A warm feeling spread through me at the sound of my name on her lips.
I’d always loved the way Saint spoke. Even when she wasn’t singing, her voice was beautiful, and sometimes, her words were so poetic that it made my heart beat faster. Two years had passed since we’d had a moment like this, but it felt like yesterday.
“So,” I began, trying to keep the mood light despite the weight of loss I felt at being without her for so goddamned long. “What’s the song about?”
“Love,” she murmured. “Loss, yearning, and wishing things could’ve been different.”
“Thought you’d write about your stalker,” I muttered, trying to tamp down the uneasy feelings that the meaning behind her words evoked. “Isn’t that what songwriters do? Take inspiration from their lives?”
Her azure blue eyes bored into mine. “None of my wounds came from adversaries, Jake. They all came from the people who were supposed to love me.”
I cleared my throat, trying to contain the flood of emotions threatening to drown me. “Poet’s soul,” I murmured to myself.
Saint looked at me quizzically.
“That’s what you told me the night we met,” I reminded her. “You’ve got a poet’s soul.”
“You remember that?” she breathed.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “I remember everything.”
“Then why...” Her words trailed off as if the question suddenly became too hard to ask.
“Why what?” I prompted.
Her deep sigh was audible, and I watched, fascinated, as once again she blanked her expression. “Nothing.” She stood from the sun lounger. “Are you hungry?”
I checked my watch, realizing I hadn’t eaten for hours. It was nine P.M. in DC but only six P.M. here. “Starving.”
She gestured toward the kitchen. “I’ll show you where everything is. I have a housekeeper who comes in three times a week, so she’ll keep on top of your laundry and take your dry cleaning to be done with mine. I also have a chef bring meals in, so there’s a freezer full of high-protein dinners and lunches you canhelp yourself to. If there’s anything in particular you want, write it down, and I’ll ask Catalina to pick it up.”
Draining my drink, I stood and followed Saint into her huge, white kitchen. I took in the sleek lines and clean appliances, noting how it still felt homely even though it probably cost more than most people earned in a year.
Saint walked to an integrated tall freezer and opened the door wide. “You’ve got mainly chicken and salmon meals. But if you dig deep in the pantry, you’ll find some pasta somewhere.”
I walked toward her and picked up a few of the containers, frowning at how light they weighed. “Probably need six of these and a plate of potatoes to fill me up, babe,” I muttered.
“I’ll ask Cat to grab some on her way here in the morning. Do you want steak too?”
“Yeah, and bacon, sausage links, pancakes, fresh bread, not the packet shit, proper bread from a bakery, and real dairy butter.” I went to her fridge and checked inside to see mostly fruit, veggies, and drinks. “Eggs, milk—the real stuff, not diet shit—and caramel creamer.”
“I'd better add coffee to the list in that case,” she muttered.
My eyes widened. “You don’t have coffee? You love coffee.”
“Yeah, with cream and sugar,” she bandied back. “That’s why I don’t drink it anymore.”
My head reared back. “Please don’t tell me you’re on a diet.”
“My entire life is one big diet,” she stated. “Luckily the Ozempic stops me from being hungry.”
I felt a muscle twitch in my jaw. “What the fuck you on that stuff for? You’re not fat.”
“No, I’m not,” she agreed. “Because I take Ozempic. You’re in Hollywood now, Jake. It’s the staple diet in these parts.”
My jaw dropped at how blasé she was about it. Weight-loss medication had its place for sure, but she didn’t need it. I tried to wrap my head around the fact that somebody so beautiful and so perfect could be made to feel like she needed to take such extreme measures.
Fuck Hollywood and its unattainable standards.
