Page 132 of The Golden Scoop

…couldn’t stand the guy, and I still ended up caring about him more than I’ll ever admit to his face.

My heart starts pounding.

Emma really stared them down and took the bull by the horns. Nothing was left out. She put herself on the page. The most vulnerable she’s ever been.

She didn’t have to include that. In fact, she probably shouldn’t have—paparazzi are going to be all over her now. But she still did it. For millions of people to read.

Meanwhile, I’ve been sitting on my feelings for two years like a coward.

I think about her driving to set and being turned away at the door. Then confronting her boss, only to be shut down again.

The ache in my chest turns unbearable. I miss her.

I miss her smell on my bedsheets.

Her notebook and the way she scribbles so fast no one could ever decipher what she’s writing.

I miss the way she bickers like it’s an Olympic sport.

I miss hearing her call me ‘Matthew’ when she’s judging me, or when she’s being shy.

My life is not the same without her. I hope hers isn’t the same without me.

Because Emma has seen me. The real Matt Hunt. She’s been out there fighting for us, while I left her to deal with everything on her own.

No.

“Nope,” I say to the empty house, already getting changed.

Absolutely not.

There isn’t a universe in which I’m letting another minute pass without seeing Emma.

THIRTY-ONE

Matt

“Fuck,” I curse when Harrison’s phone goes to voicemail again.

I’m breaking every speed limit in Los Angeles on my way to his house. It’s the last place I know she was for sure, and if she’s not there, at least Julia can help me.

Anxious doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’ve been rehearsing apologies since I got in the car. None of them are good enough. There’s a devil on my shoulder whispering that I already hurt her, she’s better off without me.

Maybe she is.

But this time, I’m choosing to fight first.

Emma made it clear her feelings are not my decision to make. If she wants nothing to do with me, I’ll respect that.

Eventually.

After I apologize profusely. For like the next fifty years.

Harrison’s car is in his driveway, so I roll down my window and hold down the buzzer until the gate rolls open. I don’t wait for it to stop. My foot slams on the gas. The back tires spin, undoubtedly leaving marks I’m going to have to pay for later.

He comes out of the front door in nothing but swimming trunks, completely soaked, drying his hair off before wrapping the towel around his waist.

“Dude, I called you like a thousand times,” I growl.