Page 12 of Red Hot Harmony

“Am I that obvious?”

“Yes. I think you’re too harsh on yourself.”

“Oh, really?”

“I watched the video of you from theDreamcatcherspremiere.”

“So youarecyberstalking me, darlin’?” I laughed a little, but my heart was pounding wildly against my ribs, a series of staccato beats. In a way, it was expected. There were countless videos of me all over the internet. Drunk. High. Unraveled. Off my game. And I hadn’t cared about any of that until I met her. My fame was sullied and dark and filled with gruesome facts.

“I thought you looked good,” Camille said.

“You know the cameras usually lie. I pretty much broke out of rehab to be there.”

“But you played.”

“I did.”

“And people loved it.”

“I fucked up. More than once.”

“We all fuck up. Nobody’s perfect.”

We stared at each other for several seconds, my body suddenly feeling both heavy and light from some subconscious realization, a thought that was stuck between this world and another.

“What time do you have to be back?” I asked, remembering that someone was waiting for Camille at home. Before the stroke, in my previous life, things would have gone differently. We would’ve had food and drinks and then fucked at either my place, the nearest hotel, or in a car if the wait wasn’t an option. And after that, she’d be gone and I wouldn’t care to remember her name or who she was.

The idea of such an impersonal act made me shudder.

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, a small shrug following. “Ally’s staying with Harper tonight. We had a fight.”

“Oh?”

“She’s just being a brat.”

“Well, are we still on for our lesson on Monday?”

“She wouldn’t miss it. It’s temporary. It happens from time to time.”

“Okay, then how do you feel about a walk on the beach?”

“I feel like I actually haven’t done that in ages.”

“Great.”

Leaving the comfort of the restaurant behind us, we made our way down to the beach, took off our footwear, and stepped onto the cool sand.

“Give me your shoes,” I requested.

She obeyed and handed them over. They were sandals with straps and delicate heels and presented little problem. I held them in my left hand along with my own boots.

In the solitude of the evening, Camille’s fingers laced through mine and we trudged over a patch of sand toward a line of beach chairs facing the ocean.

“Let me guess.” Her voice blended with the crashing sounds of the oncoming waves. “This isn’t available to the general public.”

“No, this is a private property. It’s part of the restaurant,” I explained. Malibu had a few spots like this where you could dine and then take a stroll along the Pacific without worrying about being discovered by paparazzi or eager fans.

Rich people who needed discretion came here. Rich people like me.

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