‘Oh, fuck off, Kim. This stupid engagement was purely transactional. You know that better than anyone. You drew up the damn prenup contract yourself.’
‘I’m going guys. I’ll let you know when I have something.’ Declan hangs up.
‘I’m just saying, if I was her, you know clearly I’m not, but if I was…’ Kim says.
‘What? Spit it out.’ I indicate and take the slip road towards Santa Monica. I’m in desperate need of a shower, an Advil, and three years’ worth of sleep, preferably curled around Chloe Sexton, who I’m praying to every god I don’t believe in, will miraculously forgive me for not telling her about any of this.
I’m such a douche. She opened up to me about her guilt and shame. I should have done the same.
‘How do you think Lula’s going to take the rejection?’ Kim asks.
‘Rejection? You can’t be serious? You don’t actually think she wants to marry me, do you?’
Kim’s violet eyes rake over me. She blinks, slowly, deliberately cocky. ‘Well, I suppose you’re not entirely awful to look at.’
I pull into my long, winding driveway. ‘And this house is just about habitable, I guess,’ she continues, shrugging dramatically. ‘I’ve never seen what’s in your trousers, but your bank accounts are substantial enough to make up for anything lacking.’
‘Lacking?’ I take my foot off the pedal and the engine cuts out. ‘Thanks, Kim. That’s really fucking helpful.’
‘You’re welcome.’ Her sarcastic beam exposes a perfect set of white teeth. ‘She’s home, by the way. No time like the present.’ Kim smiles sweetly, hopping out of the car. ‘I’ll be in your office.’
Bad enough I broke one heart already. I hope to fuck I don’t have to break another. No, that’s stupid. I’d have known if she had feelings for me. She doesn’t. I was always her older sister’s pain-in-the-ass-friend trying to help keep her in line while she took out her teenage frustrations by rebelling on the roughest streets of LA.
I creep past Lula’s pastel pink bedroom. The door’s closed. I shower, shave, and try to ring Chloe twenty times, with no success.
I’m empty. Filled to the brim with nothingness. So much for trying to be honourable. I’ve let down the only woman I ever loved in the worst possible way, by trying to save another one. And the really fucked-up thing about the whole scenario is that I’m realising the only person who really needed saving was me.
Chloe did that for me.
She allowed me to be me in all my fucked-up glory. We’re the mirror image of each other, driven and ambitious with work, hedonistic out of it, especially in the bedroom. We complemented each other perfectly. It’s like she was made for me.
Even our demons are similar. Only she was brave enough to confront hers, admitting to me and her sisters the things she was ashamed of. I might have said I love you, but I hid my other demons, duelling them in private. Trying to save everyone yet helping no one in reality.
I pad down the stairs and take a deep breath.
Lula’s hair is even longer than the last time I saw her. It now almost reaches her waist.
I kiss both her cheeks, and she blushes. Oh, god, don’t tell me Kim was right about her, that she has feelings for me? That’s the last thing I need right now.
I motion Lula to follow me into the kitchen. Her huge brown eyes drink me in.
‘Sit. Please.’ I pull out a bar stool at the island. ‘Can I get you coffee? Tea? Water?’
I’m stalling for time. Where’s ruthless Jayden when I need him? What is it about women in need that does something to my ability to say no?
‘Water, please.’ Lula flicks her long dark hair from her shoulders. She’s the image of her sister, another olive-skinned beauty, with the same chocolate-coloured eyes thickly framed by an abundance of long black lashes. Lula is a far cry from the child I once knew, yet when I look at her, that’s all I see. A child.
She sits rigidly in the chair, her tanned knuckles white as she clenches her fists. Is she nervous? Anxious? Frightened of me? I’ve never given her any reason to be.
‘We need to talk.’ My eyes finally meet hers as I place a bottle of water and a glass for her on the marble counter.
She nods. She’s never been much of a talker. We’ve barely had ten conversations since she got here. As a teenager, she might have been rebellious, but as an adult, she’s quiet, thoughtful and seemingly determined to keep her head down.
‘I can’t marry you, Lula. I’m sorry.’ My head shakes with shame.
Her shoulders sag.
‘I’ve made alternative arrangements for your visa, don’t worry. There’s absolutely no way I’ll allow you to be deported. I’ll take care of you, just like I promised your sister.’
