She shook her head. “Kim picked him up this morning. But I haven’t seen her either, now that you mention it.”
“I’m sure he’s on his—”
“Cary darling!” a woman’s voice drawled, pleasant and sugary like sweet tea. She was from somewhere in the South. Maybe Texas or Oklahoma. Tyler couldn’t tell the difference between them.
“Uh . . . hi,” he said, his voice shaky as hell.
The petite blonde woman wore a tight fuchsia dress with a push-up bra, cleavage on full display. Her thick foundation had been plastered on, likely with a heavy hand, the shade noticeably off where it stopped at her jawline.
“Darling!” Her duck lips puckered, and she kissed Cary’s cheek, leaving behind an imprint so flawless it could double as a tattoo stencil.
Tyler raised her brow and glared at him.
“Tyler, this is Emma.” His voice was cold and clinical.
No shit, Dr. Kingston.
“Emma Turner.” She said her full name, no doubt making a point.
Tyler stared at her, jealousy slicing through her so sharply she could have split in half.
“Hi,” she spit out, lifting a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
The actress’s pale blue eyes zeroed in on her dress. “Hello.” She extended her hand and Tyler squeezed it firmly. “What is it you do, Tyler?”
“She works at SDM,” Cary said as if she were mute and added, “She works for Sebastien.”
And I fuck you, remember.
A photographer interrupted them, asking for Emma’s picture with Cary while Tyler’s heart shattered like a thin sheet of ice. She turned away and gulped the champagne like water, then closed her eyes and willed the earth to vaporize six billion years ahead of schedule. She cursed herself for wearing a stupid cotton dress, wedges on her feet, and no makeup on top of it.
How could Cary like both of them? Emma was her complete opposite. And a goddamn movie star. Okay—technicallyB-list, but still. Her ego was having a full-blown meltdown.
“Cary!” a well-dressed older gentleman with salt and pepper hair called him over.
With a grimace, Cary looked at Tyler and said, “I’ll be right back.”
“Take your time, darling.” Emma batted her fake eyelashes and wiped the lipstick stain from his cheek with her thumb.
Oh, fuck off already.
Tyler’s beer buzz was wearing off, so she grabbed another glass of champagne. The more she drank, the less she’d have to say to Cary’s ex-girlfriend. A win-win if there ever was one.
“I had too much sun today,” Emma mused, dramatically swooping her hand across her forehead. The actress stepped closer as a waft of Chanel No. 5 followed her. “Cary’s house doesn’t have any shade,” she added.
“Excuse me,” Tyler choked out, turning on her heel.
The voice in her head looped:Cary’s house doesn’t have any shade.
She half-walked, half-ran across the room, balancing her champagne glasses like hockey players fighting.
Oh my god! Did Emma meet Rory?
She chugged both glasses in quick succession before pulling up Emma’s Instagram.
“Fuck!” Emma had posted a picture of Rory on the beach and she’d captioned it:Love this little guy! #whosagoodboy
Using both hands, she clutched the high-top table beside her, knees buckling inward like a fawn on shaky legs. She didn’t know whether to scream, sob, or commit murder. It was like finding those emails on Dave’s computer—a complete blindside, no defense, no warning, just impact.
