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“I thought about it.” Dillon cut her off, saving her the discomfort of asking. “Once. Shortly after my dad died.” She worked her jaw, again glancing away from Kam’s searching gaze. “I was—it was a rough time for me—with everything that happened. But I got through it.”
Thoughtful, Kam slipped her hand into Dillon’s. “Please don’t scare me again.” She stared at their entwined fingers. “If you need time—if you need space—that’s all you have to say. You don’t even have to tell me where you’re going. I just want to know you’re safe.”
The observation wheel continued to revolve, their pod cresting the highest point of the circle, but Dillon didn’t notice. She’d forgotten any fear of falling. There were other things in life far more frightening to face—like being asked to make promises she wasn’t certain she could keep.
“Okay,” she said at last, as the wheel began to descend over South Bank. “I can do that.”
“You give me your word? You won’t just disappear?”
“Yes.” She meant it. Never once had she taken a promise lightly.
Kam’s hand relaxed. Behind them, Buckingham Palace slipped out of sight, but neither of them cared. The view had been forgotten completely.
Sighing, Kam leaned forward, resting her forehead against hers.
“You should know—I think I’m in love with you, Dillon Sinclair,” she whispered, before pushing herself to her feet, giving Dillon no chance to respond as the pod settled onto the offloading track and the door slid open.
Scene 33
The thump of a pounding bass vibrated the lamppost on the sidewalk before we’d even reached the pub door.
Dillon shot me a look beneath a raised eyebrow. “You sure you’re up for this? It’s going to be a melee of British athletes—guaranteed to be chopsy and hanging.”
This last phrase brought me to a pause. “Chopsy and hanging?”
“Fighting and drunk,” she translated.
“Oh.” I laughed. “Yeah—Fight ClubI can handle.Texas Chainsaw Massacrewould be a different story.”
It was Sam Huntley’s thirtieth birthday party.A wee do, Sam had described it, when she’d texted Dillon to reiterate the invitation was extended to me. There would be nothingweeabout it, Dillon had warned. But she’d also mentioned my attendance would likely make Sam’s year—once again reinforcing my belief that I’d gone to sleep Kameryn Kingsbury and woken up in a parallel universe living someone else’s life. Because in what reality did I exist where I was being invited to the birthday of one of the most famous athletes of the twenty-first century?
There was no way I was going to turn that down.
Well, unless Dillon had wanted me to. I hadn’t been sure how she would feel being linked with me in public. We’d alreadyagreed—in that easy way people set terms before things really matter—to keep our relationship private. I’d allowed her to cite my career as the primary reason. And it was true, while we may have been living in one of the most progressive eras in history, behind the scenes, Hollywood was still an unfriendly place for anyone who strayed from the so-called “normal.”
But I think we both knew the decision was made for her sake more than anything. And I was all right with that. It was no one’s business but our own.
“Would it be better if we went separately?” I’d asked as she sat on the edge of her tub, watching me apply my makeup. “On the off chance someone recognizes me?”
“Nonsense.” She stood, stepping up behind me as I blended my foundation. “No laws against me bringing a mate along to a party.” Slipping the strap of my dress aside, she kissed the top of my arm. “But you’d be daft to think you might go unnoticed. Even if Sam wasn’t positively giddy over your upcoming film, there’s no chance you could walk into any room and not turn the heads of everyone around you.”
“I think you might be biased.”
“Rubbish. I just have impeccable taste.” She rested her chin on my shoulder. “You know, it took me a while to see it—the relation between the girl I fell in love with on a Pacific island and the woman in the headshots preparing to make her Hollywood premiere. But I can see it now.”
I turned my attention away from where I’d begun to apply my mascara, catching her gaze in the mirror.
The previous morning, I’d told her I loved her while we were on the London Eye, and to hear her admit she felt the same came as an immense relief.
“And which one do you prefer?” I asked, my mascara brush still paused midair.
She shrugged. “I’m a fan of both.”
“But if you had to choose,” I goaded.
“Fine—this one,” she said, her eyes gesturing down the snug cut of the cocktail dress she’d helped me shop for earlier in the morning, then back to my made-up face. “Andthe other one,” she continued, “the one drenched to the skin, covered in mud, slipping down Ka’uiki Head, who let me kiss her in the rain.” She leaned closer to my ear. “Along with all the other women you are, who I’ve yet to meet. I’ll love them all the same.”
“Keep it up,” I’d had to tease, finding it suddenly hard to breathe, “and when we get home tonight, you just might get lucky.”
