Return To Lake Como

Chapter One

The Invitation

The invitation arrived on a Tuesday morning.

Cream paper. Heavy stock. Gold lettering.

Of course it was gold.

Camille Bennett stared at the envelope on her kitchen counter for nearly a full minute before touching it.

She already knew.

There were some things your body understood before your mind was willing to cooperate.

Her name was handwritten across the front.

Miss Camille Bennett

Not Camille and Julian.

Just Camille.

Six months ago, seeing her name without his beside it had felt unnatural.

Now it merely felt accurate.

She slid one finger beneath the seal.

The card inside was absurdly beautiful.

Embossed vines curled around the edges. The lettering was elegant and restrained, probably chosen by someone who charged more for invitations than Camille currently paid in monthly rent.

And there, centered between all that tasteful Italian extravagance, were the words she’d known were coming.

Julian Cross & Sienna Laurent

Camille’s stomach tightened anyway.

request the pleasure of your company…

She stopped reading.

“Absolutely not.”

She dropped the invitation onto the counter.

Her phone rang.

Camille looked at the screen.

Margaret Cross.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

It rang again.

She considered ignoring it.

Then guilt won.

It usually did.

Camille answered.

“Hello, Margaret.”

“You opened it.”

Not a question.

Camille closed her eyes.

“Good morning to you too.”

“You opened it, didn’t you?”

“I’ve been holding it for approximately thirty seconds. Do you have surveillance in my apartment?”

“I know you.”

A pause.

Then Margaret’s voice softened.

“Please come.”

Camille actually laughed.

“No.”

“Camille—”

“Margaret, your son is marrying the woman he left me for.”

“He did not leave you for Sienna.”

Camille stared at the invitation.

“That’s a very creative interpretation of events.”

“They weren’t together when—”

“He broke up with me on October fourteenth. Their first paparazzi photographs were taken on November second.”

Silence.

Camille smiled without humor.

“But yes. I’m sure those eighteen days were transformative.”

“Camille.”

“I’m fine.”

It came automatically.

She had become exceptionally good at those two words.

I’m fine.

When reporters waited outside the apartment she’d once shared with Julian.

I’m fine.

When photographs appeared of Julian and Sienna leaving Chateau Marmont with his hand on the small of her back.

I’m fine.

When Sienna wore his jacket.

Her jacket, technically.

Camille had bought it for him after his first major paycheck because he’d stood outside the store staring at it for twenty minutes and refused to spend that much money on himself.

Sienna had worn it over bare shoulders while leaving his house at seven in the morning.

That photograph had been particularly educational.

“You’re not fine,” Margaret said.

Camille’s jaw tightened.

“Then attending a ten-day celebration of Julian’s eternal devotion to another woman seems like an unusual treatment plan.”

“It’s Lake Como.”

“Oh, well. In that case.”

Margaret sighed.

“We love you.”

That was worse.

Camille looked toward the window.

Los Angeles shimmered beneath the morning sun, indifferent to the fact that somewhere inside one of its millions of apartments, a woman was being invited to watch someone else marry the man she’d expected to grow old with.

“I love you too,” she said quietly.

“You were part of this family for eight years.”

There it was.

Were.

Past tense had sharp edges.

“Margaret…”

“I don’t want what happened between you and Julian to mean we lose you too.”

Camille swallowed.

For eight years, the Crosses had been birthdays and Christmas mornings and Sunday dinners.

Especially after she’d lost her own.

Not lost.

That wasn’t accurate.

The Bennetts were very much alive.

They simply hadn’t spoken properly in almost five years.

And Julian had been the reason.

Her father had disliked him almost immediately.

Not because Julian was poor. Edward Bennett didn’t care about money nearly as much as people assumed.

He cared about motive.

And from the beginning, he’d been convinced Julian Cross had one.

“That boy looks at every room as if he’s calculating who can get him into the next one.”

Camille had been twenty-four and furiously in love.

“Maybe you can’t understand that not everybody measures people by what they’re worth.”

Her father’s expression had changed.

She still remembered it.

“Camille, that’s precisely what I’m afraid he’s doing.”

She had chosen Julian anyway.

For years, she’d believed that choice proved everyone wrong.

Until Julian became famous.

Until he met Sienna Laurent.

Until one evening he sat across from Camille in the kitchen they’d designed together and told her something inside him had changed.

He needed something different.

Something exciting.

He loved her, apparently.

He simply wasn’t in love with her anymore.

Eight years reduced to a distinction between two prepositions.

“Camille?”

She blinked.

“I’m here.”

“Come to Italy.”

“No.”

“For me.”

“That’s emotional blackmail.”

“Yes.”

Despite herself, Camille smiled.

Margaret continued quickly. “Everyone will be there. Daniel, Sophie, the kids. You don’t have to spend time with Julian. The villa is enormous.”

“I imagine it would have to be to accommodate Sienna’s guest list.”

“Camille.”

“Sorry.”

She wasn’t.

Margaret hesitated.

Then said the one thing she shouldn’t have.

“Julian thinks you won’t come.”

Camille went still.

“Does he?”

“I shouldn’t have said that.”

“No. You probably shouldn’t.”

“He just thinks it might be too difficult for you.”

Something unpleasant shifted inside Camille.

Too difficult.

Of course he did.

Julian had always known how much she loved him.

That was part of the problem.

Even when he’d ended their relationship, he’d cried.

He’d held her hands across that kitchen table and told her she would always matter to him.

As though he were giving her a consolation prize.

And somewhere underneath all his guilt, Camille had seen something else.

Certainty.

Julian believed she’d be devastated.

He believed she’d eventually recover.

But he also believed some part of her would always belong to him.

Because it always had.

Camille looked again at the invitation.

Lake Como.

Ten days.

One wedding.

One ex-boyfriend.

One famous bride.

And approximately two hundred people who probably knew every humiliating detail of her breakup thanks to entertainment magazines.

Wonderful.

“I’m not promising anything,” she said.

Margaret inhaled excitedly.

“That isn’t a no.”

“It is very close to one.”

“I’ll take it.”

“Margaret—”

“I love you.”

The line went dead.

Camille stared at her phone.

“Manipulative woman.”

A knock sounded at her door.

She frowned.

Another knock.

Camille crossed the apartment and opened it.

A courier stood outside holding an enormous arrangement of white roses.

“Camille Bennett?”

“Unfortunately.”

He smiled.

“These are for you.”

She accepted them, signed, and carried the arrangement inside.

There was a card tucked between the flowers.

For one ridiculous second, her heart did something stupid.

Then she hated herself for it.

Julian used to send white roses.

She pulled out the card.

Thought you might need these today.

Don’t murder anyone. It creates paperwork.

— Lila

Camille laughed.

Actually laughed.

Her best friend knew her too well.

She took a picture of the flowers and sent it.

Camille: Invitation arrived.

Three dots appeared immediately.

Lila: Burn it.

Camille: Margaret called.

Lila: Block her.

Camille: She wants me to go.

The phone rang instantly.

Camille answered.

“No.”

“You’re not going.”

“Good morning, Lila.”

“You are absolutely not spending ten days watching that golden-retriever-looking asshole marry Malibu Barbie.”

Camille leaned against the counter.

“Sienna isn’t blonde.”

“Emotionally, she’s blonde.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“It means exactly what I need it to mean.”

Camille smiled.

Lila had hated Julian for precisely six months.

Before that she’d adored him.

Everyone had.

That was Julian’s gift.

He wasn’t devastatingly handsome.

He was handsome, certainly. Light brown hair that never quite behaved, warm brown eyes, athletic body, easy smile.

But there were more beautiful men in Hollywood.

Julian’s real weapon was charm.

He made waiters laugh.

Remembered assistants’ names.

Called people’s mothers.

When Julian Cross looked at you, he made you feel interesting.

For eight years, Camille had believed she knew the man underneath all of it.

Maybe she had.

That was the part nobody understood.

Julian hadn’t been pretending with her.

She knew that.

He had loved her.

She still believed he had.

He simply hadn’t loved her enough to recognize what he was throwing away.

“I’m considering it,” Camille said.

Lila became silent.

Then:

“Have you suffered a head injury?”

“Margaret wants me there.”

“Margaret also produced Julian, so her judgment is questionable.”

“Lila.”

“Fine. Why are you actually considering it?”

Camille traced one finger over the gold edge of the invitation.

Because Julian thought she couldn’t handle it.

Because six months ago she’d left their house with two suitcases while Sienna eventually walked into the life Camille had helped build.

Because she was tired of everyone looking at her like she’d survived something.

Because perhaps she wanted to prove she had.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a lie.”

Camille sighed.

“Maybe I’m tired of hiding.”

Lila’s voice softened.

“You haven’t been hiding.”

Hadn’t she?

She’d stopped attending industry events.

Stopped accepting invitations.

Stopped reading entertainment news.

She’d moved into an apartment on the opposite side of the city and constructed a life small enough that nothing could unexpectedly contain Julian.

She called it healing.

Perhaps some of it was.

Perhaps some of it was cowardice.

Her phone vibrated against her cheek.

A notification.

Lila was still speaking when Camille pulled the phone away to look.

Entertainment Weekly.

She should have disabled those notifications months ago.

A photograph filled the screen.

Julian and Sienna outside a restaurant the night before.

Sienna looked exquisite.

She always did.

Tall. Slender. Elegant in the particular way couture adored.

Julian had one arm around her waist.

He was laughing.

Camille waited for the pain.

It came.

But softer now.

More memory than wound.

Interesting.

Then she read the headline.

JULIAN CROSS & SIENNA LAURENT COUNT DOWN TO LAKE COMO WEDDING: “WE’VE NEVER BEEN HAPPIER.”

Camille stared at it.

“Lila?”

“Yes?”

“Maybe I am going.”

“Oh God.”

“Maybe I need to.”

“Camille—”

“What am I supposed to do? Avoid every restaurant they might visit? Every premiere? Every person we both know? Forever?”

“No. But there’s a significant difference between emotional growth and voluntarily attending your ex’s wedding.”

Camille laughed.

“Probably.”

“And you’re forgetting one small problem.”

“What?”

“You cannot go alone.”

Camille frowned.

“Why not?”

“Because I love you.”

“That’s not an explanation.”

“You’re going to walk into a villa full of Hollywood people while Julian arrives with his famous fiancée, and every person there will look at you with that awful sympathetic face.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do.”

Camille opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Damn her.

Lila continued.

“You need a date.”

“No.”

“A spectacular date.”

“No.”

“Someone offensively attractive.”

“Lila.”

“Preferably someone Julian hates.”

Camille laughed.

“Should I order one online?”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s the problem.”

“I’m going to think.”

“Please don’t.”

But Lila had already gone quiet.

Camille knew that silence.

It had preceded several catastrophic decisions over the course of their friendship.

“Lila.”

Nothing.

“Lila.”

Then:

“Oh.”

Camille didn’t like that oh.

“What?”

“Oh, this is perfect.”

“What is?”

Lila started laughing.

Not normal laughter.

Villain laughter.

Camille straightened.

“Lila.”

“Do you remember the Valenti Foundation gala three years ago?”

“Vaguely.”

“You wore the black dress.”

“I’ve worn several black dresses.”

“The one that made Julian spend half the evening glaring at every man who spoke to you.”

Camille rolled her eyes.

“What about it?”

“Do you remember who asked you to dance?”

Her memory moved before she could stop it.

A ballroom.

Champagne.

Dark hair.

A hand extended toward her.

And eyes.

Unusual eyes.

Gray.

Camille’s stomach gave the faintest, most ridiculous little turn.

“No.”

Lila laughed harder.

“Liar.”

Camille walked back toward the flowers.

“That was one dance.”

“It was approximately forty seconds because Julian appeared like an angry Labrador and interrupted.”

“He didn’t interrupt.”

“He practically urinated on your shoe.”

“Lila!”

“I’m just saying.”

Camille shook her head.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“Roman Vale.”

Even his name sounded excessive.

Camille closed her eyes.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s Roman Vale.”

“Excellent observation.”

“And because I don’t know him.”

“You’ve met him.”

“Three times.”

“Four.”

“Why do you know that?”

“Because unlike you, I pay attention when six-foot-three Greek gods enter rooms.”

Camille laughed despite herself.

“He’s not Greek.”

“His father is.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have Wi-Fi.”

“Lila.”

“Think about it.”

“There is nothing to think about.”

“Oh, there absolutely is.”

Camille looked back down at the wedding invitation.

Roman Vale.

One of the most famous actors in the world.

Julian’s professional rival, if entertainment magazines were to be believed.

Dark-haired.

Impossible gray eyes.

And a body that had once caused an entire corner of the internet to temporarily lose its collective intelligence after a movie trailer showed him shirtless for approximately four seconds.

Camille remembered the gala.

Unfortunately.

Roman had approached while Julian was speaking to a director.

He’d looked at Camille for a moment before introducing himself, as though he hadn’t expected her to be there.

Then he’d asked her to dance.

No performance.

No Hollywood charm.

Just a quiet:

“Dance with me.”

She’d laughed.

“Is that how you ask?”

One dark eyebrow had lifted.

“Would please improve my chances?”

Before she’d answered, Julian had returned.

Roman had looked between them.

Then at Camille.

And smiled.

Not warmly.

Not flirtatiously.

Almost as though something amused him.

They had danced exactly once later that evening.

And never spoken for more than five minutes since.

“Lila, Roman Vale is not going to pretend to be my boyfriend so I can survive my ex’s wedding.”

“Probably not.”

“Good.”

“But wouldn’t it be funny if he did?”

Camille looked at Julian and Sienna’s names shimmering in gold.

Against every ounce of common sense she possessed, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“Very.”

Across Los Angeles, in a private training facility hidden behind smoked glass and a security gate, Roman Vale tightened his grip around a loaded barbell.

The muscles across his back shifted beneath damp skin as he pulled the weight from the floor.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

His trainer watched the final repetition.

“That’s enough.”

Roman lowered the bar.

“One more.”

“You said that three reps ago.”

Roman reached for the bar again.

His phone buzzed on the bench.

He ignored it.

It buzzed again.

And again.

“Your agent is persistent,” his trainer said.

“That’s why I pay him.”

“Maybe answer.”

Roman wiped his face with a towel and picked up the phone.

Seven messages.

The first six were irrelevant.

The seventh wasn’t.

A photograph had been forwarded to him.

An ornate wedding invitation.

Julian Cross & Sienna Laurent.

Roman stared at it.

Then at the message beneath.

Theo: Cross invited you. Lake Como. Ten days. Studio thinks you should go. Good optics before awards season.

Roman snorted.

He typed:

Roman: I’d rather swallow glass.

Three dots appeared.

Theo: Thought you’d say that.

Another message followed.

Theo: Camille Bennett is invited too.

Roman’s thumb stopped.

For several seconds, he simply looked at the name.

Camille Bennett.

Black dress.

Bare shoulders.

A laugh she’d tried to hide when he’d asked her to dance.

Julian’s hand appearing possessively at her waist approximately thirty seconds later.

Roman hadn’t thought about that night in years.

That was a lie.

He tossed the towel over his shoulder.

His trainer glanced at him.

“Problem?”

Roman looked once more at the photograph.

Then typed.

Roman: When is it?

The reply came instantly.

Theo: I fucking knew it.

Roman locked the phone.

“Add another plate.”

His trainer stared at him.

“You were finished.”

Roman walked back toward the bar.

“Changed my mind.”