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‘You do,’ he said, seemingly just getting into the swing of getting at her. ‘You spend over an hour getting ready for one of your parties and less than five minutes getting ready for an audition that could change your life. It’s like you don’t really want it.’
She whirled to face him. ‘Of course I want it.’
‘No, you don’t! You’re never late to work at the café and yet you’re late almost every time to a casting call. Tell me,’ he said snidely. ‘What do you believe in, Bella? Fairies?’ He bent to pick up her dress from the floor, his acidity eating an even bigger hole in her heart. ‘Do you really think you’ve got some fairy godmother who’s going to make it all happen for you?’
‘Of course not.’ She turned back and started walking to the door again.
‘Then what do you believe in?’
She said nothing, kept walking. It didn’t seem like the moment to mention luck.
‘Why don’t you try believing in yourself?’ he called after her. ‘If you don’t believe in your abilities, why should anyone else?’
She couldn’t not face that. He was in the middle of the room, shaking his head at her. ‘Instead you blame anything you can. Your family isn’t supportive, you haven’t had formal acting training, you haven’t had that “lucky” break. But it’s not about luck, it’s about making the decision to do it and then persevering, putting in that hard work.’
Her anger rose another notch. ‘I work damn hard.’
‘I know, but not at—’
‘But nothing,’ she snapped. ‘You don’t know the first thing about acting, about going to casting call after casting call. It’s not about learning the lines and spouting them automaton fashion. There is luck involved. Who’s your competition? What look are they after? You have to be in the right place at the right time with the right product. I haven’t yet.’
‘Then you keep going,’ he lectured, her dress hanging from his hands. ‘You research. You find out what they want and you give it to them as professionally as you can. You believe and work and eventually it’ll happen.’
‘You make it all sound so easy,’ she said bitterly. ‘Like it’s some computer program.’
‘I know it’s not easy. But you have to believe in yourself. You have to have the passion for it.’
‘I do have the passion!’ She was yelling now. ‘God, Owen, what do you want?’
‘This isn’t about what I want!’ he yelled back. ‘This is about you and you’re not the person you can be yet. You’re floating along the edges too scared to dive right in. I don’t think you even know what it is you do want. It’s much easier to skate along and blame it all on everyone or anything else.’
‘Well, what about you?’ The viciousness of his attack forced her into fight mode. Red-hot anger ran through her veins, releasing the words from her. ‘You’re not exactly living life to the full either, are you, Mr Workaholic? And as for this Mr Don’t-Get-Near-Me-Because-I’m-Selfish routine … What sort of a rubbish excuse is that, Owen? You’re not selfish. Doling out money proves you’re not selfish,’ she shouted, losing her grip entirely. ‘What you are is scared!’
His face whitened, his jaw locked, but she hardly noticed. She was on way too much of a roll now.
‘You say you don’t want labels, but you’re the one trying to squeeze us into the smallest compartment possible. Sex is all it is, huh? Well, how convenient for you. You can just keep your distance and don’t have to invest anything remotely risky like emotion or take responsibility. What is it you’re afraid of, Owen?’ Scathing, she flung him the answer. ‘Failing at something for once in your life? Hell, I fail at things all the time, but at least I have the guts to get back up and give it another go.’
She spat her fury and hurt. ‘So don’t you dare lecture me about hovering on life’s edges. You’re the one not facing up to what’s really going on here. You’re the coward!’
Breathless, she stopped, realising what she’d said and all she’d revealed—the degree to which she was involved, how much she wanted more, how she wanted him to accept that there was more … but, oh, my Lord, maybe there really wasn’t anything more in this for him? Of course there wasn’t—she wasn’t anything like the kind of woman he’d really want. She turned, more desperate to get out of there than ever before.
‘Who’s the coward now?’ he roared after her. ‘Who’s the one throwing the accusations and then walking out without giving me a chance to respond?’
She whirled back, bleeding inside. ‘Well, what’s the point in my staying just to hear you deny everything and say nothing?’ Bitterly, she glared at him.
His hands were fisted in her dress, rumpling it so bad it would have to go back to the dry-cleaners again. His face was still pale and a picture of savage tension. He met her glare with one of his own—just as bitter, just as furious. But his jaw was clamped and as she stared she could see his muscles flex down tighter.
He had no answer to that and she didn’t want to hear it anyway. She stalked out of the apartment and slammed the door as hard as she could. It was all so easy for him. He was nothing but killer instinct. Nothing but what he wanted now, now, now. All ‘I want that, I’m going to do that …’ and off he went and had and did with no regard to consequences. It would serve him right to suffer the consequences for once.
Because she was. She couldn’t compartmentalise this the way he wanted to—this thing was all too big, for her anyway.
She fumed all the way to the audition and barely noticed the competition. She was too busy stewing over the argument. Too busy trying to stay mad and not recognise the extent of the break in her heart.
They had to call her name twice.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
BELLA spent that night alone in the spare room, most of it awake, plotting her way out of there. She was mortified at what Owen had said and what she’d said—and spent hours deciding on the truth of it all. This was just sex for him, and his efforts to help her out—the dress, the website, the way he cooked her dinner—was simply him. He’d stop and help an old lady cross the street—that didn’t mean he was on his way to falling in love with her.
