Page 118 of Cast to be Mine

“What happens now?” she asked, setting down her chopsticks.

“What do you mean?”

“With us. The movie. Everything.” She gestured vaguely. “The world still thinks I’m either a homewrecker or a gold digger. Our families hate each other. We have a press junket coming up where we’ll have to answer questions about our relationship. How do we navigate all of that?”

I reached over and took her hand. “Together. We navigate it together.”

“That simple?”

“That simple.” I squeezed her fingers. “Look, I’m not saying it’ll be easy. There will be questions we don’t want to answer. Gossip we can’t control. People who’ve already made up their minds about us no matter what we say.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“But here’s what I know.” I leaned toward her. “I know that you’re the most talented actress I’ve ever worked with. Your performance in Breathless is going to blow people away. Anyone who actually watches the movie will see exactly why I cast you. Not because I wanted to sleep with you. Because you were the only person who could bring Elena to life.”

Her eyes glistened. “You really believe that?”

“I know it. And soon, everyone else will too.”

She leaned forward and kissed me. “Thank you. For believing in me. Even when I couldn’t believe in myself.”

“Always.”

We finished dinner and moved to the living room, curling up on the couch with a bottle of wine and absolutely no intention of watching whatever movie I’d put on in the background. We talked for hours instead.

“Maybe we can be the ones to end this family feud,” Grace said, swirling her wine. “The next generation, building bridges instead of burning them.”

“That’s very optimistic of you.”

She smiled at me over the rim of her glass. “I have good reason to be.”

When I woke the next morning, I lay there watching her sleep, feeling more content than I had in weeks. Maybe ever.

Eventually, she stirred. Her eyes fluttered open, and when she saw me watching her, she smiled.

“Creepy,” she murmured.

“Romantic.”

I laughed and kissed her forehead. “Breakfast?”

“Please. I’m starving.”

We made our way to the kitchen, where I discovered I had almost nothing edible in my refrigerator. Three weeks of moping hadn’t exactly inspired grocery shopping.

“Eggs,” I announced, holding up a carton. “And questionable cheese. I’ll order something.”

“We’ll order groceries and I’ll make you breakfast,” she said.

I grabbed my phone and pulled up the grocery delivery app, scrolling through options while Grace peered over my shoulder.

“Bacon,” she said. “Definitely bacon. And real cheese, not that questionable stuff you’ve got in there.”

“Noted.” I added it to the cart. “What else?”

“Butter. Fresh bread if they have it. Orange juice. Oh, and some of those little potatoes—the ones you can dice up for hash browns.”

I kept adding items as she rattled them off, watching her face light up as she planned the meal. There was something deeply satisfying about this. The domesticity of it. Grace in my kitchen, wearing my shirt, planning breakfast like this was something we’d done a thousand times before.