Healed by You Read online

  Disclaimer. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously; any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners, and are used only for reference. There is no implied endorsement.

  Warning: Please note this novel contains explicit sexual content and crude language and is intended for mature audiences. Parental/reader discretion is advised.

  All Rights Reserved. This book contains material protected under the International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of the material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author. This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share this book with others please purchase a copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people.

  Cover photographed and designed by Sara Eirew of Sara Eirew Photography

  Editing provided by Missy Borucki

  Book formatting provided by Stacey Blake of Champagne Book Design

  Tweet/Instagram as you read using #GradysLady and Join the The Harbour Series Discussion Group on Facebook.

  Publication Date: September 19th, 2017

  ISBN: 978-0-9907099-8-5

  Healed by You (The Harbour Series, #2)

  Copyright ©Christy Pastore 2017

  All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Synopsis

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Books by Christy Pastore

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Some relationships go far beyond the Hollywood backdrop.

  Fake romantic relationships have always been a thread woven into the fabric of Hollywood. In the old days, studios played the matchmaking game simply to promote their movies. Today the game remains the same, only now the stakes are higher and the players ever changing.

  The two of us knew what rock bottom looked like and we needed a way out of the rubble before it destroyed our careers and our reputations.

  From multiple staged paparazzi appearances and charity polo matches in the Hamptons to romps in the Caribbean and even being seen together at a high-profile celebrity wedding, the plan was simple—an agreement that would benefit all involved.

  But, falling in love was never part of the plan.

  And for two famous friends, one summer in the Hamptons could change everything.

  For my husband, Kevin—

  Once upon a time there was a young woman who needed to be loved. Your love healed me.

  “I believe that everything happens for a reason. People change so that you can learn to let go, things go wrong so that you appreciate them when they’re right, you believe lies so you eventually learn to trust no one but yourself, and sometimes good things fall apart so better things can fall together.”—Marilyn Monroe

  Author’s Note

  This book is the second in The Harbour Series—it absolutely can be read as a standalone.

  What I love most about Grady James is how much his character has grown since “unScripted.” For those of you who have been with me since the beginning I feel that this book will be a sweet treat. For those who might be new to my writing or this series, I am so glad that you found me! And let me be the first to welcome you to East Harbour.

  What you are reading now is the third version of “Healed by You.” I am not afraid to admit that bit of information. Sometimes life happens and writing the stories that we intended doesn’t work out. So we reorganize, revamp, and reimagine.

  Earlier this year, I had the pleasure of reading Ava Gardner’s biography as I was in the midst of changing HBY for the second time and something clicked. Inspiration struck which breathed new life and a new direction into an otherwise flat story—once again I’m not ashamed to admit this to you.

  As a writer, we can outline and plan all the live long day, but sometimes inspiration strikes when you least expect it and what happens next is pure magic.

  This story is perfect. It’s better than I ever dreamed possible, and I’m really happy about that. Moreover I’m glad that I’ve given Grady and his lady the HEA they so richly deserve.

  I hope that you enjoy “Healed by You.” Grady and his lady are something special.

  THE BAGPIPES PLAYED THAT familiar tune. The choir joined in.

  How sweet the sound.

  Even amongst the sniffling, sobbing, and whimpering cries, the song was beautiful. I hoped it would provide peace to those who were in agony, like me.

  She had mentioned this song to me before. I wondered if she could hear it.

  My hands shook as I grasped the cool metal. We lifted her casket, and each note carried us out of the sanctuary and down the steps and towards the car that would take her to the cemetery. Her final place of rest.

  The doors to the hearse closed.

  The church bells rang out, as more people offered their condolences.

  I climbed inside my limo. Just me alone.

  I looked for a bottle of booze, but then I remembered that I’d asked them to dump every bottle. Every single one.

  The car ride was short, and yet, I wished it were longer. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye, I needed more time. We should have had more time. Tears cascaded down my cheeks, and my heart faltered. The pain in my chest was unbearable, as if I was being torn apart from the inside out.

  At her gravesite, my hand rested against the top of the casket. “Baby, I will always love you. Thank you for giving me the greatest gift I could ever receive; your love was everything to me.”

  Ashes to ashes.

  My hands shook, as I drew in a deep breath. “Your life was my life’s best part. Rest in peace, my love.”

 
Dust to dust.

  My wife was dead, and so was my heart. Nothing could heal me now.

  Except my wife wasn’t dead, presently she was bent over the kitchen island with her personal trainer, Nate’s dick pumping in and out of her. My marriage, on the other hand, was dead. Time of Death, 6:39 p.m., November 7th.

  I’d just given the performance of a lifetime for my most recent film and I’d come home to find Heather giving Nate a performance of her own. Her black Lululemon leggings dangled from the leg she was standing on, while the other leg rested atop the silestone countertop. Nate’s left hand fisted her blonde hair, the right planted firmly on her hip as he slammed into her.

  “I’m going to come, baby,” he growled and slapped her ass just as the crack of thunder boomed outside. Heather yelped and with a quick movement dropped to her knees. That’s when I involuntarily started a slow clap from the foyer.

  “Wow, well done, Heather,” I chided, before depositing the bouquet of calla lilies into the trash.

  “Mr. James, it’s not what you think, sir,” Nate choked out, as Heather popped off his dick. How could this guy engage in formalities when my wife’s mouth was wrapped around his dick? Definitely bleaching my eyes after this fucking experience.

  “Things look crystal clear from my vantage point.”

  “Grady, oh my God,” she shrieked stumbling to her feet.

  I rolled my eyes watching Nate scramble to pick up his clothing that was scattered from the kitchen, to the dining room and outside onto the terrace. Heather struggled, unable to find her balance while attempting to slide her leggings up her slender legs. With her piss poor balance, I was definitely overpaying this guy for his yoga instruction. She wiggled her hips and finally got the material up over her ass. Not even going to lie, I would miss that ass.

  Contemplating the situation at hand, I leaned against the wall. Heather attempted to pull herself together, while I kept an eye on Nate. I wasn’t going to be “kicking his ass,” the dude was stacked and I’ve learned that fighting with one’s fists usually doesn’t resolve matters of the heart. Case in point, my Indigo Row brawl with Ronan Connolly a few years ago that cost both of us some bad press.

  On the other hand, the rage boiling inside me was probably all I needed to tackle the motherfucker and lay him out flat on his back, but I didn’t need that kind of trouble and he could sell his tale to the tabloids. He strutted back into the kitchen like he owned the place—that set me off.

  “Nate, I suggest that you leave now, get the fuck off my property. Consider me not paying for this session.”

  Nate hustled, scooping up his bag and mat and then making a beeline for the front door.

  Heather took a deep breath. “I can explain Nate and me . . .”

  Holding up my hands, I returned my gaze to my wife. “Save the explanation. Although I do have a question, how long have you been screwing him?”

  “It was a onetime thing, I swear,” she replied, wringing her hands together. Her blue eyes welled with tears, stabbing at the pain that radiated in my chest. She staggered towards me grasping my forearms. “Please, Grady, we can work this out.”

  “It’s done, sweetheart, there is nothing to work out aside from the division of assets. Starting with this place, it’s definitely going on the market.”

  Tears streamed down her face. “No, please don’t do this,” she pleaded as she stalked toward me.

  I’d skipped post-production cocktails with the cast and crew to come home and celebrate with my wife. This film could potentially be the blockbuster that catapulted my acting career into the spotlight. I’d spent the last few years teetering between movies, television, and modeling. Modeling paid the bills, and I was very lucky that in my early thirties I was still able to book as many gigs as I did, but I wanted more—more translated into building a life with Heather, sharing our successes, and our setbacks. Over the years, I’d had my fair share of both, but this was a devastating blow. No pun intended.

  Disgust sank into the pit of my stomach as I trekked up the stairs and down the hallway to our bedroom. Heather jogged behind me, trying to keep up with my rapid pace. My hands shook as I jerked the suitcase from the walk-in closet.

  “Grady, what are you doing?” she asked, eyeing the suitcase.

  Brushing past her, I tossed it onto the bench at the foot of the bed. Her eyes went wide with fear. “You can’t leave!” she shouted, her voice was laced with panic.

  “I’m not leaving, sweetheart, you are,” I growled, turning back towards the closet.

  Sobbing, she moved to stand in front of me, blocking my path. “I’m standing my ground. We have to talk about this.”

  “I can’t look at you. The mere sight of you makes me nauseous.”

  She whimpered, running her hands through her hair. “You want to throw away our life? Our marriage? Over this?”

  “I didn’t throw it away, you did.” I snapped my fingers and pointed at her, again, my involuntary reflexes taking over. I went into the closet and grabbed a stack of her shorts and tops.

  Tears rolled down her face, and she wrapped her arms around her body. “It was a mistake, it was one time.”

  “And you think that makes it all right?” I asked, tossing her clothes into the suitcase. “I suppose I should be grateful that it wasn’t an emotional affair of the heart.”

  “I don’t know why this happened, I’m sorry. It meant nothing to me.”

  Heather slumped on the edge of the bed, burying her face in her hands, as her sobs turned to wails. It physically hurt to see her upset and crying, but none of that erased what happened, she’d been unfaithful. Not even therapy could heal the fact that she’d broken our marriage vows. I believed in second chances. I did. I just didn’t believe that everyone deserved them.

  “You have twenty minutes to pack your shit and leave. I don’t care where you go, but you’re not staying here.”

  She pushed to her feet, swiping away the tears. “So, this is really over.”

  I nodded and pointed to the closet. Despite the fact that my heart was crumbling under a hammer of pain, I wasn’t faltering. Muffled sobs came from the closet, along with the sounds of drawers opening and slamming shut.

  I scrubbed my hands down my face, counting to ten as I inhaled a deep breath. Walking to the window, I leaned against the glass, overlooking the canyon stretched before me. Fuck. I loved this house. It made California tolerable. At heart though, I was an East Coast guy.

  East Coasters said what they meant, even if they could be rude at times. West Coasters, especially Hollywood types, they lie, they all told you what you wanted to hear.

  “How . . . when would you like to announce our separation to the media?” she asked, smoothing her ponytail.

  Turning to face Heather, my arms folded over my chest. “I think we should let our publicists decide.”

  “Fine. Can I ask a favor?”

  “Not that you’re in any fucking position to ask me for any favors, but let’s hear it because I could use a good laugh.”

  “Can we agree to keep this incident out of it? I don’t want the cheating leaked to the media.”

  “Do you think I want it broadcast to the world that you fucked your personal trainer? It’s a fucking cliché, even for Hollywood.” I shoved my hands into my pockets. “I swear to God, Heather, if you strike first on social media you will live to regret it. We have a prenup and it’s ironclad,” I reminded.

  Expelling a deep sigh, she tugged a jacket over her shoulders. “I forgot about the prenup.”

  “Yeah,” I huffed. “It seems that you did or the free porn show I viewed wouldn’t have happened in our home.”

  “When I get settled, I’ll send for the rest of my things.”

  I followed her through the study and the den as she gathered up her purse and a few miscellaneous items—her laptop and the chargers for all her electronics. Her fingers drifted over every piece of furniture, frame of artwork and surface as we made our way to the entry.

/>   “For what it’s worth,”—she pivoted to face me, her palms settling on my chest—“I’m sorry, and maybe we should sleep on this before making any rash decisions.”

  Oh, she was good. I wasn’t totally blind to Heather and her ways of persuasion. I had opted to push through all that and just see Heather Young, the woman and now all I saw was Heather Young, actress—manipulative, ladder climbing, man-eater.

  “Save the act for your next husband, sweetheart. You nearly ruined me once, and stupidly, I forgave you.” I sidestepped her, clutching the door handle. “You fooled me twice, shame on me.”

  I gave her a loving nudge out the door and she rewarded me with a middle finger kiss off. As I watched her climb into her white Range Rover, I mentally cataloged a list of all the things I needed to get in order.

  Pulling my cell from my pocket, my fingers hovered over the screen contemplating which call to make first. After grabbing the key from my hiding place, I walked to the bar in the den and then poured a glass of scotch. With Heather in and out of rehab, I decided to never keep booze in our home. Over time Heather got sober, and focused her energy on therapy, clean eating, and daily exercise. Those became her coping mechanisms, instead of booze or drugs.

  One night she came home and presented me with a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label and told me to drink up and then lock it up. Ten minutes later, a custom crafted bar cabinet was delivered. That was Heather, always full of surprises. Today was most certainly a surprise. I swiped the number and then pressed the speaker feature.

  “Hello, Grady, what can I do for you?” My publicist’s melodic southern accent sang out through the Bluetooth.

  “Haven, I’m getting a divorce,” I stated matter of fact.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she replied, her fingers flying over the keyboard. “Are you okay?”

  “As okay as I can be after walking in on my wife fucking her fitness instructor at the kitchen island.”