Reese is speaking with someone, fingers absently moving through her hair—a habit she hasn’t lost despite the pixie cut. She’s in her new costume. It’s perfect on her. Not like that awful metal thing Felix had insisted upon.
Though I would be hard-pressed to admit that anything wouldn’t be perfect on her.
When she laughs, her head tilting back, something inside me rearranges. The way it always does when she looks so pure. Her jaw, neck, the precise geometry of her face. Beautiful in a way that hurts to look at.
Her eyes find mine.Hi.
Hey.
I start toward her, smiling, but then the person speaking to her turns, and my body forgets how to move.
Fuck.
It’s Susan Martin.
With Reese.
The world tilts sideways.What the actual fuck is she doing here?
I duck behind a tree, nearly dropping Reese’s lunch.
Shit.
Maybe she hasn’t said anything to Reese yet. Or maybe Reese will come over here and ask why I never mentioned knowing Susan.
Or worse—ask why I leaked the location of the set. The guilt that’s been dormant for the last few weeks suddenly feels like it’s choking me.
My mind spins. I need to get my story straight.
I only confirmed what she already knew. I never lied to Reese. Susan would have found us anyway, even if she hadn’t been on my yacht. Even if I hadn’t bragged about Reese over two months ago.
But the justification feels hollow.
Empty.
God, I’m such a fucking bigheaded idiot. I could lose everything—lose her—over one stupid fuckup.
A branch snags on my shirt, which only makes me realize I’m acting like a child hiding over here. I have to go tell her. I’m a fucking coward. I should have told her the moment the article appeared in theStone Timeswith Susan’s name on it.
“Dante?” Reese peeks around the tree. “There you are!” I spin around, nearly losing my balance. “What exactly are you doing?”
“I’m here with the tree,” I say, touching the bark, aware of how absurd and transparent I must seem.
“In the dirt?” Her eyes narrow as she studies my face. “Are you okay?”
I shift my weight from one foot to the other, positioning myself at an angle that keeps Susan from seeing me.
There is a hollow space in my chest where my heart should be, though perhaps it is there and I simply cannot feel it through the thundering panic. Or perhaps I am actually the Tin Man fromThe Wizard of Ozand don’t actually have a fucking heart of any kind.
“Yes,” I say. “Fine. I brought you lunch.”
I scan her face, asking myself if she can read the truth in mine, if she can see how my thoughts keep circling back to that day on the yacht, to words I can never take back.
But she’s already reaching for the bag.
“Oh, you’re a saint! I’m starved.” The panini appears in her hand, and she bites into it immediately, her shoulders visibly relaxing for the first time today.
“How are the interviews going?”
