My reply is completely honest. “You’ve always been the kind of man I could respect, Cav. You didn’t have to change anything for that.”
His gaze drops to the floor for a beat before meeting mine again. “You know what I mean.”
“I think you’ve always been harder on yourself than anyone else would ever be.”
He shrugs and turns the conversation back to his point. “So, what do you say, Greer? Fresh start? New beginning? You and me trying to make something real together? No pretending this time.”
He holds out his hand, offering it to me. All I have to do is take it, and he’ll lead me out of the darkness and into the light.
It’s time.
As I reach out and wrap my fingers around his, the anger I’ve been harboring since the morning I left Belize releases.
No pretending this time.
It’s not quite daylight when we step down the stairs of the plane onto the tarmac. A black SUV waits for us twenty feet away, a driver in a suit standing next to the open door.
Cav and I were both quiet after my epic breakdown on the plane. So many thoughts battered my brain as I changed into clothes more suitable than my pajamas. Yes, I’ve agreed to a new beginning and let go of my anger, but the rawness of my feelings hasn’t disappeared quite yet. Trust is a fragile thing, and gluing the pieces together of something that has already broken twice before is a difficult task.
I want to trust Cav, I really do, but it’s going to take time. No pretending, which means I need to get there for real. He can say all the right things, but I need to see them in action before my instinctive wariness will fade.
Cav helps me into the SUV and hands my duffel bag to the driver to stow in the back before sliding into the black leather captain’s chair beside mine. The driver climbs into his seat and shuts the front door. He rattles off an address, and Cav confirms it’s correct.
I’ve been to LA before, but never to Hollywood, so this is going to be a completely new experience for me. New beginning. New life.
Can it really be so easy?
As the driver navigates out of the private airport, Cav reaches over and grabs one of the hands folded in my lap. Linking his fingers with mine, he brings it between us and squeezes.
“This isn’t the first time I’ve imagined what it would be like to bring you home.”
Home. Cav’s home. I’m curious as hell about what his place will tell me about the man. He’s been in my space—hell, he watched me from afar, studying me and learning my habits before I even knew he existed. I’m so far behind when it comes to Cav. Maybe this is my chance to find out everything he’s hidden from me—and what I couldn’t learn in the media.
The SUV curves around turns up into the hills until the driver pulls into a driveway blocked by a gate. Every house on this street has a gate, so apparently that’s nothing out of the ordinary. The driver must be well versed in gate etiquette because he pulls up far enough so Cav can slide down the passenger window and type in the code on the keypad. The gate swings open, and the driver pulls in and parks before hopping out and opening my door.
He offers me a hand. “Miss?”
I accept it and climb out, memorizing every detail of the exterior of the house while I wait for Cav.
Like many other houses we passed on the way in, it’s Spanish-style architecture with cream-colored stucco walls and a terracotta curved-tile roof. More terracotta tiles cover the arched overhang of the front entryway. No garage doors face the street, so I have to assume they’re off to the side where the driveway swings around. Small shrubs and ornamental trees dominate the landscaping. It’s not fancy, and I assume it’s drought resistant. The lawn is green, but not as lush and vibrant as my aunt and uncle’s estate.
After he thanks the driver and tosses the strap of my bag over his shoulder, Cav snags my hand and leads me toward the door. He releases me to dig into his pocket for a set of keys and after he unlocks the door, he pushes it open and I get my first look at Cav’s home.
It’s quiet. No voices come from inside, so I assume we’re alone. There’s furniture, but not much. It barely looks lived in. The grand idea that I’d glean many details from Cav’s living space dies a quick death.
“Do you spend much time here?” I ask the question as I crane my head around doorways and see nothing that screams Cav lives here to me.
“Mostly only when I’m between projects or shooting on a studio set. I bought it fully furnished, basically move-in ready.”
The Spanish-influenced furniture doesn’t say Cav to me either, so I assume I’m going to learn more about Cav from him rather than from a house he bought fully furnished and apparently changed very little.