I think she’s going to walk away, but she hesitates.
“Chase?”
“Yeah?” I watch her standing over me.
Bundled in a towel, with her long, wet hair sticking to her face and shoulders, she’s everything I’ve ever wanted and won’t let myself have.
“Thank you.”
She says it softly, and the words compete with the music and laughter of the surrounding party, but it’s all I can hear and the last thing I expect.
“For what?”
“For having us here. For trying to keep us safe. Don’t worry about me. You’ve been honest from the start about what we are and what we aren’t. I understand. You don’t need to feel guilty.”
My breath leaves me in a blow. I hurt her; I know I did. And what does she do? She thanks me. And calls me honest, when that’s the last thing I am. With her, my Typewriter Girl. With myself. The lies just keep compounding. They’re for her sake, but they still stack up in front of me like an accounting of my sins.
“Good night,” I say.
Then I watch her walk away.
CHAPTER 24
Olivia
The next morning, I wake with the sun streaming through gauzy curtains in the all-white guest room. It overlooks the pool, and the sky and water are brilliant hues of blue. This whole stalker situation might be confusing, and I was just friend-zoned by the Sexiest Man Alive, but at least my room rocks.
There’s something about the bright Malibu sunshine that makes me hop out of bed. Maybe it’s also the possibility of seeing Chase around the kitchen table. It will hurt, but the pain will have a certain pleasure intertwined.
Breakfast at the mansion has become one of my favorite parts of the day in my short stay here. For the past few mornings, it’s been an adventure to see who will show up in the enormous kitchen. Marie acts like a den mother for the guys and their friends, laying out a full breakfast spread each morning that must rival any five-star hotel.
I stumble in, looking for coffee, only to find Daisy, Sebastian, Emma, Ryder, and a handful of Ryder’s music entourage sitting around the table. Relief and disappointment run through me because Chase is absent.
“Hey,” I say shyly, pulling my hair up into a jaunty ponytail. I’d brushed my hair, my teeth, and dressed in an oversized T-shirt and leggings, both courtesy of Emma after I begged her for some actual comfy clothes. I even slicked on a little gloss. That’s as fancy as I get before my first cup of coffee, celebrity roommates or not. Working in a café has got me addicted to caffeine. If I don’t caffeinate soon, I’ll get a killer headache.
“Speak of the devil!” Daisy greets me, looking like the epitome of a California girl in a mustard-yellow macramé bathing suit and a gauzy cover-up, her hair in braids. “We were just talking about you!”
The rest of the table mumbles greetings around mouthfuls of pancakes and eggs.
Marie fills a coffee cup for me, pouring in milk and foam from a large silver dish, along with two generous scoops of sugar, just the way I like it. Bless her.
“I love you, Marie.” I moan as I take the first sip.
“You look tired today, Ms. Olivia. Make a plate. You need to eat.” She fusses over me.
I smile at Marie in thanks, then turn to Daisy. “What are you saying about me?” I ask warily.
“I’m telling them about Nanna’s letter. We’re helping you come up with a list of risks.”
“Um. Thank you?” I’m not sure how I feel about enlisting their “help,” so I take a large gulp of coffee.
“We all agreed you should get laid.”
I spit out my drink.
Everyone cracks up as I mop up the mess I’ve made with a napkin that Marie hands me. Even Marie is grinning, the traitor.
“Daisy, you’re in time-out. We did not all say that,” Ryder says with a laugh.
“Well, Sebastian suggested it,” Daisy argues. “And I agreed it’s a smashing idea.”
“Thanks for your support,” I say as I check my white shirt for coffee splatters. “But I doubt Nanna meant that when she said she wanted me to take risks.” I wince that this group is talking about my sex life—or lack thereof. Now I’m grateful Chase isn’t here.
“You never know. Nanna was a firecracker. I bet she’d approve.”
Unfortunately, Daisy is right. I’m the lone prude in my family. My grandmother was far more adventurous than me. She was never shy about talking about anything with me, even sex. And my mom never met a risk—or a man—she didn’t like, which eventually led to her death. I’ve read enough psychology books to know that my mom’s history probably contributes to me living life vicariously through screens and books. It’s safer that way.