Hello LAlaland (Lost in LAlaland) (7 page)

All of a sudden, Marci jumped from her seat and ran toward the front door of the restaurant. I turned in time to see her throw her arms around a handsome man of Middle-Eastern descent. I knew it had to be Astin. Lucky girl. He was gorgeous. It was no wonder she and I got along so well all these years—we both had a thing for exotic men. And who could blame us? It was like having a choice between plain vanilla and rich, dark chocolate.

Leading him to our table, Marci introduced us, keeping her arm wrapped possessively around his the entire time. “Winifred Chapman, meet Astin Yadin.” I nodded and smiled. He had such an American and modern given name, I was surprised by his very Israeli last name. As if reading my thoughts, Marci added, “Astin’s first name is actually Shlomo.”

I watched as he cringed and chuckled, and I had to bite my lip from laughing out loud. “No one except my parents call me that,” he informed me with a teasing glare. No wonder Mars had fallen for this guy—he was smoking hot. That accent was perfect.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Astin, and congratulations on your engagement. Marci is quite a girl,” I said with a smile as they slid into the booth across from me. “Will you be joining our shopping extravaganza today?”

His expression gave away his surprise by my question. “I’d hate to intrude on your girl-time.”

With a wave of my hand, I brushed off his concern. “Come with us. We can always use a man to carry our shopping bags,” I said, reassuring him.

The mortification on his face, followed by Marci’s thrilled chuckle, was priceless.

“Marci! Winifred! Over here! Astin!” The paparazzi called to us, snapping dozens of pictures as we made our way down Rodeo. Why on earth they had nothing better to do than take pictures of a fashion designer and a professional socialite was beyond me. Didn’t they have to track the latest hookups and breakups in Hollywood? I wished they would have left us alone. The object of the game was to ignore them, and we’d been rather successful with our strategy until that point. I kept wishing for an actual famous person like Madonna or Jennifer Lawrence or Henry
Fuck-Hot
Cavill to pop out of one of the boutiques and take the focus off us. Alas, no one came to our rescue.

“Are you ready to head back to the Valley yet?” Marci asked as we neared an even larger group of photographers, huddled around Tiffany & Company, waiting for whoever was inside. I nodded in confirmation. We’d made an excessive amount of purchases, though it was not our most expensive trip to Rodeo by any means. A new, bright yellow Prada bag was slung over my shoulder. Honestly, I deserved a new fifty-three hundred dollar purse, and the couple thousands of dollars worth of lingerie I’d bought from the Agent Provocateur boutique, simply for being able to walk away from Tony last night. That had taken an epic amount of willpower on my part.

We were turning toward the parking garage when I heard the questions that the paps were shouting at the person they’d been waiting on. “How does it feel to be home in Los Angeles? You’ve been pretty low-key since the Yankees released you. Do you still play ball? Are you still dating Francesca Bellini? Were you buying her a ring? How’s the restaurant business treating you, Tony?” I froze.

What the hell?

I spun around and stopped dead in my tracks when my eyes met his. Well, I assumed that our eyes met. He was wearing a pair of dark aviator glasses, looking like he’d just walked off the set of Top Gun. Tony hadn’t shaved that morning, and the whisker burns on my neck and breasts flared as I focused on him. I knew by the twitch in his jaw that he was not happy with me.

Parting the sea of paparazzi and marching over to me, he took me by the arms and hauled me against himself. In one fell swoop, his lips were moving against my own. His rough stubble irritated my face, leaving marks as angry as his impassioned kiss. He smelled like spearmint and espresso and marinara. The combination was heady and intoxicating and totally summing up the Italian in him.

After the initial shock wore off and the clicking of the paparazzi’s cameras registered in my ears, I tore my lips from his and shoved him backward. He only moved a fraction of an inch, despite the force I put behind it. Tony’s lips and chin were covered in my ruby lipstick, and the knowledge that I’d marked him as my own was invigorating, but I wouldn’t allow myself to give in.

“You bastard!” I said, seething. “That shit is going to be all over the front page of the tabloids tomorrow!” Sure, I may have been exaggerating a tad—neither of us were famous enough to make the front page—but I was so furious with the liberties he’d publicly taken that I was willing to sound like an idiot to prove my point.

“Why the fuck did you leave me last night, Winifred?” he demanded, pain registering in his voice. I could only stare in frustration at him. I had no idea what to say. “Did you really think that was the smartest thing to do, after I had just gotten through telling you how much I’ve always wanted you? After I made love to you? You’ve been on my mind for years! What the hell are you scared of?”

I stilled, listening to but not comprehending what he was saying. I kept hearing “I made love to you” over and over again. This thing obviously wasn’t supposed to be a one-time event in his mind.

Revelations and consequences flashed through me like lightning—scenarios of what could be—but I forced them away with a shake of my head. However much I had liked him and wanted him when we were younger, it wasn’t possible. We weren’t the same people anymore. And yes, the sex had been magnificent, but I was no longer a teenager driven by hormones.

“I’m not afraid of anyone or anything, and especially not
you
.” My words were firm, daring him to question the resolve in my voice. When he didn’t protest, I pushed against his chest. “Now, let me go, Tony,” I ordered, willing my voice to remain steady and strong. Glancing over my shoulder to make sure that Marci and Astin were still around, I saw them staring wide-eyed at the scene we’d created. I pulled free from Tony’s grasp, leaving him stunned and reaching toward me as I walked away quickly.

“Are you okay, Winn?” Astin asked, watching me in the rearview mirror as I climbed into the car. Concern was etched on his face as he studied me, and the unshed tears brimming in my eyes threatened to spill over.

Blinking against the moisture, I tossed my purse down beside me. “Drive. Just . . . get me back to the hotel, please.”

Astin hit the gas and we pealed out of the parking space just as Tony made his way toward us, leaving him to kick at the concrete with his beautiful Italian oxfords.

Chapter 5

The black cocktail dress I’d picked out for the final night’s events was tight in all the right places. Losing weight from my teen years, and again after my pregnancy, was the best thing I’d ever done for myself. My body was something I was proud of because it was my own, and I enjoyed the fact that I could design the clothes to accentuate it. Despite whatever society felt about a woman’s body, I was confident in the fact that my flaws, like the light gray stretch marks that littered my stomach and hips from pregnancy, only added to the betterment of my womanhood.

As I entered the garden tent, I prepared myself for the stares and whispers from Tony’s old friends. For a moment, I wondered if seducing someone of his former ranking in the class had been a very good idea. Though I’d told Tony that I wasn’t afraid of anyone, I felt a trembling in my stomach, belying my poised words. I hadn’t been at the reunion festivities the past two nights, and this was the reason why. Instead, I’d been relaxing on the beach in Malibu, or drinking bottles of wine with Marci, or taking Ashley out shopping for baby clothes—filling up every moment of my days with things to take my mind off Tony Ricci.

Taking a deep breath, I steeled myself for the laughs and fingers that would be pointed my way. Head held high, I strode to the bar and ordered tequila, straight up, knowing I’d need the liquid courage to get through the night. Three former jocks, whom I knew would be the first attackers, found their way to me. Ethan, Luke, and Greg—the first boy I’d ever kissed—flanked me. I downed my shot of tequila before acknowledging their uninvited presence.

“Winifred Jensen . . .” Ethan read off of my name tag slowly, trying to place me in his memory.

My eyebrows furrowed in confusion, and I wondered what kind of game they were playing. It would be much easier to bring the assholes to their knees if they would just come straight out and say something stupid about my night with Tony.

Greg was the first to interrupt my thoughts. “Winn? Winn Chapman?” he asked in shock. I saw the way his eyes danced over my body, focusing on my exposed thigh as astonishment morphed into lust in them.

Damn it. The last thing I needed right then was a second man trying to get under my skirt. With a deep sigh, I turned to him, hoping that my body language would let him know I was not interested in any way, shape, or form.

“Hi, Greg—guys,” I greeted dismissively. Tilting my empty glass toward the bartender, I asked him to top me off. The man poured me a double shot and pushed the glass back.

“I didn’t realize that you would be here,” Luke said as he stole the bar stool beside me, letting his gaze slide over me much the same way that Greg had. “You look . . . amazing. Your hair is a lot lighter. What have you been doing with yourself, besides working out, obviously?” What an ass. “God, what has it been?” he asked.

“Since this is our ten-year reunion, I’d say it’s been about a decade,” I offered with an unimpressed blink of my eyes. “I design clothes . . . like that suit jacket you’re wearing,” I pointed out, moving away from the bar. “Which, by the way, clashes with your slacks. Anyway, I’d better go find some people to mingle with. Later, guys.” I left Luke to stare down at his slacks, asking Ethan if they really didn’t go together.

“Wait up, Winn!” Greg called, jogging after me. With a roll of my eyes, I slowed my steps and turned toward him. “Why are you running away? It’s been a long time. Why don’t we go back into the hotel and do some . . . catching up.”

“Don’t you think that Tony would rather you didn’t try to hit on me?” I asked, frowning in confusion.

“Tony?” Greg questioned. “Like Anthony Ricci? Why in the hell would he give a shit?” I stared at him blankly, unsure of how to respond, and taken off guard. Maybe they weren’t friends anymore, or perhaps Tony really hadn’t told any of the guys about what happened between us? Greg’s words drew me out of my thoughts. “. . . was fucking mad as hell at me for kissing you back then. And now, just because he had the hots for you in high school, he thinks he has some claim on you?”

“No, jackass.” Tony’s voice filled my ears—a most welcome, and terrifying, relief. “I have a claim on her after Thursday night, which is none of your fucking business.” His body pressed close behind me. Frozen, I couldn’t avoid his looming presence, nor could I find it in me to want to escape.

Greg looked back and forth between the two of us, gauging my reaction to Tony’s abrupt appearance. Finally, he held up his hands in surrender. “Good luck, man. She was a pretty good kisser back in the day,” he said as if I wasn’t even there. “But you’ve apparently already figured that part out . . .” His voice trailed off as he backed away, laughing.

Tony ignored Greg’s comments and retreating form. Instead, he gripped my arms and spun me around. “Come with me. Now,” he demanded. I shook my head in refusal, but his grip only tightened as he pulled me with mighty force toward the exit of the tent.

He dragged me behind him through the hotel lobby, ignoring my protests about the way he was man-handling me, and only stopping when we got to the valet. Tony offered the ticket, and the kid scurried off to retrieve the vehicle. As soon as he was out of sight, I found myself against Tony’s chest, kissing him again. His mouth fed in starving desire from my own. But our passionate moment was interrupted as a silver Maserati pulled to a screeching stop in front of us. There was no time to think or second guess his intentions. He tore away from me, and I was quickly ushered into the car.

Silence surrounded us as we zipped down the 101 toward Studio City. I was drowning in my own thoughts, and Tony must have been as well, because he gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles. When we exited the freeway, the lights of Ventura Boulevard shone against the chrome of Tony’s fancy car. Yellow light, shadow, yellow, shadow. We turned onto Beverly Glen and made our way up the winding road until we came upon a hidden driveway. As we passed the gates to the private home, I stared at the beautiful mansion in front of me.

His parents’ home was gorgeous. Resembling an Italian villa, it overlooked the San Fernando Valley, whose bright lights stood out like twinkling fairies amongst the glowing sky. We pulled to a stop, and he turned off the car. Tony helped me out, carrying me into the house when I didn’t move fast enough for his liking and slamming the door behind us.

My muddled thoughts disappeared when I was pulled against his hot, hard body. Tony wasted no time in tilting my head back, covering my lips with his, and wrestling with my tongue. He worshipped my lips, my eyelids, my jaw, my neck, and even my breasts with his mouth, as he pulled at my dress. My panties were tugged down my legs, and my dress swiftly followed as he knelt before me, lifting my knee over his shoulder.

I cried out at the first invasion from him, and gripped his hair with a sharp tug to keep my balance. Though I wasn’t completely wet and ready for him, Tony drove two fingers up inside me. In and out, he maintained a punishing rhythm. But when his lips attached to my clit, and he suckled and nipped at my bundle of nerves, I became liquid around his fingers. My orgasm rippled over my body with ferocity.