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You could burn them in your marble fireplace.
Usually my dad’s bottom-line obsession doesn’t get to me, but today it’s pissing me off.
I used to love acting, but Hollywood has wrung a lot of the joy out of it lately. I feel like I’m going through the motions, like the pageantry of being famous is more important than what I’m doing on-screen. I’ve been thinking lately that if I could just find a project I was passionate about, maybe I could turn that around.
“Look,” my dad says, “go ahead and talk to Ernst if you feel like you have to play out that option, but keep your eye on the ball here. Thor. John Allison. Box office and reviews. I’m gonna set up a meeting with John for the end of this week. Can you fly down?”
I open my mouth to protest, to argue for pursuing the Tim Ernst indie, but then I close it. Whatever else you can say about my dad, his instincts are dead on. Before I stomp my feet and throw a tantrum, I should check out both options.
My dad may be a bit of a cash is king guy, but I gotta be fair—his advice has never led me astray.
16
Ivy
Everything else up to this point has been a dress rehearsal.
This is the real thing.
I’ve never been one to get stage fright, but I have it today.
Shane and I are meeting with Hanna to nail down wedding details. And Arthur Weggers, the one man we have to actually convince that our marriage is real, will be there.
Shane picks me up at my house. I’m ready to run out to meet him, but he parks the car and ambles up my front walk. He gives good swagger, and this time he looks like he stole his clothes from cowboy central casting: green plaid shirt, Wranglers, a thick-buckled belt, boots, and a cream-colored cowboy hat.
On the other hand, maybe it’s not all an act. He did grow up on a ranch. Maybe he’s returning to his roots.
I have so many questions, but in the short term, I’ll just enjoy the view.
As he gets closer, I can see that he’s frowning. There’s a small crease between his brows. He hasn’t shaved; there’s a rough shadow on his jaw. I wonder what it would feel like under my palm.
“You look like I feel,” I tell him.
The corner of his mouth turns up. “Slept like shit,” he admits. “Woke up to my socials going nuts.”
“Mine, too. Thousands of new follows. Loads of DMs. Luckily, so far at least, not too much ugliness. A little bit of, ‘Ugh, she’s let herself go so much since Bridge,’ but whatever—I can take it.”
His eyes travel over me from head to toe. “You don’t look like you’ve let yourself go one bit,” he says. It’s almost a drawl, and it curls, warm and molasses, in my belly.
“You just can’t help yourself, can you?” I tease. “Can’t turn off the flirt?”
“Not with you,” he says easily.
I look around, but there’s no one. No neighbors watching us, no paparazzi lurking—at least not that I can see. “There’s no one here. You can let down the act.”
“Not an act.” He shrugs.
I don’t know what to say to that.
He raises an eyebrow. “You want my assistant to handle your social media explosion?”
It’s tempting. “No—I dropped a line to my old assistant to see if she wants a short-term gig handling my social media till this all dies down. Luckily, we’re still on good terms, she needs work, and the answer was yes.”
“Let me pay for it at least. Since all this”—he gestures—“is my fault.”
I tilt my head. “I need this, too, remember?”
“Still,” he says. “Lord Extyllior can foot the bill for that bullshit.”
