding door. He grimaces when he sees the mess of tiles and shoves his hands into the pockets of his Strikers sweatpants.

“Sorry. Couldn’t hold them back.”

“It’s really okay,” I tell him, scooping my tiles into the carryingcase. “Your wife is making me play a double hand of a game I don’t like and answer personal questions at the same time. Trust me, I’d have knocked her board over myself if the kids hadn’t come in.”

“Only because I was winning.” Tatum’s smug smile would annoy me if she wasn’t correct. Plus, I love her like family.

Tatum tips her face up for Donovan to kiss, each of them smiling like newlyweds. I feel a tiny pang in my heart, sadness at the idea that marrying Callum will mean giving up on the fairy tale. I take a sip of wine and try to push away the thought, telling myself I just need a relationship that will allow me to live my life and adopt a baby. I need to stop thinking about men who notice details and perform small gestures without a second thought. I need to stop thinking about Archer Corbett.

And just as soon as I finish telling myself that, I picture myself with Archer—just for a moment, a blip, barely a second. But it’s enough. Enough to make me hold out a tiny shred of hope for the sweet gestures. And for love.

I still want it all.

CHAPTER 5

Archer

“What’syour issue with her anyway?” Carson spits the words out between bench presses. I stand over him with my hands lightly grazing the bar, which has one-hundred-pound weights on each end. We both like to lift until failure, which means we need a spotter to stand by and make sure the bar doesn’t hit us in the chest when our muscles give way. I’m betting Carson has about three more presses in him until that happens.

I shrug.

There’s only one other guy in the gym, probably because it’s seven in the evening on a weeknight. All the regular guys with wives and families are probably eating a home-cooked meal and taking their shoes off for the day. I’ve learned to keep myself busy at that hour, either cooking for myself at home or scheduling a workout with a friend who has just as little going on in his social life as I do. Carson had just pulled up to his house when I calledand asked if he felt like a workout. He hesitated for a second—the call of a warm house is hard to turn down in favor of sweating at the gym—but then he said, “Sure. I’ll meet you in thirty.” He’s good that way.

I like working out at this hour because we have our pick of weights and machines, plus we can talk and there’s little chance of people overhearing. Gossip spreads like a brush fire around here and I don’t need anyone telling tales out of school about me.

Carson eyes me as he grimaces and pushes the bar up again. “I think that’s all I’ve got,” he grunts, a vein in his neck bulging purple.

I help him put the bar on the rack, and he swings his legs around to get off the bench. While he wipes down his sweat with a gym towel, I add two more weights to the bar. It’s forty pounds more than I usually bench, but that blond pixie has my blood racing in my veins. I need to put my energy somewhere.

While I get into position beneath the bar, Carson stands over me and glares down. “Conversation isn’t over.”

“It felt over,” I say, hefting the bar away. Shit, it’s heavy.

“What did she do, turn you down when you asked her out? Ignore you at a party?”

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