Page 26 of Rulebreaker (Gamebreakers #4)

TWENTY-SIX

Lily

I jot down a few last words to the song I’ve been working on for weeks, still not happy with it, but also too blissed out to care. I have songwriting partners and producers to help me perfect it when the time is right. Besides, this one is personal.

My working title is “Having, Holding, and Hearting.” Teenage girls are going to love it. Middle aged moms and octogenarians probably will too.

Nothing gets to my fans more than a love song, especially one filled with campy cliches and grand gestures. Kind of like the man in my life.

Ironically, Atlas has become my muse.

More than that, he’s starting to become…oh, who am I kidding? He has absolutely become my world. Or at least the very best part of it.

That’s why today is the day.

He’s cooking breakfast, I took a quick shower and made notes on my laptop for the song, and now I have to tell the man I love about… my husband.

There’s some irony.

The good news is that Atlas loves me.

I’m still trying to wrap my head around how momentous this is for me, for both of us. Last night was without a doubt one of the best of my entire life, and all because Atlas Delarosa loves me.

Knowing how he feels makes me feel better about the conversation I’ve been putting off for so long. Deep down, I think this is what I was waiting for. To know this is more than a casual fling to him.

To know that he gets me and that he’s going to understand.

I just have to be honest about who I am now versus who I was then.

A scared, somewhat innocent young woman who let a famous, successful–much older–man sway the course of her life. No one, least of all me, could have predicted how things would turn out. Atlas will understand that. He has to. Otherwise, how can he possibly feel the way he says he feels?

I have faith in a man who has the ability to rock my world–both in bed and out.

Last night was something else, though.

The winery.

The atrium.

Meeting Jean-Michel Dubois.

I mean, fuck, but he pulled out all the damn stops.

From the dress to the jewelry to the purse.

The most exquisite petite sirah. The way he peeled that red dress off of me one goddamn inch at a time, using his tongue and lips to kiss every new piece of skin as it was revealed.

The most erotic lovemaking of my entire life.

And we didn’t fuck .

He made love to me like a groom on his wedding night, with his heart in his eyes and his soul tangled with mine. I’ve never been loved so well. So completely loved.

Which is why I know he’s going to listen and then help me endure these last months of my marital contract. If I can explain the way everything happened, how young I was, and how complicated the whole thing is, he might be willing to forgive me for not telling him sooner.

“Babe?” I call to him as I pad through the house. All I have on is his dress shirt from last night’s tuxedo, my bare feet barely making a sound as I glide across the marble flooring.

“Good morning, beautiful.” He looks up with a smile and then turns back to the stove. “Breakfast will be ready in five. Did you finish your song?”

I walk up and wrap my arms around him from behind.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “There’s something missing, but I don’t feel like working on it anymore.”

“No? What do you feel like doing?”

“I’m doing it.” I rest the side of my face between his shoulder blades and feel him relax into me. This is the man I love. A man who loves all of me, including my broken, somewhat jagged pieces. Now I just have to find the words to make this hollow feeling in my chest go away.

He reaches around with one hand and skims my bare ass. “Did you come to breakfast without any panties?”

“I couldn’t find them,” I admit, chuckling. “So I put on your shirt and figured there was no point. You’re bound to need easy access again in the near future.”

He rumbles out a laugh. “Indeed. But breakfast first.”

“Okay.” I reluctantly pull away, grabbing two plates and sets of utensils for us. “Do you want coffee?” I ask him as I turn to the machine.

“I’d love that. Thanks.”

We work in companionable silence as he finishes the omelets he’s making and I brew two cups of coffee. He gets something out of the oven that smells amazing and I almost swoon when I see that it’s fresh cinnamon rolls.

“I didn’t make these,” he says, reading my mind. “All I had to do was put them in the oven. I assume Jean-Michel had someone leave them for us. But the omelets are all me.”

“And everything looks and smells amazing.”

“Almost as amazing as you.” He pulls me against him and lets his lips linger on mine for a few seconds.

Why is it so hard to tell him about Stan?

Technically–legally–I’m not doing anything wrong.

We’re separated and have been for years.

He’s sick, barely lucid most days, so it’s not like he's sitting at home pining for me.

The marriage was over almost as soon as it started, but his dementia came on swiftly, leaving me in a position no one wants to be in.

But the flip side of that is that I’ve been keeping a big secret from Atlas, and that’s the part that scares me.

“Hey, I was wondering if we could talk,” I say softly.

He’s busy arranging the cinnamon rolls in a basket, being painstakingly particular about where each one goes, and I watch, somewhat fascinated.

“Anything you want, baby.” He presents the basket proudly. “But first, we should try these.” He plucks one out like he didn’t just spend a full two minutes fussing with them, and takes a bite. “Fuck, that’s good–here.” He proffers the roll and I obligingly open my mouth.

“Mmm, that’s amazing,” I murmur. “Whoever owns this recipe, I need to buy it if they’re not willing to give it to us.”

“I’m sure Jean-Michel will ask his housekeeper for us.” He smiles, taking another bite before holding it out for me.

I let the rich, warm, cinnamon flavor swirl around in my mouth. This is so good, and Atlas makes me so happy.

But we can’t keep living a lie. Well, I can’t. It’s time to yank up those imaginary big-girl panties I’m supposed to be wearing.

“Atlas, I have to tell you–”

“Hang on.” He pulls his phone from his pocket. “It’s Dash. Let me just make sure nothing’s happening with the family.”

“Of course.” I sink onto a stool at the island, absently sipping my coffee.

“Hey, what’s up?” He answers the phone casually, sitting on the stool next to me, and putting the last of the cinnamon roll in his mouth.

“What?” He wipes his mouth and frowns. “What the hell are you talking about?” There’s a beat of silence.

“No, I’m asking you to explain.” His voice is definitely filled with a hint of annoyance now.

“Dude, are you serious right now? Because if you’re trying to bust my balls I’m not laughing…

” He glances at me and then looks away. “No, I’m not asking her–just spit it out. ”

Asking her?!

Her who?

Her…me?

Uh oh.

An uncomfortable feeling settles in my gut. I wish I hadn’t left my phone in the bedroom but there really isn’t anyone I need to talk to while Atlas and I eat breakfast. In fact, there isn’t anyone I need to speak to until I have to meet back up with the tour.

Unless…

“You’re serious.” Atlas’s voice is as steely as I’ve ever heard it.

Even his posture is different. It’s like someone stuck a rod into him, forcing him to be even stiffer and colder than he is at work.

Something is definitely wrong, and based on the way he’s suddenly not looking at me, I must be the her in question.

Shit.

Did Dash go digging around in my past? There’s a tiny part of me deep down that’s always assumed Atlas went ahead and did a background check and already knows. He’s just been waiting for me to come clean. Like I’ve been about to do half a dozen times already.

The fury in his voice as he says, “No, I’ll deal with her” is enough to make my blood run cold.

I’m definitely the her in question.

And he’s definitely upset about something.

“Babe?” My voice sounds a little wobbly. “What, um, what’s wrong?”

He doesn’t respond right away, merely starts tapping something on his phone. He frowns, shakes his head, and then starts furiously typing. His phone buzzes and he begins drumming his fingers on the counter.

“Is this true?” he asks in a voice so cold I inadvertently shiver.

“Is what true?” I whisper, though I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.

“Lily.” He turns and stares at me with an expression completely devoid of emotion. “Is. This. True.” He thrusts his phone at me and the words on the screen begin to swim.

Legendary Music Producer and Husband of Pop Star Lily Maxwell Has Stroke.