Page 84 of His Girl Hollywood

“Mom found them. On your old side of the house.”

“I knew my mother followed my career. But not this closely.” He fingered the pieces of paper gently, imagining the ghost of his mother’s touch, the care with which she had cut them out.

But beneath the clippings there was something heavy in the box. He was startled when he pulled out his father’s dog tags. Perhaps his mother had put them there for safekeeping.

“Mom found this box with your father’s things. In a chest. His work boots, his chewing tobacco, and this box.”

Don stilled, nearly crushing the papers in his hands. “No.” A knot of emotion built in his throat. It didn’t make sense. “He hated me. He thought it was all a waste of time.” His voice was choked with tears now, and he hated himself for it. He’d vowed when he was eighteen years old that he would never shed another tear because of his father.

Arlene went to him, wrapping her hands around his wrists. “Don’t you see, Don? Some part of him didn’t though. Some part of him was proud of you, followed you, tracked your every move.”

He pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. “Thenwhy—” He couldn’t finish the question. But Lena seemed to know what he was asking. She palmed his cheek and looked him in the eyes.

“I don’t know, Don. Maybe he was too proud to admit he was wrong. Maybe he figured he’d missed his chance to be part of your life. Maybe he was ashamed of how he’d treated you. There could be a million reasons.” He swallowed and nodded, letting go of Arlene to put the clippings back in the box. Arlene wound her fingers together and clasped them under her chin. “Did I make a mistake showing you? I thought you’d want to know.”

He shook his head, braced himself against her small table, and looked at the pile of clippings. He thought of all the times he’d dreamed of this—of having some shred of proof that his father was proud of him. That Michael Lazzarini believed in him. But now, Don felt nothing. “No,” he finally spoke. “You didn’t. I just…thought I’d feel differently. If this moment ever came.”

“How do you feel?”

He looked up at her then, meeting her forthright gaze, not a trace of guile or expectation there. The only thing her eyes held was love, a searching look that wanted to be sure he was okay. His eyes flicked to the ring, newly gleaming on her finger. A realization hit him like a bolt of lightning. This look—he’d seen it all his life. It was a look that said he didn’t need to prove himself, didn’t need to be anything but who he was, and that he was loved wholly and deeply as that man. He couldn’t believe he’d taken it for granted for so long, that he’d turned his back on it. Now, standing here holding a box of the proof of his father’s regard that he’d sought for years, that look, the look of Arlene Morgan’s unconditional love, was the only thing that mattered.

“I feel…like this is just a pile of paper.” She cocked her head and looked at him queerly, not understanding. “A pile of paper thatdoesn’t absolve him. Or me. Of everything that passed between us. A pile of paper that doesn’t mean anything because the only person whose love and approval I actually need is standing right here in this room.”

She bit her lip and smiled, tears welling in her eyes. He took two steps and closed the space between them, cupping her jaw with his hand and kissing the single tear that was streaming down her face. He pressed his cheek to hers and clung tightly to her. “The day I left, I vowed I would never need his blessing, never seek it again. It was the promise of an arrogant boy. Because I did want it, I hungered for it. Every dance competition I won. Every sold-out house I played, all I could think was ‘I’ll show him.’ When he died, I felt nothing. Just the need to keep going. To prove him wrong. But all this time, there was only one person besides myself that I ever needed to prove anything to.”

She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You never needed to prove yourself to me.”

“That’s why I want to,” he murmured, before capturing her bottom lip between his teeth and pulling until she moaned in delight. “I will prove myself to you every day for the rest of my life.” She huffed out a little breath that was somewhere between disbelief and pleasure before kissing the tip of his nose.

“You’ve proved yourself ten times over.”

“That’s not nearly enough times.” He smiled, capturing her mouth in a kiss that had her pressing against him, straining her body until there wasn’t a single inch of her that didn’t touch him. Touching his forehead to hers, he murmured, “Have I mentioned I love you?”

She twisted her fingers in the ends of his bow tie and pulled him down to meet her, stealing another kiss. “Tell me again.”

“I love you,” he murmured, alternating between the words and kisses that covered her entire face.

His hand wandered to the flowing, scooped neckline of her gown and dipped lower, finding the curve of her breast beneath the fabric. He found her nipple with his thumb and rubbed until it was a stiff peak against the gown.

He kissed her and grinned against her mouth. “You’re not wearing a bra.”

She nipped at his lip. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

He threw his head back and chuckled, running his fingers through his hair. “Any more surprises for the evening? Because I don’t know how many more I can stand.”

“Just one more.” She grinned, something naughty in her gaze. She took a step back, pulling away from their embrace. “But I think you’ll like this last one most.” Without warning, she peeled the straps of her gown from her arms and let it cascade to the floor, pooling at her feet exactly as he’d imagined it doing in the car. But in his fantasy, she’d been wearing a slip skirt, underwear, and garters. Now, she was wearing absolutely nothing but the engagement ring he’d put on her finger minutes before.

She’d been completely bare underneath her gown. “Christ, Lena, have you been like that all night?” She grinned, and it was all the confirmation he needed. He tore the loose bow tie from his collar and moved to unbutton his dinner shirt, the metal buttons clattering to the floor as he wrapped his hand around her bottom and pulled her to him. She moaned and threaded her hands through his now open shirt, across his bare chest. His hand wandered lower and found the place between her legs that made her gasp. He kissed her again, tangling his other hand in her hair.

“I didn’t think it was possible to want you more than I already did,” he growled as he plundered her mouth. His fingers found their own nimble path between her folds and slid into her until she arched her back and pressed into him, clawing at his back with her newlymanicured nails. He lifted her up and felt her legs wrap around his waist, and he carried her into her bedroom, never breaking their kiss.

He laid her down on the bed, quickly climbing atop her, admiring the spread of her hair against the pillows. She was a Botticelli painting, luscious and languid before him. The idea that he could have this every night for the rest of his life was intoxicating. He kissed her again, huffing out a “fuck” against her lips as she palmed his cock in her hand. He moved down her body, kissing her neck, her collarbone, and her breasts, taking each nipple between his teeth and laving it until she let out a stream of adorable little pants. He curved his other hand inside of her, crooking his fingers, and the pants became a long, steady moan as she clenched around him and reached her climax. As she came back to herself, he lay his head across her bare chest.

“I need to call Harry,” he murmured.

She sat up on one elbow and looked him square in the eye. “Now? You can’t be serious.”

“But I need to talk to him about something very important in my contract.”