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Chapter Six
Cade
I decide that I’ve already breached privacy by going through the front gate; the least I can do is ring the doorbell.
I mean…
If Tatum’s here, she heard the warning of me bringing the truck through the gate.
She knows I’m here.
I press the small cream-colored button—blends in with the stone-sides of the house—and can hear the soft melodic tune from out here.
I could turn around; face the drive.
Give Tatum my back.
But no.
I’m going to be that super creepy guy who stands outside the glass door, watching for her.
Will she come from the kitchen in the back?
From the two-story tall living room, to the right?
Or maybe she’ll come gliding down the curved staircase.
My eyes move throughout the house until finally, movement from the upper balcony catches my attention.
And there she is.
Looking displeased.
I can’t help but grin.
I watch as Tatum O’Malley makes her way down the staircase, dressed surprisingly similar to me, but where my long-sleeves are the t-shirt variety, hers is a hoodie that is far too heavy for the sixty-degree morning.
She makes up for it with the super short-shorts that showcase strong thighs and long legs.
This woman is no stick, not like so many in Hollywood tend to be. She also can’t be much taller than five-foot.
Her eyes latch onto mine through the distance, and if anything, her lips pinch tighter; even her crossed arms tighten a fraction.
She reaches the door and finally lets go of her hold on herself, slipping a hand into the pocket of her sweatshirt and the other unlocks the two deadbolts. When she pulls open the door, small blonde fly-aways along her temples blow in the breeze. Her hair is otherwise swept up on top of her head, a lopsided mess of hair in the popular messy-bun fashion.
“You must be Cade.” Her tone is unamused, but her voice…
Hell, watching the clips of her last night did not prepare me for her voice. In person, it’s sweeter, but with just a hint of rasp.
“Tatum.”
She swallows at that, opens her mouth, then closes it again with a shake of her head. With the door only opened enough for her body, I’m clearly not stepping into the house quite yet. She keeps a hand on the knob while she leans into the jam.
“You’re wasting your time. I’m sorry. But I’m not doing films right now.”
“I brought coffee,” I try. I’m going to break through this woman’s walls, whatever they may be.
She shakes her head, the half-smile on her face is not one of joy.
