Return to Us (The Harbour Series Book 3) 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

  Cover Models: Annie Chartrand & Justin Edwards

  Editing provided by Missy Borucki

  Book formatting provided by Stacey Blake of Champagne Book Design

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

  Publication Date: February 22, 2018

  Return to Us (The Harbour Series, #3)

  Copyright ©Christy Pastore 2018

  All rights reserved

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Part One

  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

  Part Two

  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

  Epilogue

  Playlist

  Books by Christy Pastore

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For those who took a detour, you may have lost your way but, true love always comes home.

  “Maybe it’s a fairy tale, but I believe in happily ever after.” ~ Jennifer Aniston

  Now

  I SAT ON THE edge of the barstool, one foot on the floor the other bouncing nervously on the railing, as I watched my husband striding towards the restaurant. He stopped for a moment wrapping up a call, and then shoved his cellphone into the back pocket of his jeans.

  Matthew was as handsome as the evening I met him, even after a fifteen-hour flight he looked every bit the perfectly polished movie star. Women stopped midstride bringing their phones to life. Their mouths hung open as their manicured fingers subtly pointed in his direction. My husband was the leading man in their filthy fantasies. I know because they’ve told me.

  “Oh my, is that Matthew Barber?”

  “He’s so hot. What I wouldn’t do to that man.”

  Matthew’s dark hair was slicked back, his grey t-shirt straining over the thick muscles in his shoulders and arms. The fabric inched up over his biceps revealing colorful ink. His hazel eyes swept over me, and I couldn’t help but smile, despite the fact that I was pushing down the urge to cry.

  “Hey, beautiful,” he said, before kissing my lips.

  After dropping his bags onto the floor, he took a seat next to me and ordered a beer. I studied him for a long moment. Did he do it? My heart pounded in my chest, as I swiped my phone to life. I scanned the gossip pages again, feeling the tears welling in my eyes at the sight of the two of them holding each other—his hands pushing through her dark hair, gazing at her the way he looked at me a moment ago.

  Pictures can be deceiving, and this image—it could just be a scene from the movie. I couldn’t tell what was real or fake anymore. Rumors were swirling about their sizzling chemistry, and social media buzzed everyday about the two of them being the perfect onscreen couple. I understood the art of the movie business because my mother had been a performer of both stage and screen. From the movie stills, it was hard to deny that the two of them didn’t have that special spark that made movie magic. However, Matthew was that good—a very good actor.

  Panic swirled inside me, and the words tumbled out.

  “Did you sleep with her?” I asked, my eyes never leaving the phone screen.

  “No.”

  “But you wanted to?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you in love with her?” I asked, finally looking up.

  Matthew twisted the platinum band wrapped around his ring finger. “I don’t know.”

  My hands shook as a breathy sob escaped my lips and my heart crumbled into a million broken pieces. “And you need to find out?”

  “Tinley,” he said, the rich timbre of his voice washed over me, it was a sound filled with too many moments, too many memories. My marriage was falling apart and the whole world was watching.

  Three years of marriage, four questions and his six words sent everything tumbling into blackness.

  Then

  THE THING ABOUT THESE wannabe starlets was that they were all the same. Predictable. I was pretty positive this one leaked our location to the paparazzi. When we arrived at the restaurant an hour earlier, all was calm. No one had followed us here, and magically there was a mass of photographers waiting for us outside now.

  There were certain ways to play the Hollywood game, and some people played it very well. This would be the last time I allowed my agent to set me up on a date. This girl, Kylie, obviously needed a career boost. She lost my attention when she rattled on about her weekend plans to visit Malibu with her girl squad. Insert eye-roll.

  As we walked down along the sidewalk, the paparazzi shouted various questions. When we got to the crosswalk, I glanced towards them to see if I recognized a familiar face to try and barter a deal. No such luck.

  “Matthew, are you and Kylie dating?”

  “Kylie, any truth to the rumor Matthew will star in your next music video?”

  Fuck. Donna, my agent, would be getting an earful tonight. I needed a Google search for the latest news on this chick and fast.

  As we walked to my car, she interlaced her fingers with mine. “Do you have time to get a cup of coffee?”

  Coffee sounded like a good idea especially since it was a crisp January evening. Part of me was c
urious as to what Kylie was thinking, so I agreed to continue this date . . . charade. “Sure, why not.”

  “Good, I know the perfect place on Melrose,” she squeaked.

  Glancing at my watch, it was just after seven. The place she was most likely referring to—Molina’s—was a paparazzi hot spot. The paps practically camped out there, it’s smack dab in the middle of a celebrity breeding ground. That coffee shop closed at eight. My curiosity for the game she was playing grew by the minute.

  She turned to face me, snaking her arms around my neck. “I’m so glad our agents set up this date tonight. I like you—a lot. I think I might be catching all the feels for you, Matt.”

  It took everything in me not to laugh. Before I could say anything, she leaned into my frame. Kylie fluttered her blue eyes, as her fingertips danced over my neck. Flashes of light bounced off the windows, reminding me that we were not alone. I didn’t know who I was more irritated with at the moment—the paparazzi, Kylie, or myself.

  My jaw flexed, rage coursed through my body. “Vultures,” I said, keeping the anger out of my voice. I used them as an excuse to not let this moment go any further. “Let’s get out of here.”

  I opened the passenger door to my Range Rover and grasped her hand helping her as she climbed inside the cab. Raised by a southern debutante, my mother would have chastised me for days if the paparazzi had snapped a picture of me being anything but a true southern gentleman.

  I maneuvered my vehicle through the streets of Los Angeles listening to Kylie babble on about her next album and how it changed her musical style with the experimentation of heartland rock and dance-pop. I found the conversation semi-interesting.

  After listening to her name drop about a dozen celebrities, I finally asked, “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six,” she replied, without skipping a beat and then continued talking. When I pulled up to the coffee shop, she checked her makeup in the mirror and applied more glossy pink lipstick. It gave me a moment to fire off a text to Donna before exiting the car.

  Me: Are you trying to get me into a music video? And if you are, is there a particular reason that you neglected to share that information with me?

  The low hum of jazz filtered through the speakers as we entered the coffee shop and walked towards the counter. Kylie never lifted her eyes from her screen, except to take a selfie in front of the famous wall. She ordered a secret specialty drink that wasn’t listed on the menu. I, on the other hand, ordered an Americano—no drinks with cream, sugar, and definitely no whipped cream. Call me a purist. My phone buzzed and I swiped the screen.

  Donna: I have my reasons, yes. Mainly money. You like money right, Matthew?

  Me: Money is good, but I’m more concerned about my career.

  Donna: You’ve got nothing to worry about, have fun. I’d never steer you wrong.

  Shaking my head, I shoved my phone into my pocket. That was true enough. I’d never been in a music video before, what could I bring to the table?

  The barista set my drink on the counter. “I’m a huge fan. I loved your last film.”

  “Thanks, I appreciate the support,” I replied, scooping up the tiny mug.

  “How about we sit over here by the window,” Kylie suggested.

  Nodding I took a seat and her attention was back to her phone. While she positioned her drink in various locations on the table mumbling something about lighting, I contemplated topics of conversation. The only thing that came to mind was which Instagram filter she liked best. Nothing of substance. Our worlds were completely different.

  “Kylie, babe,” a man’s voice boomed out.

  My attention was drawn to the blonde standing next to him. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. Kylie jumped up and for the first time since we exited the restaurant she shoved her phone into her purse. Her arms flung around the man’s neck. He was your average Hollywood producer type. The fine tailored suit was a dead giveaway. Music producers have a casual or edgy style, this guy was all business.

  “I’m so happy to see you again, Max,” Kylie beamed.

  “I didn’t think West Hollywood was your scene,” he replied, holding up two fingers towards the barista.

  That little gesture told me that he’d called ahead and placed an order—a dead giveaway that this was anything but a random encounter. The beautiful blonde rolled her eyes and shook her head before taking a seat across from me. That was a good sign.

  Max adjusted his cuffs. “I figured you’d be spending your nights at Seven, Pattern, or bluewhale.”

  She laughed, and bumped my shoulder with hers. “Not tonight anyway.”

  “Kylie, this is Tinley Atkinson, we’re working on a project together,” Max, the suit, said.

  Tinley Atkinson, hello, beautiful.

  “Possible project,” Tinley interjected, clasping her hands under her chin.

  “Well, this man needs absolutely no introduction,” Kylie drawled out, cozying up to me and then tossing her long arm around my shoulder.

  The suit sat back in his chair, crossing his arms behind his head. “Matthew Barber, Mister Fourth of July himself. I’m a big fan, man—I’m Max Hastings.”

  I nodded. “Nice meeting you, Max.”

  The barista dropped off an iced beverage for Tinley and some hot water with lemon for Max. While Kylie and the suit carried on about the direction of her next video, I directed my gaze towards Tinley. She slipped off her leather moto jacket, revealing her golden tanned skin. When she walked in she’d definitely caught my attention. Now she was sitting across from me wearing a red dress that showcased some gorgeous cleavage. I had every desire to peel her out of that dress and see what was underneath.

  Fuck. She’s beautiful.

  If she had walked in alone, I might have pegged her for an actress or model. Hollywood had a type—blonde hair and blue eyes. Something told me that Tinley Atkinson was much more than the typical Hollywood type. Her last name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it.

  It barely registered when I heard Max and Kylie on the phone with someone named Hahn. Tinley leaned across the table and whispered, “How obvious are these two.”

  “Very,” I replied smoothly. “What do they have planned for me?”

  “Well, I heard Miss Kylie Clemson wants you to be the leading man in her next music video.” She lifted her iced coffee drink to her lips and took a sip.

  “Apparently, that’s the rumor.”

  Tinley lowered the drink to the table. “It seems that her video for the song ‘Sweet Dreams’ is set to release Fourth of July weekend, and they want a tie in with your film, Assassination Day.”

  “Seems like the perfect combination.”

  She lifted a shoulder. “That’s Hollywood, babe.”

  I huffed a laugh. “Yeah, as if I didn’t know that already.”

  “Do the video, it will be a huge hit,” she said, giving me a wink. “It’s easy money . . . unless you aren’t a member of SAG, then of course you’ll get screwed on the pay.”

  Her blue eyes twinkled when the word “screwed” rolled off her tongue. My choices were simple—I could toss back a sophomoric, slimy line, like “some people would enjoy a good screw.” Or keep the conversation light and say something intelligent.

  “You’re funny. I snagged my SAG card a long time ago,” I replied, before taking a drink of my coffee. “Besides, I’d probably donate a majority to a charity anyway.”

  “Good idea and honest to God, Max is a gifted producer—he just needs to shed that suit.” Her brows lifted and then she smiled as if she’d had a read on my thoughts the entire time. “Don’t get me wrong, there is absolutely nothing wrong with a man in a suit, but for Max it’s a bit stiff.” She tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. My fingers itched to reach out and do it for her.

  “Are you and the suit . . .” My brows lifted in his direction.

  “Dating,” she interjected, smacking her palms to the table. “Me and Maxie, hell no—he and I are old fri
ends. Our parents used to summer in The Hamptons.”

  I didn’t like that she had a pet name for Max, yet at the same time I was comforted by the childlike feel the name Maxie carried.

  “What about you and the Pop Princess?” she asked, stirring the drink with her straw.

  No, we’re not dating, but I’d love to take you out.

  “Set up by our agents.”

  “How romantic.”

  I wanted to ditch the pop star and the suit and take Tinley for drinks at the Terrace Bar over at the Sunset Tower. Even more than I wanted her body, I wanted her conversation. For whatever reason, I wanted to keep this going all night, preferably into the morning.

  “Tinley, let’s jet,” Max announced, approaching our table.

  No business talk? Wasn’t he going to pitch me the video? Where was all the Hollywood schmoozing?

  No, don’t go. Don’t leave with this schmuck.

  Tinley pushed up from her chair, and I was on my feet before I could formulate a thought. She gazed at me with those penetrating blue eyes and I melted on the inside. Yep, the badass action hero’s insides were turning to mush. Was this how Statham felt when he met Rosie?

  “I’ll call you tomorrow, Max,” Kylie said looping her arm with mine.

  Tinley shrugged back into her leather jacket and then scooped up her beverage. “It was so nice to have met you both.”

  “See you later,” I said. It wasn’t a question. No, it was a fucking promise. Because I would see her again—come hell or high water.

  THE SOUND OF MICHAEL Bublé’s velvety smooth voice brought me to my feet. This song reminded me of my mother. Although she loved the original version of “Who’s Lovin’ You” by Smokey Robinson and The Miracles, I think she would have enjoyed this rendition.

  I took in the room filled with the rich and famous all relaxed with the flow of booze. Some people were working. Others were enjoying an evening among friends. It was an odd mix for a dinner party.

  A pair of strong arms wrapped around my waist from behind. In a fluid movement, I twirled around coming face to chest with the owner of those solid arms. There he stood before me wrapped in dark threads, my guess, Armani. He stole my breath and sent my pulse racing all at once.