Bombshell (Hollywood A-List Book 1) by CD Reiss

Author:CD Reiss [Reiss, CD]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781503943544
Publisher: Montlake Romance
Published: 2017-05-01T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 35

CARA

I didn’t know what to expect from Ray Heywood, but he couldn’t do anything worse than give me a hard time in front of everyone at Kate Martello’s.

I had a feeling it was going to work out all right. My Brad dream had come like clockwork, and I woke up not just turned on, but happy. He and I were a terrible match, but once I wasn’t Nicole’s nanny, I could at least prove to myself that these dreams and feelings were misguided. I was hungry for sex and affection. Not Brad Sinclair particularly.

Yes, once I wasn’t his daughter’s nanny, I could kiss him again, and it would be . . . sad.

I parked the car myself and crossed over to the back entrance of the restaurant.

Brad and I were going to have some kind of short-term fling that proved we were incompatible and then what? I’d fallen in love with Nicole.

Do not fall in love with the children.

I had a fantasy. Ray hired me back. I let Brad do all the things to my body he ever imagined.

But I didn’t have enough of an imagination to make the relationship permanent. So what happened to Nicole? I couldn’t be the first of many that drifted in and out of her life. I couldn’t break her heart.

The standard-issue dog pack of paparazzi hung out behind the velvet rope. They usually ignored me, which worked out perfectly, thank you.

I didn’t even look at them or look down when I passed. My mind was on Nicole, who I loved, and Brad, who was the worst kind of person in the nicest kind of package, berating myself for giving up one so I could have the other. I couldn’t see a way around it. Couldn’t see a way to have them both. Or even one without the other.

I approached the guy in the suit who let people in (or not) and was about to say my name when I heard it, loud and clear.

“Cara DuMont!”

I looked to the source of the call, and never found it, because it was drowned out by the entire dog pack calling my name and the uncomfortable sight of black lenses pointed in my direction.

“Miss DuMont!”

“Where did you get those shoes?”

“Where’s Brad Sinclair?”

“What did you say when he mooned you?”

“How was that kiss last night?”

I swallowed my heart and lungs in one gulp, but they lodged in my throat.

The kiss.

On the path to the pool house.

Of course someone had seen it, but I hadn’t seen anything on the web about it. No pictures had surfaced. Had I missed it? Who knew about it? Everyone? Insiders? The public? What were they saying? Was I a whore? Was I a curiosity? Who was I? I couldn’t hear, taste, feel anything outside the fracture in my sense of self.

“Miss DuMont,” the man with the dark suit said. I looked at him. Forties. Kind face. Tablet tucked in the crook of his arm.

“Yes.” I could barely get my voice past the organs stuck in my throat.

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