Holiday Wedding (Holiday Romance-Spicy Version #2)

5

Tuesday, December 10

14 days until the wedding

Jenny

Dean and Caleb took the box into the men’s restroom to look it over. Much to my annoyance, they refuse to let me in. A few years ago, I would have pressed my ear to the door and listened as hard as I could. But now, in my continued effort to become someone worth trusting, I don’t do that. Instead, I stand outside, shifting from foot to foot, getting angrier by the second, annoyed they’re leaving me out.

When they emerge from the bathroom, I can tell they’ve been fighting. They have identical stiff shoulders and tight jaws and are shooting glares at each other.

“I’m serious, Dean. No police,” Caleb says over his shoulder as he walks out. “They never help any—” He cuts off whatever he was about to say when he sees me.

“What’s going on?” I demand for the tenth time.

“It’s nothing,” Dean says without a glance my way.

“Caleb!” A voice cries out. We all turn in unison to see Caleb’s mom, Marjorie, standing by the theater entrance. She rearranges her windblown, dark blonde hair, running her fingers through it. “Are you ready for lunch?” She beams at us, her smile dimming as her question is met with a tense silence. “Everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Caleb says quickly. He stares at Dean and me as if daring us to contradict him.

“We should leave. Our reservation is in 20 minutes.” Dean checks the large watch he always wears on his left wrist. It’s black and bulky. The kind with all the extra dials so he can go scuba diving, rock climbing, or walking on the moon. Whatever a guy like him does in his limited free time.

“We’ll do the interview after lunch, right, Jenny?” Marjorie asks.

“Sounds great,” I reply, excited for the chance to interview Caleb and his mom together.

The four of us make our way to the parking garage and climb into Caleb’s Aston Martin DBX. With a roar of its engine, Caleb guides the car up the ramp and out onto the crowded city street.

This assignment is my first trip to New York. As a native Californian, I’m in awe of the bustling sidewalks and towering skyscrapers. I’ve seen the city many times in films or on TV so to be here now is exhilarating, if also slightly terrifying.

During the drive to the restaurant, it starts to snow. Fluffy white flakes drift down from the sky like confetti at the end of a concert. I chew on a butterscotch candy and press my nose to the chilled car window, watching with delight as New Yorkers spill into Central Park to build snowmen and ice skate.

Dean sits in the back seat next to me since Caleb drives and Marjorie rides shotgun. I pester him with questions. “What’s that ice-skating place called?” I jab at the picturesque rink surrounded by windblown trees and the tallest buildings I’d ever seen. Dean grew up in the Bronx, so I figure he should know.

He flicks his gaze to see where I pointed. “Wollman Rink.”

“How about over there? With all the snowmen?” My phone rings with “Butthead” flashing on the screen. I turn it to silent, making a mental note that I have to talk to him eventually. The window fogs from my breath. I trace a defiant smiley face into it that quickly fades away.

“Sheep Meadow.” Dean answers my question.

“What about the area with the boats? Gwen told me she went on a date with Caleb there.”

“Loeb’s Boathouse.”

“Oh! Oh!” I bounce in my seat and clap my hands with excitement. “The fountain from Friends? How about that one?”

He heaves a sigh. “How about you stop asking so many questions and use the map on your phone?”

“How about you stop being such a jerk?” I grip the door handle, so I don’t throttle him.

Caleb overhears that last part. He glances over his shoulder and says, “Children, children. No fighting. Don’t make me pull over the car.”

Marjorie tells him, “This is why I only had one kid.”

They laugh, the sound surprisingly amicable.

That shuts us up. Dean stares sullenly out his window, and I go back to looking out of mine for the rest of the trip.

We have a private room in the back of Tavern on the Green, the famous restaurant located in Central Park. We enter through a rear door, with Dean sweeping ahead like he’s a Secret Service agent and Caleb’s the president.

Garlands made of pine and colorful ornaments line the walls close to the ceiling. Holiday music plays overheard, an instrumental version of “Winter Wonderland.” A server arrives and takes our order. Within minutes, he’s back with drinks. Mine is an eggnog latte.

I marvel over how two years ago I had sat with Gwen sipping eggnog while she complained about how her family had abandoned her for Christmas. Little did we know that the same night an unexpected intruder, Caleb, would come into the house and she would knock him unconscious with a wrench. The memory stirs a soft laugh, which makes Dean glance sharply at me.

He frowns, cocks his head, and wrinkles his brow with a silent, what?

I glare back, trying to broadcast, none of your business.

Behind him, the curtained windows reveal the stark winter beauty of Central Park. The trees are bare, and the ponds are a glassy blue-gray, reflecting the cloudy sky above them.

Soon, our food is served. As I eat my grilled chicken sandwich, I listen to Caleb and his mom as they go over the guest list for the third time. Marjorie wants to add some old neighbors, but Caleb refuses. Gwen told me they’re trying to keep the wedding to less than 100 people, only family and close friends like me.

Dean’s silent, methodically chewing his salad, because of course he only eats healthy food. No candy for him. Must be how he maintains that Adonis physique. He acts like he’s not listening to the conversation, but I don’t buy it. He’s way too observant for that.

“Please, Mom,” Caleb says with a trace of impatience. “No more. We’re done sending out invitations.”

“Fine,” Marjorie says, the word sharp with disappointment. There’s a beat of silence, then she turns to me. “Jenny, do you want to start the interview? I have an appointment at 3:00.”

“Sure. No problem.” I reach for my bag, which I’d hung on the back of my chair. My brain is already humming with questions. This is the first chance I’ve had to question Marjorie. I’m curious about Caleb’s early career. Since he started acting when he was five, he doesn’t remember any of that time, but his mom will. After I’ve opened my laptop and selected a blank document, I place my phone on the table and press the record button.

“I’d like to discuss Caleb’s younger years before he became famous. It’s been covered before, but not in great depth.” I angle my seat toward Marjorie. “Can you tell me a little about the city you’re from? The one where Caleb was born?”

She takes the napkin from her lap and places it on the table, next to our dirty plates and the red spotted poinsettia centerpiece. “Marion. It’s a small town in southern Illinois. Less than 20,000 people live there, nice folk, but I never quite fit it. I was always looking for a way out. I would spend weekends in the old theater downtown, watching movies up on that giant screen. Everything seemed so glamorous in Hollywood, like nothing bad could happen there. No girls got bullied for having their nose stuck in a book or for being too plain, too smart, too awkward.”

She pauses, her eyes unfocused, remembering a past only she knows.

“I wanted to go away for college, but my father wouldn’t hear about it. He said it was too dangerous. A girl like me off on her own. Who knew what could happen? Someone might take advantage.” Her shoulders hunch, folding in. “After high school, I took a job at a hotel. I was the late-night front-desk clerk. It suited me. I liked that it was quiet in the evening, which gave me time to read.”

Her eyes sharpen, and she looks at Caleb. “One hot summer night when the cicadas were so loud I thought I might lose my mind, your father walked in.” She smiles at the memory. “He was in insurance and had to travel to Illinois once a week from St. Louis for a department meeting. He was so shy at first, quiet but always kind. It took six months for him to ask me out. The longest six months of my life. We were married six months later, the shortest six months of my life.”

Marjorie tells Caleb, “We never told you because we didn’t want you to dislike your grandparents, but they refused to come to our wedding.”

Caleb’s head jerks up at that, surprise widening his eyes. “Really?”

“They didn’t approve—well, my father didn’t, and my mother followed wherever he led.” She sighs. “He said it was a mistake to marry your dad. I was so in love I wouldn’t listen. When your dad suggested we elope, I agreed instantly.”

Caleb’s jaw drops.

I shift, guilty to be a part of this conversation. It’s obviously personal. Not wanting to intrude, I half rise to leave, but Marjorie’s hand shoots out and tugs me back down. “It’s okay, Jenny. Stay.”

I sit and lean in, secretly relieved because I want to hear more. I’ve always been drawn to a good story like it’s my own gravity. My newspaper would gobble up these intimate details about Caleb’s family, but I vow not to write about them. For this assignment, my loyalty lies with Gwen and Caleb. I won’t sacrifice my relationship with them for the sake of my career.

“He was always disapproving of the things I did, my father,” Marjorie continues, a mix of bitterness and sadness thickens her words. “He said nothing good would come of our union.” Tears have filled her eyes, but she doesn’t cry.

“Then we had you, Caleb, and I knew he was wrong. You’re the best thing to come out of our marriage. When you started to be successful, I guess I saw that as further proof my decisions were right. Every role you booked, a little voice in the back of my head said, ‘See, Dad. Told you so.’”

Caleb shifts impatiently. He’s heard this part of the story before.

Marjorie continues, “It was a huge leap of faith, one I could never have made without your father’s support, to come to California, but I never doubted what you would become. It was your destiny.”

Caleb rubs the back of his neck. “I’m not sure that’s how destiny works, Mom.”

“It was,” she insists. “I could feel it. It wasn’t until you were an adult that I questioned my decisions. Once you started drinking, and especially after the car crash, I wondered if I’d been selfish. I was unhappy in my hometown, but maybe you wouldn’t have been if we’d stayed.”

She lets out a watery sigh and rests her hand on top of his. “It’s a hard thing, being a parent. When you’re in the middle of raising your child, there’s no clear answer if you’re doing it right and then, when time has passed and you see the outcome of your choices, it’s too late. Whatever damage you’ve caused is already there. You can’t take it back.” Her eyes have filled again, making the blue in them, the same aqua as Caleb’s eyes, seem like it’s underwater. “I worry I haven’t done the right things for you, darling, and I’m sorry for that.”

Caleb’s misty-eyed too. “You had good intentions and in so many ways you gave me an incredible, although not always easy, life. Now, I look at Gwen and know no matter how crooked the road was that led me here, I’m where I’m supposed to be.” Caleb and his mother hug, their arms wrapping tightly around each other, then continue their conversation in hushed tones.

I scoot my chair back to give them privacy. My fingers itch to grab my phone and call Gwen. It’s one thing not to share this moment with the newspaper, but another thing entirely to not share it with my best friend. I clasp my hands in my lap, resisting the urge. You’re not a gossip anymore, I tell myself. As much as I would love to hear Gwen’s reaction to Marjorie’s confessions, it’s not my story to tell.

It’s Caleb’s.

I look over at Dean, the only person unmoved by this touching display. “How can you sit there so stoic?” I hiss at him.

He sends back a tight-lipped glare. “It’s not my job to eavesdrop, Jennifer. I’m here to protect Caleb.”

“We’re in a private room. Who could possibly threaten him right now?” I’m frustrated by his single-mindedness. “What? Do you think someone’s hiding behind the curtains or under the table?” I make a big show of leaning over and searching under the white tablecloth.

“Stop acting crazy.” He scowls. “This isn’t all fun and games. There are threats, real threats.”

“Yeah? Like what?” I challenge.

He scrubs his hand over his face, more agitated than I’ve ever seen. “Like that present Caleb got today at the theater.” He scrutinizes me. “You want to know what was in it?”

I nod, my curiosity piqued.

A long pause, like he’s waging an internal battle, before he says, “You can’t write about this. Do you understand?”

More nodding from me. “I promise. I won’t tell a soul.”

Another moment of silence while he stares at me, calculating, deciding his next move. Then a tiny nod, more to himself than to me. Dean’s lips tighten, his expression troubled.

“Caleb’s had his fair share of stalkers. Did you hear about Chrissy Sanfield? The woman who broke into his place in Malibu?”

I remember the story. It had been all over the Internet and on television. “She was barefoot, right? When the police arrested her?”

Dean gives a grim laugh. “She told us she didn’t want to be a bad house guest and get Caleb’s carpet dirty. Never mind that she smashed a window to enter the place.”

“She’s out of prison? Isn’t she on probation?”

“No. She was, but now she’s back in jail. She violated her parole, showed up here in New York, stood outside Caleb’s building. Said she’d wait for Caleb out there forever. Police had to come and take her away. She’s not his only stalker, though. He’s got tons of them following him. There’s another that scares me the most, though. The person who sent that gift today.”

I lean forward, desperate to hear more. “What was it? What was in the box?”

“It was a bunch of Caleb’s clothing stolen from his dry cleaner.”

“Is that all?” I relax, relieved, since that doesn’t sound too awful.

Dean’s mouth sinks into a deep frown. “Whoever sent it had tampered with the clothing. There was a pattern. If it was an outfit he’d never worn around a woman, the stalker put lipstick kisses, bright red, all over it. If it was an outfit he’d worn when he was with a woman, any woman at all, the stalker had taken scissors to it and ripped it to shreds.”

A chill runs through my body. “That’s pretty bad.”

He whips out his phone and thumbs through it quickly. “There’s more. Here, look at this.” He shoves it in my face. I take it from his hand, my fingers brushing against his. Good grief, his skin is warm, almost too burning hot to touch.

Dean’s phone is set to a website called Caleb’s Secret Santa. It has a Christmas theme with a red and green background. Animated GIFs of grinning Santas and reindeers dancing a jig are scattered around the page. The top of the screen shows three tabs, labeled Caleb’s Sleigh, Naughty or Nice, and Find Caleb.

I select the first tab, Caleb’s Sleigh, and am astonished to see pictures of his private jet, along with a detailed summary of Caleb’s flight history, including departure and arrival times and miles flown.

“Holy cow!” I hold the phone up to Dean. “Can they publish this? Isn’t it private?”

“Totally legal,” he answers, his expression even more serious than usual. “All public information, although most people won’t comb through the required data to track it. Each plane has a tail number registered with the FAA. That’s how whoever is in charge of this site knows exactly where Caleb’s jet is.”

“You don’t know who’s doing this?” A chill settles low in my stomach.

“No clue. We’ve tried everything. The police. The FBI. Even Wayne hasn’t been able to find anything. The airplane’s not the worst of it.” He leans over, his chest brushing against my shoulder. Again, that flare of heat transfers from his body to mine. A minute ago, I had been cold, but suddenly I’m flushed with warmth.

Dean hits the Find Caleb tab. A map pops up with a flashing red arrow pointing to the Tavern on the Green. Not only is it directed at the restaurant, it’s aimed at the back half of the building, scarily close to the room where we now sit. The fine hairs on my arm rise.

“What the heck?” I look up to find Dean’s face near mine as he peers over my shoulder. His eyes are brown, but for the first time I see tiny flecks of gold that cluster in a ring around his pupil. “Please tell me this is illegal. Isn’t this stalking?”

He shrugs. “It’s a gray area. It’s not against the law to post where someone is located. The criminal part would be how they’re getting the information. If they installed a tracking device without your knowledge, for example, they could get arrested for that.”

“A tracking device? Have you checked Caleb for one?” I look over at Caleb, who’s still talking with his mom, their blonde heads bent close together.

“We searched everywhere. Caleb even had a full body scan to make sure someone hadn’t implanted one under his skin or in his teeth.”

“What?” This situation is turning more science fiction by the minute.

Dean lowers his brows, his eyes serious. “A dentist in L.A. got caught putting trackers in his famous clients’ teeth while they were under anesthesia.”

He gestures to the phone in my hand. “Go on. Keep looking.”

My mind reeling, I select the Naughty or Nice tab. It’s a series of photos, each one stamped with a bold, red “Naughty” or “Nice.” There’s a picture from the event at the theater this morning. It’s taken from outside, like the photographer was standing on the sidewalk. The image focuses on Caleb as he bends down to greet the young boy I’d been making faces with. I see myself in the background. I’m talking to Dean, or more likely fighting since I’m giving him a belligerent stare. This photo is labeled as “Nice.”

Another picture causes my blood to freeze. It’s one where I’m straightening Caleb’s scarf. The image is zoomed in on us. I’m smiling up at Caleb, probably teasing him. There’s a large “Naughty” stamped over the middle of that picture. Red ink bisects my face like I’ve been slashed with a knife. I scroll through more photos until I see a pattern emerge. Anytime Caleb interacts with a woman or girl, it gets the “Naughty” designation. If he interacts with a man or boy, it’s labeled as “Nice.”

Dean takes his phone back. “This website is password-protected. Users subscribe and pay $200 a year to have access to it. There are hundreds of thousands of subscribers. Whoever owns it is making millions selling Caleb’s location.”

I gasp. “Who would do that? Who pays that kind of money?”

“Fans,” he says simply. “They want to know everything about Caleb, including where he is. It makes it easier for them to position themselves for photo ops, selfies, or autographs. I guarantee that when we walk out of here there will be a horde of people waiting outside that’ve been tipped off by this website.”

“What!? Why are we sitting here, then? We should leave right now. Try to get away.” I reach for my purse, but Dean puts up his hand in a calming gesture.

“It’s always like this for Caleb,” he explains, unfazed. “The fans and the paparazzi constantly chase him. If we ran every time, he would never have any peace. Besides, that’s why we picked this place. This restaurant is used to having famous patrons. It has its own security staff patrolling.”

“Oh, okay.” Appeased, I settle back into my chair, my head spinning. “This whole situation is terrifying.”

Dean nods solemnly. “What’s even scarier is that the person who runs this website is escalating.”

“What do you mean?” My hand clutches my chest, where my heart is racing.

He glances around like he’s worried someone might overhear, which is ridiculous since we’re in a private room. Dean leans closer and whispers, “I think the upcoming wedding is antagonizing the stalker. Making them bolder. That wasn’t the first present they’ve sent to Caleb, but it’s the worst one so far.”

“You mean there’ve been others?”

“Boxes wrapped like they’re Christmas presents with these huge red and green bows. Whoever the stalker is, they’re obsessed with the holiday. The website looks like this all year long.”

Foreboding stirs low in my gut. “How do you know the gifts are from them?”

“They include letters and sign them from ‘your secret Santa.’ They’ve referenced the website in their notes several times, using details only the person running it would know.”

“What was in the earlier boxes?” I’m not sure when I started, but now I’m whispering too.

“Stuff Caleb left behind at restaurants or on movie sets.” Dean shrugs. “A sweater, a note he jotted down on a napkin, things like that.”

“This is terrible.” My mouth goes dry. I think of Gwen. Is this what she’s signed up for by marrying Caleb? A complete violation of privacy for the rest of her life? Followed by unhinged stalkers?

No wonder Caleb left her before.

When Dean glances away to put his phone in his jacket pocket, I fetch a candy from my purse, this one a spicy cinnamon disc, to bring some moisture back to my mouth.

“Does Gwen know?” I ask, wondering why she didn’t tell me. Maybe she doesn’t want me to worry or maybe she doesn’t trust me to keep the details to myself?

“A little, mostly about the website and a couple of the gifts. Caleb doesn’t want to scare her. I told him she needs to be warned more, but he’s resistant.” Dean lets out a gust of air. “He can’t stand making her upset. I think it’s left over from when they were apart. Some kind of guilt he still carries.”

“He has to tell her everything,” I insist. I glance over at Caleb, but he’s not paying attention to us, too busy talking with his mom.

“I know.” Dean lifts his shoulders. “I’m worried the stalker might target the wedding. Do something crazy to stop it. I told Caleb to quit being an ostrich, burying his head in the sand, but he doesn’t want to alarm anyone, especially Gwen. He’s lived this way his entire life. I don’t think he understands how abnormal it is.”

“What about me?” I shove curls off my forehead, only to have them bounce back into the same position. “Will Caleb be mad you told me?” When I was a teenager, I had a schoolgirl crush on Caleb. I even had a poster of him in my bedroom. Now, through Gwen, I’ve gotten to know him, to become friends with him—the real Caleb, not the movie star version. The last thing I want to do is threaten that relationship.

Dean waves a dismissive hand, like he’s shooing away a gnat. “Nah. He leaves this stuff to me.”

I square my shoulders as an idea comes to me. I turn to my computer and quickly type in the Caleb’s Secret Santa website.

“Give me the info to login,” I tell Dean, my fingers poised over the keyboard.

“Why?” he asks, brows lowered.

“Because I want to join,” I say sarcastically, rolling my eyes. “I’m going to track down the location of their server.”

Dean cocks his head. “You can do that?”

“Didn’t Gwen mention I double majored in college?” I lift my chin. “Journalism and computer science.”

Once he gives me the login and password, my fingers fly over the keyboard. I open window after window on my laptop as I attempt to unwind the convoluted series of servers that host the Secret Santa website. After 10 minutes, I give up, slamming the computer closed with a muffled curse. “It’s no use. They’re bouncing the origin of the website off so many international servers, most of them anonymous, that I can’t narrow down where it’s located.”

Dean’s been bent forward, watching over my shoulder as I worked. Now, he leans back, taking his warmth with him. He gives a satisfied nod. “That’s exactly what the computer experts we hired said.”

“What!” I half shout. “You already did this? You could have told me.”

“Why would I do that?” He crosses his arms over his chest. “What if, by some miracle, you were the one to crack the code?”

“Well, I didn’t.” I don’t miss how he said it would be a “miracle” for me to find the server. Of course, he doesn’t believe I can do it. A glum feeling sinks into my stomach. After a beat of silence, I say, “What’re you going to do?”

Dean taps his fingers on the table as he eyes me. Begrudgingly, he says, “Maybe you could help.”

“Me?” I ask incredulously, gesturing to myself.

“Yeah. Desperate times and all that.” His voice drops. “You must know some reporters in L.A., right? Investigative journalists?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah?”

“We need to find out who’s targeting Caleb and how they’re doing it. I’m rushing to solve this before the wedding, so Caleb doesn’t have to worry on his big day. I think the person is based out of L.A., because when Caleb goes there, his location and candid photos are updated immediately. When he leaves Los Angeles, there’s a slight delay. Like whoever it is needs to catch up with him. I’ve exhausted all the law-enforcement options. I was thinking that if you put your reporter friends on the job, they could help figure out who’s behind this.” Dean tilts his head and lowers his voice. “If they crack the case, I’d even arrange an exclusive with Caleb.”

I note he doesn’t ask me to discover the stalker’s identity. Why would he? I’m just an entertainment reporter. “I might know some people,” I say, thinking about his request. Immediately, a couple of names come to mind. I’ve worked long enough at the newspaper that I know all of its reporters and most of the staff on the rival papers as well. I’ll have to ask them in a way that doesn’t get back to my editor.

I’m about to answer when it hits me. This is the first conversation I’ve had with Dean that wasn’t hostile. I ask, wide-eyed, “Did I just lose my mind? Because I could swear you said you need me?”

Dean heaves a heavy, soul-shuddering sigh. “Yes, I did,” he mutters, staring down at the table.

Pretending like I’m hard of hearing, I cup my ear with my hand and say loudly, “I’m sorry. What was that?”

Another drawn-out sigh from Dean, this time with a side order of eye rolling. “I said I need help.”

Unable to resist making the most of this moment, I keep my hand to my ear. “Sorry, still couldn’t quite make that out. Who exactly do you need help from?”

His narrow-eyed glare tells me I’m pushing my luck, but in the end Dean humors me. In a satisfyingly loud voice, he admits, “You. I need you, Jennifer.”

Even though I’m completely freaked out by that website and the idea of a stalker, seeing Dean’s obvious discomfort causes a grin to stretch over my face.

He needs my help?

Oh, this is going to be fun.