I swear, I only understood fifty percent of that, but when my phone buzzes in my pocket, I see I’ve been added to a new group chat.
“Well?” Hudson asks, pushing his empty plate away and leaning back in his chair to look at me. “Are you trying to get her back?”
Over the past almost-decade since I’ve been in the spotlight, I’ve had to be careful with who I trust. And I’ve learned the hard way that when you have money and fame, most people aren’t after the real you.
But something about this group is different. Perhaps it’s the way they couldn’t give two shits about my celebrity status or the fact that they’ve welcomed me into their group so easily—already giving me shit like we’ve known each other for ages. Whatever the case, I find myself wanting to trust them.
Hell, maybe I’ve been craving friendship just like this. It sounds sappy as shit even in my own head, but it’s the truth.
I run a hand down my face. “You know what? Yes. I moved here hoping to win her back. After Troy was injured and then had that incredible comeback, I proposed the idea for this movie to the right people in the industry. When it seemed like they were interested, my only condition was that it be filmed here.”
Troy raises his brows, and I can’t tell if it’s in offense or in admiration. “So you used me to get closer to my sister-in-law? Do I have that right?”
“Yes.”
“Damn.” He pauses before nodding. “Well, I respect that.”
“What happened between you two, anyway?” Hudson asks. “I mean, is it truly ‘irreconcilable’ like the tabloids stated?”
“Clearly, Hudson hasn’t been stalking you online or anything,” Garrett says dryly, to which Hudson just flips him off.
I take a long breath. “That’s a story for another night. But no, it wasn’t irreconcilable in the unforgivable sense. Nisha and I never stopped loving each other. We just . . .” I drag my teeth across my bottom lip as memories, both good and painful, dance across my vision. “I didn’t prioritize what mattered, and I’ve been paying for it ever since.”
The guys go quiet. A couple of them nod, whether in understanding or support, I can’t be sure.
“But what’s your actual plan?” Dean asks. “Knock on her door and ask her to chat every day?”
I smile, recalling doing exactly that this morning when I went over to deliver her package. God, she looked fucking beautiful—my Little Borealis—dressed in those shorts and that tank top, showing off her sleeve of tattoos. Her dark, glossy hair skimmed her toned shoulders, and she smelled like pomegranates.
Always like pomegranates.
And when her shocked eyes found mine and those delectable lips of hers turned downward, I swear, I wanted to fist my hand in her hair and drag her mouth to mine, if only to cover that scowl. If only to hear her gasp before I tasted her pomegranate-flavored lip gloss again.
Years later, and my ex-wife is still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, even pissed.
I’m just about to answer Dean, just about to tell him that I don’t really have much more of a plan than that, when Troy cuts in, “What are you doing next weekend?”
My brows furrow. “Not sure yet. Why? What’s happening next weekend?”
Troy smiles, raising his brows at the rest of the guys in some sort of silent exchange. They all nod before Troy answers, “The Schlongs and Clams bachelor and bachelorette party.”
I still don’t understand most of that sentence, but I have a feeling my plan to get my ex-wife back just got hijacked by six guys I barely know.
seven
nisha
Calm Down, Hannibal Lecter
With my mouth pursed to one side, I stretch the partially knitted sweater over Hector’s broad back, gauging it for size. It needs to be larger to fit him.
“You’re knitting that for me?” Hector asks, his blue eyes connecting with mine through the mirror. “That’s very kind of you, Ms. Arora.”
I frown. “Hector, how many times have I asked you to just call me Nisha? Anyway, I was hoping to have it done before your interview at the warehouse, but it might be another week before I can finish it.”
He smiles, the lines around his mouth deepening. “That should be plenty of time. The interview isn’t for ten days.” He pauses, examining the gray and blue colors of the sweater. “I can’t remember having something so nice before.”
I place the sweater back in my bag, mentally calculating how many more rows I’ll need before reaching for my clipping shears.
