Page 314 of New York Love Stories: Vol. 1

His mom walks inside. “Probably best. I’m going to get home, but I’ll see you two tomorrow night?” She swings her purse straps onto her shoulder again.

“I look forward to it and meeting the family,” I say. Escaping Harrison’s side, I go to her and give her a hug. Her embrace matches her personality—warm and inviting. “It was so nice to meet you and spend that time together.”

“I agree. You were a lovely highlight of my day.”

When she leaves, Harrison’s staring at me like he doesn’t recognize me. “What?” I ask, throwing my arms out and letting them fall to my sides again.

“Nothing.”

“It’s something, so just say it.”

He comes to me and brings me into his arms again. With a kiss to my forehead, he whispers, “California sure does look good on you.”

29

Harrison

I shouldn’t have broughther here.

In a house buried in The Hills at an Oscar-winners property, some D-grade producer has been chatting Tatum up while I’ve been stuck discussing a house in Brentwood coming on the market soon and needing an agent. There are strings attached. There always are. These attachments come in the form of the owner wanting to seal the deal with sex in the jacuzzi while her husband watches.

No fucking thanks.

I don’t have to play nice. My portfolio speaks for itself. “You either hire the best or you go find some fucker down in the OC wanting to make a splash here in LA. Literally speaking. You have my secretary’s number.”

Cutting through the crowd, I have my eyes set on my girl, excited that it’s me she’ll be leaving with. Leaving is the goal, too. These Hollywood parties don’t hold the same thrill that they used to.

Since getting out of LA, I’ve had my eyes opened. Maybe that’s all it took for me to see the bigger picture of what my life could be.

Tatum’s confidence exudes in New York, so I’m not sure why she’s shrinking under the Hollywood lights. Only a few more feet until I reach her, but I’m jerked to the side and under a bellowing greeting, an ex squeals when she sees me. “Harrison Decker, where the fuck have you been?” She jumps me—literally—a crab claw-like hold around me and she hugs me tight.

Trying to peel her off me is a feat unto itself. Gemma Maze, former model turned serious actress, hails from the UK, and accepted the Golden Globe last year for her performance as a pig in mud in some psychological thriller. I didn’t see it, not ever wanting to see her again, in real life or on the big screen. She loves her drugs.Some things never change . . .

I put her on her feet again and quickly glance to find Tatum. Hoping she would have missed this scene, that hope is shredded under the glare she’s giving me. I push through the crowd to reach her. “I didn’t?—”

“I know, but I don’t like it here.”

“Let’s leave then.” I take her hand and start for the door. The scene is familiar to most who are here. I look like her bodyguard trying to get her out from the hoard of fans and paparazzi spotlight. I’ll play that role for her if it gets her safely out of here.

When valet pulls my M2 around, we get in so I can get us the fuck out. It’s a few streets covered before I ask, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she snaps, staring out her window.

Yikes.Not fine at all. “I didn’t know she’d be there.”

“You dated Gemma Maze? I don’t know how I feel about that, Decker. I thought you had better taste than that.”

Reaching over, I try to lighten her mood. “My taste improved with age.”

“It sure as shit did.” The edge to her tone could slice through any tension if the tension was rolling off of her to begin with.

“I’m sorry for bringing you here. You like to party, and you always seem up for a good time. So, I thought?—”

“That wasn’t a good time. That was me watching you get lady-handled by cougars and coke heads.” She cracks her window and inhales a deep breath. I stop at a stop sign and look over when she turns toward me. “I can’t drink and I’m pregnant. I feel bloated and I’m not even showing yet. What’s it going to be like when I’m nine months pregnant?” Her voice keeps rising. “I’m going to be sitting home in Manhattan while you’re out “closing deals” at parties in LA? That’s not how I saw things going.”

I hate fighting in a car, the confinement is too limiting in thought and space. “Can we please talk about this when we get home?”

“Home?There you go again,” she says, sounding like she’s given up. “This isn’t my home, Harrison. And as much as you hate it, this baby goes where I go.”

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