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He kissed her cheek as there was a knock at the door. Jillian stood to open it, introducing the GQ journalist, who was going to interview Chris later on in the week. The man’s eyes toggled back and forth between him and Bronte, but Chris didn’t introduce or even acknowledge her.
“I’m going to take a walk, I think,” Bronte said, getting the distinct impression she was in the way. Yet again.
“Hey.” He reached out for her hand. “Why don’t you take Taco? We’ll be here for another two hours or so, right, Jill?”
Jillian nodded, and Bronte sighed inwardly, reduced down to CJ Cunningham’s dog-wrangler. With Taco’s leash in her hand, she had one foot out of the trailer when Chris said behind her, “I appreciate you letting me reschedule. Had a few things come up I couldn’t get out of.”
Those words landed right in her solar plexus. She wasn’t his girlfriend or partner or even dog-walker. No. She was a thing he couldn’t get out of.
When it was finally time to go home, Bronte was tucked up next to Chris in the back of the Escalade as she flipped through pictures she’d snapped while wandering the pier with Taco.
“I wish I could’ve been there with you.” He took her phone in his hands to enlarge a selfie of her and Taco sitting on the surf. He grinned, tapping the screen a few times to text it to himself. When his cell phone buzzed, he made the picture his new home screen then showed it to her. “My girl and my dog. Everything a man needs.”
Bronte blinked away her blurred vision, refusing to cry. This day had been a roller coaster. Hell, this whole weekend. She’d come looking for answers, but what she’d found was more confusion. Chris didn’t seem to be any better at managing his work and personal life. She, at times, felt like a secret hidden in a corner, and at other times, as if she were the only other person on the planet with him. But at some point, one of those had to win out.
Once they arrived back at his house, Chris walked right into the shower. Bronte followed him, sitting on the toilet lid, admiring his sinewy frame through the clear shower doors while he soaped up.
“Did anyone say anything about your tattoo? You have to have your shirt off for some scenes, don’t you?”
He washed suds from his hair. “Yeah, and they can cover it with makeup. Amy was jealous. She said her husband never got a tattoo for her.”
“You told Amy what it means?” Although it seemed churlish, Bronte was pleased Chris had talked about her to other people. It was proof she was with him, on his mind, even when she wasn’t so sure.
He wiped water from his eyes. “And why I got it.” He slanted his head to stare at her through the glass door. “You’re not some dirty little secret. I know that’s what you’re thinking. I told my friends, the people I trust, about you. I’m just not willing to share you with the rest of the world. It already gets so much of me. I don’t want them to have you too.”
Her heart didn’t merely reach the peak, it soared, and she smiled.
He skimmed his hand down his torso. “You want to join me in here?”
As tempting as it was, she only had a few hours left with this man, and she wanted to treat him to a home-cooked meal. “I was thinking I could make us dinner. I saw you have some chicken in the freezer. You have mushrooms and lemon, so I could—”
“Dinner? No, baby, I have that meeting tonight. We have to leave in about an hour.”
She stood up. “We do?”
He pivoted so the water hit his back. “Yeah, didn’t they tell you?”
“They who?” she huffed, walking out of the bathroom.
Chris wasn’t far behind. “Bronte, hold on. I thought when we were going over my schedule this morning, Jillian or Wes would have told you.”
She avoided his hand when he reached for her and kneeled down at her suitcase. “Jillian or Wes? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I don’t know… I… Can you look at me for a second?”
She did, raising her eyebrows expectantly, annoyed that after these past few days of nonstop action, this was how they were going to spend their last night together.
“I’m meeting Tom to go over some other possible projects. I’m sorry, I—”
Bronte cut him off with an angry growl and dug through her clothes, tossing shirts and shoes on the floor.
“What are you doing?”
He was standing so close, drops of water fell onto her back. “What does it look like?” She pushed off the floor with a shirt in her hand. “I’m trying to find something to wear.”
“I’m sor—”
“Don’t say it, Chris.”
