Page 41 of A Star is Scorned

Livvy didn’t think she’d ever been this nervous. It was the good kind of nerves—the fizzy, shaken-champagne-bottle ones. But still, she wished the courage she’d found earlier that day in Flynn’s dressing room hadn’t suddenly deserted her.

She held her bottle of wine and rang the doorbell, once again marveling at the tile lining the archway and porch outside Flynn’s front door. It was colorful, full of rich blues, oranges, and reds, and she pondered who had done such lovely, delicate work.

Flynn yanked the door open and leaned against the doorjamb.

He was dressed casually in a simple pair of brown trousers and a knit, short-sleeved V-neck sweater that brought out the blue in his eyes.

She liked this version of him. Handsome, but plain.

Not trussed up like a movie star or a pirate. Just Flynn, in his most natural state.

“Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes.” He whistled as he took her in.

She felt self-conscious then, afraid that her chiffon polka-dot dress was too much. “I’m sorry, I guess I overdressed.”

He shook his head. “Nonsense, you look beautiful. Besides, in my view, a woman wearing any clothing at all is always overdressed.”

Her jaw fell open at his saucy remark, and she couldn’t suppress a shocked huff of laughter. “Is it safe for me to come in?” she teased.

He winked at her. “Never. But I think you like that.”

She had to admit she did. She’d been so afraid of Flynn.

The truth was, her fears had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the fact that in the dark of movie theaters, it was his wicked ways that had always thrilled her.

The nights she’d spent reading about his exploits in a movie magazine had made her feel things that she didn’t even have words to describe.

It scared her how much she was attracted to his foibles and cheeky sense of humor.

How curious she was about the way he went through life, savoring each moment without shame or regret.

It was admirable, really. Setting aside the notion of worrying about what other people thought.

.. How freeing that must be. Was that something she could allow herself to do? Well, she was here.

“I don’t hate it.” She winked at him. He laughed and reached for the bottle of wine she brought, studying the label.

“Um, it’s a local fortified wine. The man at the shop said it was good.

” She winced, realizing how much that made her sound like a country bumpkin.

Flynn probably had a cellar full of wines from France and Italy.

But her parents had taught her never to arrive at someone’s house empty-handed, and she certainly wasn’t going to start now.

It was the least she could do to honor their memory.

“I’m sure it’s delicious, but you didn’t need to bring anything. Tonight is about treating you.” He stood aside and held out his arm, gesturing for her to come inside. “I told you, I want to show you what you’ve been missing.”

She stepped inside timidly, remembering the way through the foyer from the party, but not wanting to be presumptuous. She awkwardly stood there, waiting for him to take charge.

He snuck up behind her and whispered in her ear, “Make yourself at home. There’s no need to be so nervous.”

She wanted to lean back into the feel of him pressed against her, let him take the edge of her ear between his teeth and nibble at it again. But she resisted. She was barely two feet inside his home and she was already losing her head.

She racked her brain for a safe topic. “The tile in your entryway is gorgeous. I’ve never seen anything like it. Is it from Spain?”

He grinned. “Actually, it’s from right here in Malibu. A place called Malibu Potteries. Alas, they never recovered after a fire a few years back, but they did some marvelous work. Here, let me show you.”

He took her hand and pulled her into a more formal dining room down the hall.

It was a room she hadn’t seen during the Halloween party.

Setting her bottle of wine on his hefty oak table, he reached for a light switch in the corner.

The sun was low in the sky and the room was bathed in afternoon shadows.

When the light flicked on, it illuminated the tile floor beneath the table.

But no, wait, was that a rug? She kneeled down and touched it, gasping in delight. “It’s a rug made out of tile.”

“It is!” He watched her, a look of delight dancing in his eyes. “This was one of their specialties. They did the whole house. All the fountains in the gardens and the details on the terrace both upstairs and downstairs.”

“Your house is a work of art.” She craned her neck to peer under the table, enjoying the rich maroons and yellows that made the tile imitate the threads of a Persian rug. It was breathtaking.

He shrugged. “I grew up in a stodgy house full of antiquities. I wanted this place to feel cozy and Californian. It’s a home, not a museum. But I couldn’t resist the artistry of the tile.”

She stood back up. “It’s marvelous. It’s not stuffy at all either.

It feels like it belongs here, with the surf and the sand.

” She gestured her chin at the set of floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the dining room, granting a breathtaking view of the California coast—the rugged rocks and the crashing waves, the wooden beams of the Malibu Pier in the distance, and beyond that, the undulating brown curves of the hills.

He followed her eyes, and she could feel the heat of his gaze, studying her as she took in the natural beauty that surrounded them. “It’s stunning, isn’t it?”

She nodded and walked closer to the window.

He chuckled when she pressed her face to the glass. “You know, we can go outside.”

He extended his hand and drew her back into the hall, down past the foyer, and into the large room where the party had been. It was so different now. A large stone hearth dominated the space, and there were timeworn, velvet-upholstered chairs and a sofa that looked plush, if also a bit stiff.

She barely had time to take it in before he opened a door on the side of the room and ushered her onto the terrace. Her gaze caught on one of the fountains he’d mentioned, a beautiful pattern of a peacock’s tail emerging from the panoply of turquoise, greens, and blues.

But the fountain paled in comparison to the view.

His deck sat atop the beach, the waves lapping at the bar of sand that extended from a set of wooden stairs in the corner.

The center of the deck boasted a glass table decorated with a red-and-white checked tablecloth, which was held down with a candle in a red glass.

A single red rose in a small vase sat next to it.

It was just like the way he’d set the table after the Catalina Regatta. That had only been a month ago, and already, it seemed like an eternity.

Her heart panged in her chest. Had he done this for her? He looked at her sheepishly, and she could’ve kissed him right then. She’d never seen him like this. Unsure of himself.

“Do you like it?” he asked.

She nodded, a bit overcome. “It’s like the—”

“Dinner on the Sea Monkey. I know. I was rough and a bit rude that night. I wanted a do-over.”

She smiled up at him. “You might have been a little gruff, but it was still a lovely evening. The fish you made was divine.”

He gave her the most radiant smile she’d ever seen. “I’m glad you liked it. But I hope this is even better. Alex over at Perino’s gave me the tablecloth and candle. I thought it was warm enough tonight to eat outside.”

“It’s perfect.” It may have been early November, but it was still unseasonably nice, even for Southern California.

She was warm in her dress. She marveled at the contradictions of Flynn Banks.

His swashbuckling nature and brash persona so at odds with his quiet intellectualism and this unexpected streak of romanticism.

She walked to the edge of the deck and rested her hands on the railing, leaning forward and taking a deep breath as she let the sea air steady her.

She loved the way the beach smelled and felt.

The warm, radiating heat of the sand; the briny smell of the air damp from the spray of the waves; the bright reflection of the sun on the water; and the ever-changing colors of the ocean—sometimes a sparkling green, other times a blue so deep it was almost black.

As a girl, she had loved taking trips to the shore.

Other than a library or a movie theater, the beach had been the only place she could find peace.

She closed her eyes and took another deep breath, sucking in air when she felt Flynn’s hands circle around her waist and his chin rest against her shoulder.

“Is this all right?” he murmured. She answered by leaning back in to him and turning her head to kiss him gently on the lips.

She could feel him smile beneath her mouth, and she increased the pressure.

But instead of deepening the kiss, he broke away and pressed his cheek to hers, so they could both look at the water.

“Your house, this place, it’s a dream,” Livvy said.

“It is. But most of all because it’s completely mine.

No family legacy to uphold, no portraits of ghastly dead relatives to display.

Just the sea and the things that matter to me.

” He squeezed her a bit tighter as he said the last words, and she realized then that she was one of those things.

Or at least she hoped she was becoming one.

But if that was to be true, she had to know more about him. “Why do you hate your family so much?”

He sighed and let go of her, turning around and leaning his elbows against the railing, so he could look her in the eyes. “I don’t hate my family. Just my father. And by extension, the title. He’s a bastard. Always has been.”

“I’m sorry you lived with that. My parents were…difficult. But there was no question they loved me. Losing them was the hardest thing I’ve ever been through.”