She loves you. She's not using you. Just look into her eyes.
But I couldn't.
I brought her to my chest, her sobs rattling my foundation. Melissa told me that I was a good person, that I was worthy and deserving of love. Her words flowed into my ears—and right back out.
Everything I built was in jeopardy, and it was all because of Delilah.
She would pay dearly for this.
Chapter Two
Melissa
Stacia: Meet me at Cafe De La Fleur.
I pulled myself up from the tangle of covers, casting a look over at Logan. His handsome face was far from serene and rested, even though he was fast asleep. He didn't stir, even when I hopped from the bed, my feet creaking on the hardwood floor. I moved to his side of the bed, my fingers gliding through the dark waves that crashed across his forehead. I pressed a silent kiss on his skin before I turned back to the text emblazoned across my screen.
There was no room for misinterpretation. Even though there were only words, I saw the hand on her h*ps and her narrowed gaze. She sounded out every syllable with angry precision.
I knew she had every right to be pissed, considering I'd been avoiding her texts over the past few days, but I still plunked out something lighthearted. With extra emoticons.
Me: Well hello to you too ;) :P
Her answer was swift and missing any winks or smiles.
Stacia: Cafe De La Fleur. As close to now as you can manage. Unless you're too busy with your billionaire boyfriend?
My stomach dropped. Stacia was my best friend. She was there for me when Jason broke my heart, and I was there for her when her ex broke hers. We didn't have any secrets, especially when it came to the men in our lives. I'd been trying to figure of the right way to tell her about Logan, hiding out until the right words came to me. And now it was too late...and I was left with the uncomfortable reality where I was a terrible friend who pushed away one of the people that cared about me most. I wanted to pour my heart out, tell her I was sorry for the way things played out, but she deserved to hear those words in person.
I took the fastest shower known to man and pulled on a T-shirt and leggings, then my boots. I scribbled a note for Logan, grabbed my blazer, and took the elevator down. My car was sitting in a visitor's spot a few stalls down from his sports car, but I was in no mood to battle San Francisco traffic on top of everything else.
I faded into the crowd. The melting pot of people from all walks of life—students, tourists, bankers, fashionistas, the homeless—I could smell the life, the urban sprawl, the salt of the city. There was a distinct aroma that was uniquely San Francisco.
And then a shiver raced down my spine, the hairs on the back of my neck shocked to attention.
Someone was following me.
Every suspense and thriller movie I’d seen told me that the best course of action wasn't to alert the person shadowing me that I was onto them, but I wasn't an actress. There was no one standing off camera, ready to call ‘Cut!’ so I could take a breath and gather my wits about me.
So I whirled around, my heart rocketing to my throat.
Pulsing.
Choking me as I locked eyes with my tail.
The guy was in one of those button-down, short-sleeved shirts that made me think about bowling alleys and liquid nacho cheese. Paired with shorts and flip flops despite the cold wind that whipped my scarf around my neck, I almost relaxed, thinking he was just another tourist—but his camera was bulky and professional looking.
His surprise melted into a predatory smile as he pointed the camera in my direction. "Melissa, how does it feel to be the biggest slut in America?"
His question screeched in my ears like he'd cupped his hands around his smug mouth and pushed the words straight from his diaphragm to every ear in the Bay Area.
His camera was flashing, capturing my horror in every frame. There was nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. I could feel the interest buzzing around me, building like the terror in the pit of my stomach.
Just turn around. Keep walking. Don't say a word.
But my legs weren't working.
The flow of movement staggered, phones hovering in my direction.
“Who is she?”
“The girl dating that billionaire.”
“She stole him from Delilah James!”
“That pregnant actress?”
I finally found my voice, the words haunting my vocal chords as I fought to catch my breath. “It’s not like that.” The sentence was a feeble whisper that was consumed as the paparazzo asked another question, saying the name that the curious onlookers would know instantly unless they lived under a rock.
“How does it feel to be the slut that stole Delilah James’ boyfriend? Do you even care about the baby? How about your rich boyfriend?”
Tears stabbed my eyeballs like a hundred tiny needles. It didn’t compare to the shame. The agony burned me from the inside out.
“I’m right here, Melissa.”
The familiar, rich voice flooded me with relief. My tears were streaks of joy when I saw Stacia. She looped her arm in mine, wasting no time pulling me through the crowd that had gathered around me and the photographer.
We were only a few blocks away from the cafe, but I didn’t dare let go of her arm or look anywhere but the light at the end of the tunnel.
No more questions. No more eyes. No more judgment. No more carrying the brutal truth that no, I didn’t care about the baby. No more fighting the urge to tell the world that the baby wasn’t even Logan’s.
Stacia cleared her throat as we stopped by the entrance.
I gaped at her obtusely, then realized she probably needed her arm back.
I followed her inside, snapping out of the lull of my run-in with the photog. I came to the realization that whether she saved me or not, my best friend still had a bone to pick with me.
I’d never been out of the States, but visiting Paris was on my list. The Eiffel Tower. The Arc de Triomphe – just sitting at a cafe with a coffee, drinking it all in. I always made it a point to stop into Cafe De La Fleur when I was in the city. It was always an experience; what I imagined Paris would be like, alive with sounds and smells and conversations.
We walked past the bar area and a wall lined with magazines and books down the stairs to a room filled with booths and cafe tables. Our host guided us to our table, leaving us with our menus. Even though I already knew I wanted, I stared at the menu, pretending the words weren’t swimming before my eyes. Now that I was still, the confrontation rushed over me like a runaway train. I balled my fists in my lap, ignoring Stacia’s glare. I couldn’t talk about that photographer or the reason he wanted to take pictures of me in the first place.