Mr. April: A Celebrity Romance (Calendar Boys Book 4) Read online

  I can’t remember the last time I wanted anything the way I want Beck, and it’s not because he’s famous or even because he’s gorgeous – although that doesn’t hurt – it’s because of the way he looks at me. The way that he sees me.

  I sit down on the floor of my shower and let my tears fall.

  ***

  I wake to the sound of someone banging around.

  I blink sleepily and glance at my clock – it’s nearly two in the morning.

  “Shit,” a muffled voice says before an even louder bang follows.

  “Harvey?” I call into the darkness of the house.

  “Ow, fuck,” he grunts. “What the hell was that? Don’t leave your shit lying around.”

  I’m pretty confident it was a wall that he walked into, but I’m not even going to go there when he’s been drinking – which he obviously has.

  My husband can be a total dickhead when he’s been drinking. One word wrong and I become enemy number one.

  “Are you okay?” I ask him.

  He grunts again and I hear him enter the room.

  “You’re out late.”

  “It’s Friday,” he says in response. As if that explains why he’s rolling in, in the middle of the night, not having called or text at all, and stinking of rum.

  “Did you have a good time?” I ask.

  He doesn’t answer my question.

  “Who were you out with?” I try again.

  I feel the bed dip as he sits down and he huffs and puffs as he tries to get himself undressed.

  “Guys from work.”

  I lie there in silence until he flops down on the mattress next to me.

  He’s asleep within minutes. And before long he’s snoring loudly.

  “It’s good to see you too,” I mutter under my breath.

  ***

  I must have finally fallen asleep at some point, because I wake to the sound of Harvey brushing his teeth in the ensuite bathroom.

  He walks back into the room and notices that I’m awake.

  “Morning,” he mutters.

  “Hi,” I reply.

  He climbs back into bed and picks up his cell phone.

  I’m sick to death of that fucking thing. When he is home, he’s glued to it. He pays far more attention to that phone than he ever does to me.

  I roll over so I’m facing him, and I study his features.

  I don’t know what the hell I’m doing here with him anymore.

  We may as well be strangers – sure we know all the unimportant stuff about one another, but there’s no passion, no fire, no desire to learn more.

  Hell, at this point there’s barely even a desire to speak to each other if we don’t have to.

  I open my mouth to attempt to have a real conversation with him, but he huffs out a laugh that cuts me off before I’ve even spoken.

  “Isn’t that the dude you’re always harping on about?”

  I frown in confusion as he tilts the screen of his phone in my direction.

  The minute my eyes land on the picture, my heart drops.

  It’s Beckett yesterday, when we left the barber shop.

  I’m right next to him in this photo, but all you can see is my arm – thankfully I’ve been cropped out or I bet Harvey wouldn’t be laughing like an arrogant wanker.

  My own husband won’t even recognise me from that little slither.

  I take the phone from Harvey and bring it closer to my face.

  My eyes find their way back to Beckett’s smiling face and my stomach flips. That smile was for me.

  “Beckett Thorn,” I say aloud.

  “Hot shot was in town. Wonder what the hell he was doing here?”

  I mutter something incoherent and start to scroll through the pictures and the accompanying story.

  “Don’t go getting a lady bone or anything, it says he’s left already.”

  “He’s left?” I ask, and my voice sounds pained.

  Harvey chuckles. “Yeah. You know, like gone… packed up and got back on his private plane, no doubt – flew back to where he came from.”

  I open my mouth to argue with him – I know damn well that he didn’t turn up on a private plane, but I can’t very well say that. I snap my mouth shut and keep skimming the article.

  If he’s really gone, I need to see the evidence for myself.

  It has been reported that Beckett Thorn departed the country in the early hours of the morning, under the cover of darkness. More to come soon.

  He can’t be gone.

  He just can’t be.

  I know I said I couldn’t see him again, but it’s only now, sitting here next to a man I’ve finally figured out I don’t love, that I realise how wrong I was.

  I want to see him more than anything.

  I toss Harvey back his phone. “I’m going out for a run.”

  He snorts out an arrogant breath. “Have fun with that.”

  I hurry into the walk-in wardrobe and throw on some active wear – to keep up with the appearance that I’m going running, when in actual fact I’m going straight back to that hotel and hoping like hell that the media have this wrong too.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Beckett

  I’m fucking grateful that they booked my flight in business class at least – I half expected John to have put me in the cheapest seats possible, just to be a dickhead looking for pay back, but Bridget must have booked this, because I’ve got total privacy.

  No one has bothered me once.

  I’ve got enough room to stretch out and sleep, although I know it would be a waste of time trying.

  All I can do is think about her.

  Images of her go around and around in my mind as I fly back across to the other side of the world.

  It’s a cruel twist of fate – I’ve finally found someone who interests me, and not only is she out of reach, but she belongs to someone else.

  I know that life is going to have go on as soon as this plane lands, and that all the people I’ve employed to make my life easier, are going to be there, making my life harder in so many ways.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Thorn? Can I get you something to drink?”

  “Scotch.” I look up at her as I speak.

  She’s got the same blonde hair as Blaire, but she doesn’t even come close to holding the same appeal.

  “Thanks,” I grunt as she hands me the drink and I down it in one swig.

  I’m so fucking screwed. I don’t know anything much about Blaire, yet I miss her like I’ve known her my whole life.

  A hand holds out another scotch and I look up to see the flight attendant hasn’t moved.

  “You look like you could use another,” she says, something that sounds a lot like sympathy thick in her voice.

  I guess I look as miserable as I feel.

  “Thanks,” I say with a nod as I take it from her. “I could indeed.”

  ***

  “You ever run away like a petulant teenager again, and I quit,” my manager threatens the moment I set foot inside the arrival gate.

  “It’s good to see you too, John.”

  “I hope you’re exhausted from that flight – because it’ll make two of us.”

  I ignore his drama queen antics.

  “Did you keep her out of the press?”

  “Is that all you care about?” he demands.

  I resist the urge to shake him. “Did you get it done or not?” I bark the question.

  “Yeah, yeah,” he says with a wave of his hand. “It’s done. Your little friend won’t be making headlines any time soon; you can calm your tits.”

  I breathe an audible sigh of relief. I’d never have forgiven myself if I’d fucked things up for her.

  “Good.”

  He eyes me suspiciously for a moment before looking around to check if anyone is close enough to hear us.

  “You didn’t get this chick knocked up did you?”

  “What the fuck, John? Of course I didn’t.”

  “Did you sleep with
her?”

  “That’s none of your god damn business.”

  He narrows his eyes at me.

  “Christ. Did you have her sign an NDA at least?”

  I glare at him. “You know what? I was fresh out of forms.”

  He mutters something to himself that sounds suspiciously like ‘I freaking quit’, before thinking of yet another question to grill me with.

  “You didn’t let her photograph you, did you?”

  I must look sheepish because he groans.

  “It was one photo, relax. It may as well have been one hundred – I trust her,” I reassure him.

  He shakes his head. “I’d tell you that you’re an idiot, but I think you already know that.”

  I’m an idiot alright, but not for taking a cheesy photo with Blaire. I’m an idiot for letting her drive away. I’m an idiot for not making her come with me.

  “Where’s your shit, we need to get out of here before word spreads.”

  I hold up the bag I’ve been lugging around with me the past few weeks.

  “That’s it?”

  “I’m just a simple man,” I tell him with a smirk.

  “Simple my ass,” he grumbles as he points out the door we need to exit through. “There were a couple of characters out front that I’m pretty sure were paps – they’ve all been circling the house like sharks, waiting for your return, so just put your head down and we’ll hope for the best.”

  “I’ve only been gone a couple of weeks, Johnny, I haven’t forgotten how this goes,” I tell him.

  “Just move fast and get in the car,” he warns me, and I make a mental note to send him a bonus and give him some time off. This little stunt I’ve pulled has obviously taken its toll on the grumpy old bastard – maybe a holiday in Hawaii would fix that.

  We step out into the warm breeze and I sigh. I might not want to be here right now, but it feels like home – I’ll give it that.

  That moment of contentment is short-lived when the clicking of cameras and calling of my name begins.

  “Beckett!”

  “Over here, Mr. Thorn!”

  “Beckett Thorn, do you have a minute?”

  “Where have you been, Beckett?”

  “I thought you said there was just a couple of them?” I yell at John as he does his best to warn the vultures off so we can escape through the crowd.

  I’m surrounded by people in an instant and it feels like they’d swallow me whole if I stood still and let them.

  The sound of my name being called over and over and the click of the camera shutters all blends into one.

  “There was just a fucking couple,” he yells back to me – the only voice I can make out among the many.

  “No comment,” I tell anyone that will listen.

  That’s the thing with the people in this industry. They’re like a flock of seagulls.

  You throw something to one and the rest all swarm – squawking and screeching and begging for more.

  Half of the time they all just show up out of the fear of missing out on a slice of the pie.

  In this case, I’m the pie.

  I make it to the car with about half a dozen more gropes than I would have liked.

  I slam the door shut and sigh as it cuts off the screams. The tinted windows offer me some protection from the assholes shoving camera lenses in my direction, but it’s not nearly enough after the peace and quiet I’ve grown accustomed to.

  “Holy shit. I know I’ve been away a while, but I’m sure it wasn’t that bad before I left.”

  “Things have… escalated.”

  He holds his hand down firmly on the horn and blasts the paparazzi that have surrounded the car.

  “Get out of the fucking way, or I swear to god I will run you down!” he yells – not that they can hear him.

  “What the fuck are they all doing here anyway? I’m not even doing anything exciting.”

  He pulls out of the park, somehow managing not to run anyone over, and speeds off down the street.

  Half of them will probably try and follow us; the other half will probably go and find some other poor bastard to get a shot of.

  “They got word from that little back-ass country you found yourself in. I guess they all figured it was only a matter of time before you came back home and they could catch a glimpse.”

  “But why do they care?” I ask, exasperated.

  “You’re a super star now, Beck – that movie got you nominated for a Golden Globe, kid. Everybody cares. You thought you were in demand before you left? That was nothing. You won’t be able to take a shit without someone printing a story about it from now on.”

  “It got me what?” I breathe, focusing only on the start of his spiel.

  “You heard me. I’ve been trying to get hold of you for a week. Congratulations, Beck, you’re up there with the big boys now.”

  I can’t fucking believe it.

  A Golden Globe nomination…

  I look out of the window as the place I call home flies by and all I can think about is how much I want to tell a woman on the other side of the world about this. She’d be so excited, but at the same time, I can’t imagine her letting it go to my head.

  I think about her telling me to find something to say. She was right. It’s time.

  “Things are going to change around here,” I tell him quietly.

  “You’re not wrong about that. You might need to hire security.”

  I shake my head. “That’s not what I mean.”

  He shoots me a look out the corner of his eye.

  “You know that producer I was lined up to read lines for?”

  “What about it?”

  “Cancel it. I’m not interested.”

  “But it’s a blockbuster.”

  “I don’t give a shit. It’s not what I want anymore.”

  He opens his mouth and snaps it shut again several times, and I can see the vein in his neck ticking in frustration.

  “I don’t know what got into you over there kid, but –”

  “I don’t know what got into me either,” I admit. “But I know one thing – I’ve finally got something to say.”

  “What’s that meant to mean?”

  I take a deep breath.

  “You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Blaire

  “Holy shit,” I whisper to myself as I drive into the car park of the hotel I dropped Beckett off at last night.

  There are people with cameras everywhere. Most of them look like teenage girls with their cell phones out, along with the occasional middle-aged woman, but whoever they all are, they’re clearly all waiting for Beckett – which gives me hope that maybe I’m not too late.

  I park in the very same park where he kissed me just last night.

  I try not to think about it. I don’t want that to be the last moment I get with him.

  The hotel must have hired security because there are a couple of burly looking men standing at the front doors.

  I open my car door and slip out. I approach the entrance slowly.

  I haven’t really thought this through. I can’t just walk in and ask for him at the front counter it would seem… and even if I did somehow manage to get that far, I’m pretty confident I wouldn’t be the first person to ask for him by name today.

  I really don’t like my chances of even getting near the elevator, let alone the room he’s staying in.

  I decide to try the technique of looking confident – like I’m meant to be here – and hope for the best.

  I’ll fake it until I make it.

  It doesn’t get me far.

  “Excuse me, miss…” A solid arm shoots out and blocks my path.

  I smile sweetly at the slightly smaller of the two men. “Yes?”

  “Are you staying here?”

  I shake my head. “I’m here to visit a friend.”

  The two men eye each other. “What name is your friend’s room reservation under?”

  I open my mo
uth to tell them ‘Beckett Thorn’, but realise that’s not going to get me anywhere fast, other than right back in my vehicle and off up the street.

  “Daniel Beckett,” I blurt out – giving him the same name Beckett gave Lil at the barbers.

  They look at one another curiously before one of them presses a button on the radio in his hand and speaks into it.

  “I think it might be her.”

  My heart pounds in my chest. Am I her? I don’t know who her is, but I really want to be her. I’d give anything to be ‘her’ right now.

  “Is she blonde?” a crackly woman’s voice asks over the radio.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Legs for days?” the woman prompts.

  His eyes widen in embarrassment as he looks me up and down.

  I tug on the bottom of my shorts which could do with being a couple of extra inches longer all of a sudden.

  “I believe that’s an accurate description,” he says sheepishly.

  I blush.

  “Ask her name,” the voice demands.

  He looks at me with raised brows.

  “Blaire?” I sound unsure, like it’s a question. I’ve got no idea what he wants my name for.

  “Blaire,” he repeats.

  “That’s her. Let her in.”

  ***

  I pick a shady spot underneath a tree down at my favourite beach and sit down, crossing my legs.

  I hold the white envelope in front of me like a bomb that might go off.

  I suck in another deep breath and thank god that I’m wearing sunglasses when I think about the fact that he’s gone.

  He’s really gone and I’ll probably never see him in person ever again.

  I knew I was being naïve, but when I went there, I really hoped that I wasn’t too late to see him.

  But I guess some things you read in magazines are true after all.

  When I walked into that foyer after making it past the two burly guard dogs, I’d thought the hard part was done.

  I wasn’t prepared for the words that the woman behind the counter with the perfectly styled bun delivered.