Tonight is special for Reeve, and he deserves my full attention and devotion. I’ve got to pull myself together and get back out there to support him.
Why did I have to fall in love with two men, and why isn’t it getting any easier? Hurt lances me on all sides and I grip the sides of the stall, begging someone to take the pain away. Needing help, I call Audrey, and she talks me off a ledge like only my bestie can.
Hurrying to the sink, I patch up my makeup, hiding all evidence of my heartache. I don’t know how long I’ve been gone, but I’m sure Reeve is worrying, and I need to get back to him. Smoothing my hair back into its chignon, I admire my gorgeous red gown in the mirror, reminding myself I look composed on the outside even if I’m falling to pieces on the inside.
Stepping outside, I almost take a tumble when I find Dillon waiting for me. One part of me half-expected this. The pain I felt inside the theater watching him up on that stage is minuscule compared to the pain I feel looking at him up close and personal. He drills me with an intense look that takes me back in time. My skin prickles with awareness as he slowly rakes his eyes up and down my body. His gaze is as intimate as it’s always been, and my heart pounds wildly behind my rib cage.
Memories flash through my mind.
Rough touches.
Demanding kisses.
Animalistic fucking that never quite sated my thirst for him.
His wicked smile as I screamed when he pulled a risky maneuver on his motorcycle.
His boyish grin as we lay on our bellies peering over the side of the Cliffs of Moher.
His adoring eyes as he serenaded me on my roof the last night we were together.
A sob travels up my throat before I can stop it. Clutching my purse to my chest, I will my hormones to simmer down, telling my wayward tears to fuck the hell off. Heartache plus pregnancy hormones is clearly not a good combination.
“Hey, Hollywood,” he says, his raspy voice sounding as choked as I feel inside.
“Dillon,” I whisper.
He pushes off the wall, sauntering toward me with that cocky swagger I’ve missed so much. I’m trapped in his magnetic gaze, rooted to the spot, as he cages me in with his arms. “Vivien Grace,” he murmurs, staring down at me with a familiar hunger in his eyes. “Still so beautiful.” Whiskey fumes fan across my face, and I realize he’s drunk at the same time I realize I cannot be caught with him like this.
Ducking down, I slip out from under his arms. “I’ve got to go.”
“Run away, Hollywood,” he calls out after me, a discernible sneer creeping into his tone. “After all, it’s what you do best.”
I’m tempted to turn around and give him a piece of my mind, but arguing with a drunk Dillon never ended up well in the past.
“There you are,” Reeve says when I reach the end of the hallway. He looks over my shoulder before his gaze dips to mine. “What’s going on?” His brow puckers.
“Nothing. Let’s go. I’ve already missed enough of the ceremony.” I drag him back to our seats, grateful he doesn’t protest or probe further.
Reeve wins best actor, for a low-budget indie film, and everyone in the place is up on their feet applauding him. Well, not everyone, if I had to guess. He gives the most beautiful acceptance speech, dedicating it to me and Easton, and his gushing praise produces more tears.
We drop by a couple of after-parties, but I can’t relax because I’m terrified a drunk Dillon is going to turn up and say something. I’m sorely tempted to use the pregnancy card to get us out of here—knowing Reeve will leave with me—but I can’t do that to him. This is his night, and he deserves to enjoy it. However, my thoughtful husband insists we leave at a reasonable hour, knowing I’ve got to be tired and unwilling to say it.
As my husband makes passionate love to me that night, pouring all his adoration into every touch, thrust, and caress, I feel incredibly unworthy of his love and devotion.
“He’s a total prick,” Reeve rages the next evening when he still hasn’t heard a peep from his father.
“He is,” I readily agree, massaging his tight shoulders. “I can’t believe he hasn’t called to congratulate you.”
Reeve turns, wrapping his arms around me. “Why do I care, Viv? Why do I still let him get to me? It’s not like he’s ever shown me more than fleeting attention, so why do I still need his approval?” Reeve has spent time in therapy dissecting his relationship with his father, but he still struggles.
“He’s your father. Your only living parent. It’s natural to seek his approval even though he doesn’t deserve you for a son. He never has.” I run my fingers through his hair, feathering kisses on his cheeks. I hate to see him hurting, time and time again, over that ungrateful bastard who is little more than a sperm donor. “You are the most incredible father to our son. You are everything to Easton your father is not. You are a far better man than him, Reeve, and I hope someday you will be able to let it go because I hate seeing you tormented like this.”
Reeve kisses me, sliding his tongue into my mouth and holding me close as I run soothing hands up and down his back. I moan into his mouth as he gradually kindles a slow-burning fire inside my body, clinging to him as desire surges through my veins. I wish I could drag my gorgeous husband to bed and ride him to distraction, but it’s almost E’s bath and bedtime, so sexy times with Reeve will have to wait until later.
When we break apart, he rests his forehead against mine, sighing wearily. Pain is etched across his handsome face, and I will strangle Simon Lancaster for putting a dampener on what should be a special time for Reeve. He lifts his head, and steely determination glints in his eyes. “I’m going over there. I’m confronting him. And then I’m cutting him out of our lives. It’s not like he makes any effort with us or his grandson.”
It’s true. Simon Lancaster has little to no interest in Easton. I only invite him to birthdays and Christmases for Reeve’s sake. Easton doesn’t have much time for him, and he doesn’t care. He adores my parents, and they spoil him rotten, lavishing him with attention, love, and far too many gifts. As far as Easton is concerned, his grandpa is Jonathon Mills. Simon Lancaster is an afterthought, as he deserves to be.
“Are you sure you want to do that?” I know it will hurt Reeve, and this should be a happy time for him after his win last night.
“I’m done making excuses for him.”
“I’ll come with you.”
He shakes his head. “I appreciate the offer, but this is a conversation I need to have alone.” He pecks my lips. “Besides, you have to stay with Easton. One of us should be here to put him to bed.” Lust flares in his eyes. “When I get back, I’m so having my wicked way with you.”
I press a demanding kiss to his lips, letting him know I’m down with that plan. “I’m holding you to that, lover.”
Picking up my hand, he presses a kiss to the underside of my wrist. “You know I always deliver. Keeping you satisfied is always top of my wish list.”
“Love you.” I wrap my arms around him, channeling all my love into my hug. He will need it for this conversation with his father.
“Love you too.” He eases out of our embrace, softly ruffling my hair. “I’ll see you later, beautiful.”
“Okay, but call me if you need me to come over.” Our house isn’t far from our parents, all of whom still live in North Beverley Park.
I’m bathing Easton forty minutes later when Reeve calls. Swiping my sudsy son up out of the tub, I wrap him in a large fluffy towel, settling him on my lap on top of the closed toilet seat as I answer my husband.
“Viv,” he croaks, the second I answer, and my heart stops. “I need you.”
“Are you okay? Are you hurt?” I ask, instantly panicked. Simon has never physically hurt his son. His abuse was more of the emotional, psychological kind, but I wouldn’t put anything past that coldhearted bastard.
“He’s dead,” he blurts.