Chapter One
Kinley / Present
There’s a tingling awareness of the hardened skin beneath my oversized sweater. The baggy material on my lean figure is premature, but the anxiety of the wrong eyes seeing too much keeps me sweating under the scratchy cotton.
Tugging.
Gripping.
Squirming.
Nobody is looking, yet they see too much.
Pushing the plastic cart to check out, I do everything in my power not to turn my head a fraction to the left. It’s a worthless feat. The colorful covers and bold print are there for the world to see, preying on helpless customers stuck in line with nothing else to do.
His face.
His hands.
Those eyes.
Mine are plastered on the way he holds Lena Dasani’s hand as they walk toward the photographers on a crowded street. His shades are hooked on the collar of his pristine white tee, not covering his silver eyes like they were when he was with me. There’s no hat. No disguise. Why would there be? When he’s with his wife, he doesn’t have to hide.
Swallowing the rising nausea, I take a deep breath and force my eyes to look at any other magazine. Cooking. Lifestyle. Fashion. But Corbin Callum is on every fucking one like I’m the butt of the universe’s pathetic joke.
“Isn’t he sexy?” a voice says from behind me, causing my gaze to lift to a blonde girl no older than sixteen.
I blink. “Uh…”
The blonde rambles despite my lack of conversational interest. “Anyone would be blind not to admit how beautiful the man is. It’s unfair.”
That catches my interest. “Unfair?”
She scoffs in exasperation. “That men like him exist. It seems unreal to me. Have you seen pictures of him shirtless?”
My stomach twists. Can she see my skin gloss with dotted sweat? The back of my mind replays the moments shared with the very man she’s gushing over. Unreal is right. Fingertips tingling over the memories of them trailing over sculpted abs and mountains of muscle confirms everything she assumes.
And once more, I hate myself.
Tugging on the hem of my sweater for the millionth time, I give her my best nonchalant shrug like I’m indifferent to the man who plagues my mind. “He’s okay, I guess.”
One of the girl’s blonde brows arch like she doesn’t believe me. Shifting from one foot to another, I shoot her a small smile. It’s all I can offer under the scrutiny of my own conscience. I know what I’ve done. Corbin knows what he’s done. But the world doesn’t know the intimate details despite the article published almost two months ago.
I shut the world out after getting back, keeping silent hoping the worst would pass. Missed calls, texts, emails all pile up from people who claim they care. But my chest struggles to differentiate those who are telling the truth or not, so I stop looking at them.
The girl’s eyes narrow, and the slightest tilt of the head has anxiety blasting warning signs that I should just leave. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
My black leggings, oversized sweater, and messy brown hair pulled back helps me blend in. I don’t look out of the ordinary and do my best not to draw unwanted attention to myself. People in Lake Roe don’t recognize me very often. It’s a large enough town not to be noticed, giving me privacy that I’ve had no choice but to keep.
I push my cart forward once the line moves, turning slightly. “Sorry, I don’t think so.”
Not giving her a chance to press, I busy myself by pulling my credit card out of my wallet and move to start unloading my purchases onto the conveyer belt. It’s hard not to feel the burn of curious eyes. I’ve acknowledged that I’m this person now—the one who cheats, lies, and destroys people’s lives.
But is his destroyed?
My eyes can’t help but dart back to the magazine rack, where Corbin’s small smile to the photographers graces the front. He doesn’t look destroyed. The only life I’ve ruined is my own.
The girl behind me picks up one of the magazines and tosses it on to the conveyer. “It’s okay to admit you like that sort of stuff. My mom gets all weird about it too.”
Freezing over the magazine shifting closer to the cashier as the belt moves, my eyes turn to the teenager. I don’t know what to say and can’t put it back in fear of how that will make me look. When I go outside, I’ll throw the magazine away and never open the pages to see the newest story they’ve printed.
Yet another lie.
The curser on my laptop blinks, the empty screen taunting me as I draw my knees up to perch on the edge of the cushioned office chair. Tapping my nail against the desk, I reach toward the keyboard to write something, anything, before sighing in defeat.
Resting in the desk drawer beside me is every edition of my life in fifteen hundred words or less. Grainy pictures. Professional pictures. Choppy quotes. Wild assumptions woven together by truth and exaggerations. I collect every magazine and don’t know why.
My cell rests screen down, buzzing with an oncoming call. Hands twitching against my stomach, I prepare myself for any name to appear when I flip it over. Picking it up, I exhale in the tiniest bit of relief as I swipe to answer.
“Hello, Jamie.”
“Kinley,” my agent greets. Long nails tapping against keys fills the hesitant silence between us. The noise abruptly stops. “How have things been going since we last spoke? I expect you’re nearly done with the second book?”
My eyes go back to the blank screen. “It’s a work in progress,” is the only thing I can think to say. It’s better than the last update she got almost a month and a half ago. The story ideas that normally swirl through my head all disappeared the second I got back to New York.
“They’re expecting it next month. We’re all on deadlines here,” she reminds me, sternness in her tone. “The remaining two books need to be finished by the end of the year.”
Her reminder of the three-book deal leaves thick anxiety creeping up my throat until it hurts to swallow. The first book was one I polished off in California—a way to distract myself from a certain silver-eyed man. “I know they’ve been patient with me, but I may need a little extension—”
“No.” I wince back into my seat at the all-business, no-bullshit response. The few times I’ve witnessed it in person were never directed at me, but it made shivers roll down my spine regardless. “They gave you time after what happened with Parker, but you promised you’d make the new deadlines. We’ve worked very hard to secure this deal, Kinley. You cannot risk losing that. One House is too big of a publisher to get on their bad side.”
Parker.
Normally, the name deepens the little crack in my heart he left behind after calling off our engagement. It’d taken a long time to open up to someone who seemed supportive of my career, crazy schedule, and preferred seclusion, but he’d been that person for me. I knew exactly what Corbin meant when he told me that Lena was what he needed for a while because Parker had been the same distraction for me. But somewhere along the way Parker Jennings got tired of it all. I couldn’t blame him and the way he called me out for focusing more on my books than him. He was right.
Now his name doesn’t give me the same ache in my chest. In fact, there’s no feeling at all. I know the reason behind it is because there’s a hole much deeper from somebody else. The crack Parker left is nonexistent in comparison.