Lauren Blakely - Every Second With You

“What did you find?”

“More cards,” she says, and then she jumps up and grabs her purse.

She digs into her purse, and shows me several cards. I study each one, tracing the words as if I can decode them. Stories of the sand, the beach, and a girl. Like this one: She could build them as high as the sky, with sand turrets and towers that reached for the clouds. Only, there were no clouds where she was, underneath the bluest of blue, so different from the places she was used to . . .

“It’s kind of a cool story,” I say.

“Yeah, I love it. And that’s all the more reason why I want to find them,” she says, and tells me how she and Kristen hunted for a name, an address, any sort of information. “I really want to know where they are. How to reach them. I want to talk to them, Trey. So what do I do?”

I push my hand through my hair, running through scenarios in my head. Sites to try, names to research, documents to look into, but the reality is we’re here in New York, and her grandparents are probably somewhere in California, and she doesn’t even know their last name. She can’t waltz into the hall of records for the county and dig around till she finds the info. I wish I knew a detective, or an investigator to track them down, but then it hits me.

There’s one person who just knows stuff. Who can find things out.

And I can’t believe I’m about to suggest this because two months ago he was my worst enemy, but he might be the one who can help her. And it takes every ounce of guts and restraint to get the words to travel from my brain to my throat to my mouth to my lips, but I want this for Harley, and I want to show her I can move on.

“What if you asked Cam to help find them? He could probably figure out their names somehow, right?”

She blinks several times as if she doesn’t recognize me, as if I’m some strange robot inside her boyfriend’s body.

“Are you serious?” Her mouth hangs open, the shock still lingering.

“Give it a shot,” I say, even though there’s a part of my brain that’s smacking me for suggesting this at all. But I ignore that part because I know this is what she needs. “I want you to find them and he’s one of those people, right? He’s the kind of person, for better or worse, who knows how to figure things out. Just don’t wear your socks and Mary Janes when you go see him, okay?”

She shakes her head, and laughs. “I burned those motherfuckers.”

Harley

The receptionist doesn’t remember me. But I recognize her instantly from the last time I walked through these doors three months ago. Her stick-straight blond hair is blow-dried in the same perfect bob, exactly as she looked when I told Cam I’d work for him again.

She has no idea what goes down behind his closed door. She probably has no clue about his secrets.

But maybe she has her own secrets too. Maybe she has darkness inside her that she hides behind her perfect hair, and her pink, lip-glossed, closed-mouth smile. Maybe she’s struggling to fit in this world.

I smile broadly. It’s all I have to give a stranger, but sometimes it’s all someone needs for their day to be better.

“Hi. I have an appointment to see Cam Jackson. I’m Harley Coleman. And you have gorgeous hair.”

She touches the ends of her hair briefly, and her smile reaches her eyes for the first time. “Thank you,” she says crisply. Then she calls Cam’s office to let him know I’m here. She says he’ll be with me shortly.

I nod and take a seat. I’ve never taken a seat here before. I’ve never waited before. But I have to be okay with that because I’m no longer the star in Cam’s stable. I’m not in his stable at all, and I need to be grateful for whatever help I can snag from that fixer of a man. I open the book I have an essay test on later this week and re-read some of the passages full of symbolism, since the professor said he’d focus on that in the exam.

Ten minutes later, the receptionist tells me I can go to Cam’s office.

I stand, and smooth out unseen wrinkles on my green T-shirt with a cartoonish owl on it. My hair is cinched in a ponytail, and I have on jeans and combat boots—the reminder of who I am is as much for Cam as it is for me. My purse is on my arm, the gift for him inside.

I tread the familiar route across the plush navy blue carpet in the hallway, reminding myself I am on the other side, I am here as Harley, only Harley. Layla is history; the girl I once was for him and his men is gone, and the jitters under my skin should be ignored. When I reach his suite, the door is ajar, and I hear Journey’s Don’t Stop Believin’ playing on his computer.

I knock tentatively, and then press a hand against my belly as I wait. There’s a whole damn flock of nerves setting up a base camp in my stomach.

“Door’s always open,” Cam’s loud voice calls out to me.

When I push open the door, he’s leaning back in his chair, his feet propped up on his desk, clad in European leather shoes. His arms are crossed over his broad chest, and he’s sporting a crisp shirt the color of eggplant. His blue eyes twinkle mischievously.

I wave. “Hi.”

“You like this song?” he asks, tipping his forehead to the computer.

“Um. Yeah? Who doesn’t?”

“It’s my anthem today. It represents all the hope in the world that I feel building in my chest right now,” he says, tapping his sternum.

Uh-oh. He thinks I’m coming back, even though I specifically told him this wasn’t about working again.

“Cam,” I say softly, shaking my head.

He waves gregariously, then stands up and walks over to me, wrapping me in a massive hug. “I know, baby doll. I know. But you can’t fault a man for dreaming. Especially not this man. And especially not after the shitstorm I fucking endured the night you left,” he says, rubbing his hand across my back.

I inch out of his embrace, and cock my head to the side. “What do you mean? What happened?”

His eyebrows shoot into his hairline. “What? You think Mr. Stewart was just fine and dandy with you waltzing off into the sunset with a tummy ache- cough-cough -new man?” Cam shakes his head several times in an exaggerated fashion, his movements punctuated by the upbeat chorus to the Journey song.

“Did he do something?”

Cam nods. “You bet he did something. He gave me a black eye six ways to Chattanooga. Right in the men’s room at the Parker Meridien. Man, he’s one cold bastard. All mild-mannered on the outside, but steely-eyed when you fuck with him. Don’t mess with businessmen from California, evidently. That’s my new mantra.”

“Oh shit. I’m so sorry,” I say, and reflexively I step forward and trace my finger beneath his eye, even though the marks are gone.

He hisses in a breath, but after a few seconds of contact he swats my hand away. “It’s nothing. My mama came over and took care of me.”

I narrow my eyes. “Your mom? You told me your mom passed away years ago. Your dad, too,” I say, because Cam’s all alone. He’s an only child with a mom who drank till her liver shut down, and a dad who died of cancer. He’s a man against the world.

“I’m just busting your chops, baby doll. I took care of myself. I always take care of myself. Got a steak, slapped it against my eye, poured myself some scotch, watched a little Notting Hill and I was fine by the morning,” he says, all cool and smooth, like he’s always been.

“ Notting Hill ?”

“It’s only my favorite movie. C’mon. Is there anything better than when Julia Roberts says—” Cam adopts a female voice, placing his big hand on his heart, “‘I’m just a girl standing in front of a boy, asking him to love her?’”