“Yes. And he bought that ranch for your mother.”
“She never liked it. But my brother Rhett loves it. We kept it.”
This is crazy. The Wilders are literally one of the most famous families in America. For a lot of reasons.
If anything, the whole billionaire detail puts me off a little. I always thought those billionaires must be greedy, uncaring people, hoarding all their money while other people suffer. I mean, look at the one who bought my hotel: he’s stingy as hell, totally absent from the business he owns, and he also has a knack for hiring bitchy managers who treat their employees like they’re her own personal workhorses.
But something else gives me a reason to feel more connected to Dallas than I’d like to admit. His family has suffered terrible tragedies. Like mine. The media couldn’t get enough of his mother’s drinking habit and her slow, sad, messy downfall. Or his father’s devastation after she was discovered floating in the pool of their mansion in the Hollywood Hills, which led to his own terrible decline.
The Wilder brothers were stalked by paparazzi for months after both their parents’ deaths. They were all over the front of those magazines you see in the check-out aisles at the supermarket, trying to shield themselves from the onslaught.
That explains the hat and the sunglasses.
The family even had bio-pics made about them on entertainment networks. I never saw any of them, but I remember atthe time thinking that it all seemed so unfair, to have your most personal tragedies fed to the public as entertainment. Just like mine were, but on a much smaller scale, even if it didn’t feel small-scale at the time. “I’m sorry about your mother, Dallas. And your father.”
His expression is equal parts soulful and heartbreaking. Because he’s even more beautiful when he’s sad. “Thanks. I’m sorry about yours.”
I don’t want him sad. He’s my savior for the weekend. And I have this crazy sense that I’m holding onto a secret power. One that somehow meansIcan make him happy in a way no one else can.
Maybe I’m the one being presumptuous now, but I have a strong feeling it’s true. I smooth one of those thick locks of hair carefully back into place and he watches my eyes as I do this. I can see that he’s forgetting about his past for the moment. He’s thinking about the kiss, like I am.
And there it is. A bond we can’t help but share, and one that disconcertingly feels like the broken pieces of our souls, against all odds, fit together.
20
“It must have beena wild upbringing, being the son of such a famous film star.” I’m curious but we’re going slow, being careful about the things that are most painful to talk about.
“‘Wild’ is putting it mildly,” Dallas says. “My mother was the kind of person who filled up every room she was in. She was magical when she was at her best. But she was a wrecking ball at her worst.”
The waiter appears. He’s holding a silver bucket full of ice and a bottle of champagne, along with two glasses. “My apologies for the interruption, Mr. Wilder. This bottle of vintage Moët is compliments of the restaurant owner.” He sets the bucket on a stand and the glasses on the table. Then he makes a production of popping the cork and pouring champagne into the two flutes. “Are you ready to order?”
“Please bring us a small dish of everything on the menu.”
“Of course, sir. Very good, sir.”
Everything?This menu doesn’t even have the prices listed. I don’t want to think the thought but I can’t stop it: I guessbillionairescan do things like that.
I wish he wasn’t a billionaire. I wish the divide between us wasn’t so vast. So I try instead to focus on the things we have in common. Our scars and our chemistry—which I can admit is combustible. My body feels like it’s made of live wires and warm honey.
The waiter disappears and Dallas hands me a flute. “This stuff is angel’s poison, not the devil’s. Try a sip. If you don’t like it you can have something else.”
“Angel’s poison. Ha.” He remembers what I told him. But I like the sound of that. And what the hell. It’s my weekend off from the damn hotel and all the memories that insist on continuing to bubble up from her sunken ship. It suddenly feels wrong that I’ve clung to the wreckage this long, like a lost wretch anchored to my ghosts.
So I do it. He clinks his glass against mine and I take a sip.
I’ve never had champagne before. When you deal with as much brown liquor as I do on a daily basis and all the bad decisions it leads to, you tend to avoid the stuff like the plague. Needless to say, we’ve never stocked Moët.
It tastes bubbly and magical. Airy and light and so delicious I sip a little more. “You really never thought of becoming an actor or a movie director? With my own family, hotels were just in our blood. You never felt like the cinema was in yours?”
“I was never interested in being on either side of the camera. There was so much drama going on in our lives, the last thing I wanted to do was create more of it, fictional orotherwise. I was happiest holed up in a quiet room by myself poring over spreadsheets. Boring, probably.” He smiles ruefully. “And very predictable. Which I guess was exactly what I was looking for.”
I picture him as a ten-year-old. “Poor Dally. But it paid off for you.”
“I guess it did. I managed to make the numbers work in my favor.”
That’s putting it mildly.
“I bought and now co-own with my brothers and a couple other investors the movie studio my father co-founded, which was floundering when he died, but we’ve managed to turn it around. That’s about as close as I get to Hollywood.”
