Page 25 of Uncharted Desires
“Your grandpa meant a lot to you, didn’t he?”
West shrugged the comment off. “He was the opposite of my dad. He loved camping and the outdoors and would never be caught dead in skintight pants.”
Kat wasn’t buying his nonchalance. There was a deep relationship there. “That’s his knife, isn’t it?” She nodded toward his pocket. “That’s why you carry it with you everywhere.”
West nodded. “He didn’t have much, but he left me this knife. It’s the one thing I have to remember him by.”
West turned to prep the fish, and Kat knew the discussion of his family was over.
Two descaled, cooked, and eaten fish later, Kat couldn’t believe how much better she felt. “That was the best fish I have ever had in my life.” It had been crude and not pretty, but food was food at this point. All propriety had gone out the window for Kat.
“That’s high praise, considering we ate at that Michelin Star restaurant in Paris a couple of months ago.”
They were sitting by the fire, the sun now gone from the sky, the cool ocean breeze blowing across their skin. Kat pulled on her hoodie, grateful she had it with her. West was always emanating heat, but even he had goose bumps as the breeze kissed his skin. The fire was a welcome presence in the cool evening air.
“I’m sure I didn’t have fish there,” she said, amazed he had cooked two fish in the middle of nowhere.
“Are you going to miss it?” She’d been wanting to ask him since they’d been alone together.
He smiled, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes, a hidden pain there. “Miss what?”
“Don’t be difficult.”
“I’m not, you’re being unspecific. Miss making music professionally, miss touring, miss having every moment of my schedule micromanaged? Miss racking my brain for new lyrics and musical combinations that are fresh and that won’t piss off music critics and fans alike? Which part do you mean, Kat?” His eyes bored into hers. It was dark, but his clenched jaw was apparent in the firelight. Kat didn’t care if she made him angry. Too many people treated West with kid gloves, allowing him to get his way all the time.
“A little cynical, aren’t we?”
“No, I’ve been doing this for a long time. I know the game, and I’m done playing it.”
“Why . . . what are you going to do then?”
“Onslaught pictures offered me an acting gig for two CIA spy films.”
Kat gaped at him. “You’re going to act?”
“At least it will be different, and it will piss off my dad, so I get two for one.”
“Ah.”
He turned to face her. “What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
He raised an eyebrow, moving closer, his mouth inches from her ear. “What, Kat?” he whispered. “That was quite the loaded ah.”
She pushed him back, refusing to let him get to her.
“So, your quitting music has something to do with your daddy issues, or whatever you’ve got going on there.”
He straightened, backing away from her. “No, I just enjoy pissing him off.”
“West, you’re like thirty-seven years old. That’s the definition of daddy issues.”
He pushed himself up, dusting the sand from his hands, the muscles from his thighs and calves drawing her attention.
“I don’t want to talk about this, Katy.”
“Yes, call me Katy and walk away. That’s what you’re good at!” she called after him, jumping up to follow. “You are ridiculously talented, West. If I had even half the talent you do in my pinky finger, I . . . I . . .”