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Except now the woman of my dreams was cozied up in their arms.
I breathed slow and backed out, shutting the door as quietly as possible behind me. Again. I could count the amount of times I’d seen Hope awake in the past month on one goddamn hand.
I waited until I got back to the living room to pick up a pillow from the couch and smashed it with my fist across the room.
Not nearly as satisfying as punching Leander’s face. Maybe not so sportsmanlike a thought considering the fucker was laid up with a broken foot. But it would have to do. I couldn’t deal with being a good guy when I was so fucking exhausted.
I was doing the job on set, and I was doing it well. As the lead, I was in almost every frame.
The work was exhilarating. Exhausting, but exhilarating. And there was still time. The kids hadn’t even been born yet. There’d be plenty of time to fix things. That was what I told myself as my face slammed into my pillow and I blinked asleep by the next breath.
The next day on set during my half-hour break for lunch, I was scarfing down a panini while flipping the pages of the rewrite for the next scene, rapidly memorizing as I chewed. It was Venice so it wasn’t like they could cart in trailers for us, no matter the star power. Instead, they’d set us up on a private rooftop lounge.
I sat on a comfortable outdoor couch with a gorgeous view of the ocean, but I was too focused on the pages in front of me to appreciate it at the moment. We were filming out of order and scenes were always being rewritten down to the last minute. Not that it was anything new. Thank fuck I had a good natural short-term memory. I could always spit back info if I crammed for quizzes the morning of.
“Mavros,” one of the production-assistants called.
I glanced over my shoulder at a small Italian man scurrying my way, still half-attuned to my script. Others on the roof at the Italian version of a craft table looked our way. The assistant lowered his voice. “Scusi, Signor Mavros. A woman is here to see you. She says she is your girlfriend?”
I felt my eyebrows lift. Hope was here?
I dropped the pages to the couch and sprang up, feeling the first real wave of happiness in weeks.
I was about to call out her name but it died on my lips. Because instead of seeing Hope’s plump, belly-rounded frame and wavy hair, it was—
Lena? Leander’s clingy co-star from his last movie.
“Helena.” My hands fisted at my sides and I had to consciously unclench them. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” And who the fuck let you past security? Some star-struck fuck who believed the tabloid fodder Lena loved to feed them, obviously.
I all but kicked myself. I should have realized as soon as the production assistant said girlfriend that he didn’t mean Hope. Like always, I wasn’t myself. I was pretending to be Leander. God, I was doubly wishing I could punch the bastard, even if it wasn’t his fault.
Lena’s practiced smile immediately froze on her plastic face at my less than enthusiastic greeting.
I didn’t think Leander would have been any more excited to see her, but he’d always had a little bit more of, what was it called... oh right, tact. At least where she was concerned, for some indecipherable reason.
I was happy to call a spade a fucking spade.
Helena was a witch. Not in the fun pagan way, either. More in the way where witch was the word gentleman substituted for women who were cruel to those they considered less than them.
Her eyes narrowed. She was fake inside and out, and she could spot others like her a mile away. So she’d been able to sense I wasn’t genuine the first time I hurried into a press briefing late in Leander’s stead.
I knew a lot of folks like her. They flocked to LA. Nothing narcissists loved more than being on screen, after all.
But she didn’t call me out as she walked forward. We had an audience, and there was nothing Lena loved more than an audience. Even if this wasn’t going the way she expected.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” she spit from between her still grinning teeth. She leaned in for a hug but I crossed my arms and pulled back.
I wasn’t playing into this bullshit farce. The sooner I could pop her social media dream of her and Leander being a couple, the better. So I hoped every gossipy camera grip at the food tables across the rooftop was watching.
“Play along,” she spat in my ear. “Janus. Unless you want me to announce to the whole rooftop who you are.”
