I squeaked and prayed nobody heard it.
“I can take five?” my stylist asked.
He nodded, then cleared his throat. “Thank you. Yes. I would appreciate it.”
“No prob, be back in a bit.”
“We’re done here too. We can give y’all some privacy,” the other said, and Kristen shot me one final “good luck” look. All too soon, everyone scurried off, and Charlie and I were alone.
“Is everything okay?” I asked, hating how tense and weak my voice sounded.
He stood towering over me. I was basically face level with his crotch. I regretted thinking that the second it popped into my head. Because then, it was all I was aware of and I was just staring at the zipper of his dark pants, completely forgetting how to look anywhere else. Great. And then I was turning red.
Abort! Abort!
He caught my gaze, pointedly, very much right past his hip and definitely not on his crotch, and stepped back to sit in the chair next to me. His gaze moved over my face, and I became acutely aware of how ridiculous I looked with makeup and hair half finished. He didn’t seem surprised to see me in this state, but then again, he must be familiar with the pre-filming regiment.
I wondered who should speak first. Definitely him. I wouldn’t break the awkward silence just because every passing millisecond felt like a million years. I balled my hands fisted under the cape.
“What’s up, Chuck?” I gasped at my verbal misstep as he winced. I had NOT thought that through. “Oh my god, did I just—”
He held up a hand. “I’ve heard it before.”
“I didn’t even mean—”
“It’s okay.”
“Foot-in-mouthitis strikes again!”
“Miss Dubois, honestly—”
“Just Kate is fine.”
“Just Kate,” he teased.
“Ha!” I opened my mouth to talk, but he rested his hands on my hands, gripping the sides of the chair.
“Kate,” he said again, letting out a breath. The side of his mouth lifted to gift me with his infamous dimple. His jaw really was so square and handsome. Then my gaze flicked to where his large warm hands sat atop mine. He slowly pulled them back into his lap.
“I need to apologize for my behavior. Again,” he said.
I don’t know what I expected, but after a fraction of a second of surprise, I quickly waved him off. “It’s fine.”
“No. It’s not.” His gaze was unwavering as he said it. “Nobody deserves …” He shook his head. “I acted like a complete wanker andyoudon’t deserve that. You’re here because of your work. And—” He glared at his hands, white-knuckled on his knees.
It was the most he’d ever spoken to me at once. I loved the lilting smoothness of his accent. I scrambled to process his words. “Is it something I’m doing? Maybe I could stop.”
“No,” he spat.
I flinched.
“Christ,” he grumbled. He collected himself with a slow breath in and out. “It’s not you. I mean it is. That is to say …”
My insides churned. The muscles of his thick neck worked a swallow. Charlie Downing had fallen off the map since his stay in rehab was splashed all over the news. It only occurred to me now that maybe he wasn’t standoffish or grumpy. He was just plain not good at talking to people without the social lubrication of alcohol or drugs. I bit my tongue to keep from talking for him. He just needed a minute to find his words and didn’t need me to speak for him.
“You remind me of someone,” he said finally.
“Me?” The surprise was evident in my high-pitched question.
