Second(8)
“Not really,” he says, turning to face me. “I’m hardly home. If I’m not on tour, I’m usually still doing some kind of travel for interviews or appearances, or I’m in the studio.” He pauses and shrugs. “And when I am home, I have a chef.”
A chef.
The man has his own personal chef.
“Wow,” I mutter under my breath.
“That’s it?” he asks, leaning against the countertop. “You’re not going to give me any shit?”
Do other people give him crap for living a life of luxury? I wonder if they do, and that’s why he made that comment. The thought annoys me.
“Why would I give you shit for doing so well for yourself that you have a chef?” I ask, arching my brow. “You work hard, Dean, and you’re amazing at what you do. Own it. Don’t worry about what other people have to say. They’re probably just jealous.” I shrug and add, “And to be honest I was just thinking about how humble you still are. That’s what matters. You have everything, but you’re still the same person.”
He ducks his head, as if shy. “We have to be at breakfast at nine.”
“Great,” I murmur, and then feel like a total bitch, because the woman did just lose her son. “No, you’re right. I should be there.”
He nods, obviously agreeing. Yes, she’s not the most kind-hearted woman out there, but she is still Ben’s mother. It’s the least I can do to go over there and see how she’s holding up. I have only spoken to her once since the funeral, when she rang to ask when she could come over and pick up any of Ben’s possessions that she wanted to keep. I told her to come whenever, but she never did, or she did and I was in my haze of sadness and didn’t hear her at the door.
“What should we do until dinner time?” I ask him, having nothing to do now that all the food is put away. “Or can I go back to bed? I think I did well, for day one.”
“Definitely not going back to bed. Forward not backwards, Sabina. Why don’t we go to the beach or something? I’m sure you could use the exercise after being in bed for so long,” he says, flashing me those dimples of his. They are so deep that I want to poke them with my finger.
“The beach actually sounds like a good idea,” I tell him.
I love the beach. I need to be reminded just how good life can be.
And I need to be surrounded by all the things I love.
Chapter Four
I smile at the warmth from the sun on my skin. Rolling over onto my stomach on the towel, I lift my head and look over at Dean, who is lying next to me reading a book while I get my tan on. After we walked along the beach for an hour, we went for a swim, and are now relaxing on the sand as I hope my pale skin might turn the colour of Dean’s naturally tan one. The beach is deserted, so we don’t have to worry about him being hounded by fans.
“Thanks for dragging me out of bed today,” I say to him.
“I know it’s not easy,” he says, closing his book. “I wanted to come earlier but I had to finish the tour. Then I ran into Tara and she told me you weren’t doing so well, and I know how soft she is, so I thought I’d try the whole tough love thing.”
I smile at his description of my best friend. Tara is very soft. She’s kind-hearted and gentle, and also hilarious, but there’s no way she’d give me any kind of tough love. She took care of me in her way, and I love her for that. Dean, however, gave me the jolt of reality I needed. It feels good to be out of the house. I miss Ben so much, but he’s not coming back, and I need to deal with that. I need to get used to it. There’s no alternative. This is my life now. I’m a widow.
“I appreciate it,” I tell him, reaching out and touching his shoulder. “I’m glad you’re here, Dean.”
“Happy to be here,” he replies, reopening his book. I lay the side of my head back on the towel. We stay like this until the sun sets, and then we head back home. I put a towel on the bed in the spare bedroom, where I assume Dean will be staying tonight. He hasn’t said if he’s staying with Kate or not, but I wouldn’t want to stay there. He’s welcome here anytime, and to be honest, I like him being here. His company is just the distraction I need right now. After a hot shower I find him standing in the kitchen, fresh out of the shower himself, starting dinner. He’s wearing a pair of black basketball shorts with a t-shirt, his feet bare.
“Do you want me to help with anything?” I ask, leaning my elbows on the countertop.
“Nope,” he says, not bothering to turn around and look at me.
“What am I meant to do then?” I ask. I don’t want to do nothing, because that’s when my mind starts to wander to places it doesn’t need to. I don’t want to think. I want to just pretend that everything in my life is okay, until it really is. Fake it till you make it. Maybe I can make myself think that I’m fine. Lock all my emotions away in a box, and bury it deep. So deep that not even I can find it.