Vegas Love (10 page)

But I can’t stop thinking about her.

I Shouldn’t

Ashlyn

I’m jogging on the beach this morning when a guy catches my attention. He’s shirtless, hot and sweaty, and has a towel wrapped around his neck. He looks like he just finished his morning workout.
 

My first thought is that it’s Mr. Sexy, but that can’t be. He’d be back in—was it Seattle?

I jog faster and watch as he walks up a set of stairs and goes into a house not far from mine.
 

Then I realize whose house it is. That wasn’t Mr. Sexy, it was just Carter Crawford out for his morning run.

Come to think of it, Sexy reminded me a bit of Carter—similar athletic build, great arms, pretty smile.

I shake my head.
 

I must be losing it. I’m obsessed with the guy.
 

I look down at the ring still sparkling on my finger.
 

Yep. I’m obsessed.
 

But I can’t stop thinking about him. How hot it was. And how sweet. I just remembered this morning something he did when we were in bed, finally exhausted and falling to sleep.
 

He kisses me on the forehead. “I Vegas love you,” he says, running his hand softly down my side.
 

“Why did you kiss my forehead?” I ask.
 

“Because you’re the coolest girl I’ve ever married,” he teases, but I know in my heart it’s more than that.
 

I glance at my watch, knowing I need to get to work. I’ve had enough problems on set as it is. I can’t miss my call time.

I run back to my house, throw my shit in a bag, and hop in the town car that’s idling in my driveway.

I’ve been thinking about doing something that I know I shouldn’t.

Harper is on her honeymoon, for goodness’ sake.
 

I shouldn’t message her.

I think about her and Maddox’s fairytale courtship and how they got together because of me.
 

Well, technically, because of my agent, Cade Crawford. Cade is only in his early thirties, but he’s a force to be reckoned with. He’s smart, extremely handsome, and an excellent talent agent who works with many of the top names in Hollywood. His younger brother, Carter—who is even hotter—is a former college quarterback who got his law degree and became a sports agent. Harper is a gorgeous model who had a cameo role in one of my movies a few years ago. We hit it off right away, which was shocking because on the surface we’re nothing alike. I’m athletic, a bit of a tomboy, and a goofball, who no matter how many red carpets I walk will probably never be comfortable on a runway. Harper, on the other hand, looks like she was born for just that. She has an effortless style, an amazing body, is a bit prissy, but she’s funny as hell. She travels the globe modeling and I’m always filming or promoting, but when we get together, we have a really good time.
 

Cade had bought a table at a gala to raise money for a children’s charity and offered me two tickets. Harper happened to be in town, so we dressed up and went. Little did she know that night would change her life. Carter had brought one of his clients, the very sexy professional running back, Maddox Harper.

When we were all introduced, I joked that if he and Harper got married her name would be Harper Harper.

Now, six months later, it is.

I picture her lazily swinging her arm off a hammock, letting her fingertips graze the azure waters on her honeymoon, telling Maddox that it’s their best trip ever. If I picture them in bed doing what they should be doing on their honeymoon, I won’t be able to send this text.
 

But, I do.

Me:
 
Happy Honeymoon!
 

Me:
 
How is it?

Me:
 
That’s a stupid question, right? Of course, it is amazing.
 

Me:
 
And I hope I’m not interrupting anything, but . . . I’m at the end of my rapidly fraying rope. And I don’t want to bother you and you may not even get this text, but I’m desperate.
 

Me:
 
Really desperate.

Me: Like I’ve never felt so crazy desperate in my life.

My phone rings and Harper’s name flashes on the screen.

“Don’t kill yourself, Ash! It will all blow over, I promise. I know it’s really embarrassing and all, but people will forget about the sex tape.”

“I wasn’t going to kill myself. I can’t believe you think I would!”

“You said you were desperate. No,
crazy
desperate. What are you desperate about?”

“Okay, this is going to sound like an odd request, but do you know how I could get ahold of Ben Smith? He was at your wedding.”

“Ben Smith? Um, no. I don’t think I know anyone by that name. Hang on. Let me ask Maddox. Baby, do you know a Ben Smith?”

I hear him say no.
 

“I’m sorry, Ash, but we don’t know anyone named Ben Smith and there certainly wasn’t one on the guest list.”

“Oh, my god! That’s it! I need the guest list! Can I get a copy of it?” I start babbling. “Really, I just need a list of all the guys who were there between the ages of twenty and thirty. Guys I don’t know. Ones that are hot—like, holy hell hot.”

“I really can’t think of who that would be. There were a lot of good-looking men at our wedding. Why do you need to find him? Wait. Did you sleep with him? You were there with Zach!”

“Zach broke up with me. Actually, his family broke up with me in a press release.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Ash, but I think it’s for the best.”

“I think you were right. I think all that romantic stuff was more for his fans than me.”

“Can you tell me anything about this guy besides he was hot? Did he say what he does for a living? Does he play football?”

“Oh, maybe. He certainly had the body. No! Wait! He said he was a lawyer. From Seattle, maybe? I can’t remember exactly.”

There’s noise in the background as she opens a door, to the ocean, I think. All of a sudden, I can hear the wind. And I can only hear snippets of her conversation with Maddox.

“Do you know a lawyer from Seattle . . . could have been . . . ash . . . flight . . . didn’t.”

I hear the door shut as she comes back on the line. “We have no idea. Are you sure he was a wedding guest and not like a bartender?”

“Uh—” There’s no way he was a bartender. But I can’t tell her that.

“Is this really important?”

I sigh big and look at my now empty ring finger. Why do I feel naked without it?
 

“Yeah, it is. I just have something of his that I need to return.”

“Like his phone?”

“Yeah, like that. He’ll want it back.”

“Plus, you want to see him again, right?”

I smile, she knows me well. “Yeah, I do.”

“Tell you what. I’m going to text my wedding planner and tell her to email you the list of both wedding guests and servers.”

“Ohmigawd, thank you! Happy Honeymoon! Bye!”

I toss my phone in my bag as we roll through the studio gates.
 

Probably Married

Ashlyn

I’m sitting on my deck this morning after my usual morning jog, drinking coffee and trying not to think about Ben Smith.
 

Actually, I hate that name. It doesn’t fit him. He’ll always be
Sexy
to me.
 

I’m also scouring the guest list the wedding planner sent over.

I do a quick run through assuming that more than likely he did what I did. A real first name and a fake last name.
 

Because
Smith
?
 

There’s an actor named Benjamin, who I know is in his fifties.
 

Definitely not him.
 

I don’t see anyone else who fits, so I decide to take a different approach. Anyone I don’t personally know, I’m going to look them up.
 

And because I’m superstitious in a weird way, I decide to start from the bottom and work my way to the top. I’m on the R’s when the hot guy from the other day goes running by. The guy I thought was Carter—but isn’t.

By the time I get myself out of my chair, shove the papers under a planter—so they don’t blow away—and race down the stairs to the beach, he’s long gone.
 

Sucker’s fast.
 

And buff.
 

Asshole’s probably married too.

But if he runs the beach in both directions, he’s going to come by again.
 

Maybe he’s a friend of Carter’s? Or maybe I’m dumb and that wasn’t even Carter’s house he went into. I’ve only been there once, but I know it was around there somewhere.
 

So I sit on the stairs and wait.
 

And wait.
 

And wait.
 

And, wait.

Jeez, how far does he run?
 

I close my eyes and, for a few precious moments, remember our romantic time in the bathtub. I love how playful Sexy was and how serious he could be at the same time. I’ve never had so much fun with another person in my life.

Why I am I sitting here waiting for some random beach jogger? I’m being silly. I need to stop sitting here and get back to the list.
 

Whoosh.

I look up and see he’s sprinted by me.
 

I can only see his back and maybe it’s wishful thinking—maybe I’m hallucinating—but his back looks a lot like Sexy’s did.
 

I go tearing after him.
 

“Hey, wait up!” I yell.

He doesn’t stop.
 

Damn headphones! People shouldn’t be allowed to wear them!

I keep running, trying to catch up.
 

“Hey!”

He still doesn’t stop.

“Heyyyyyyyyyyyyy!”

Still keeps running.
 

A stitch in my side causes me to stop and catch my breath.

I’m getting ready to yell at the top of my lungs when he stops.

Turns around.

And, ohmifuckingosh, it’s
him
.
 

I think.

Maybe?

Most of the night is so blurry I don’t remember, but I do remember how he looked in the morning.
 

“Well, well,” he says, strutting up to me. “Long time no see.”

There’s sweat running down the middle of his chest. I find myself mesmerized by it and watch it roll between his pecs and down through his well-defined abs.

 
And his abs are as delicious as I remember. I want to have a picnic on them.

“What are you doing here?” he asks me.

“What are
you
doing on
my
beach? Are you stalking me?” I accuse.