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“So what else do you got for me, kid?” Fletcher demanded after I’d sufficiently praised his marketing campaign. “Dirt on Lewis, I hope. I saw you at his table. Has he tried anything I should kick his ass for?”
My mouth twisted in disgust. It wasn’t just the hypocrisy of Fletcher threatening to kick someone’s ass for messing with a production assistant. It was the note ofhopeburied in his pathetic attempt to sound like a protective father. Nothing would make him happier than to find out Julian had forced himself on me.
“No, of course not,” I said evenly, anger mixing in with disgust. To make it more believable, I threw in the tabloid speculation I’d seen about his love life. “He’s dating that model, Shelly Monroe.”
“Huh, I thought she was a lesbian,” Fletcher said, losing interest in Julian now that he wasn’t sexually harassing me. “What do you have for me then?” There was an edge in his voice that said it had better be something.
I stared into the fake flames dancing in the electric fireplace. They were hypnotic, mesmerizing. The heat blowing out smelled burnt, like the flames were scorching the air instead of merely warming it. An idea had occurred to me last night when Callum and I were debating the various meat alternatives. A treacherous idea that bordered on terrible. I had dismissed it. I thought there was no way I could do it.
Now, though, I thought I could. The idea might have been terrible, but Fletcher was worse. He didn’t care about me. I was a pawn in his game, and if something happened to me in the pursuit of victory, that was a shame. Unless, of course, it was to his benefit.
“Lewis is trying to get on his good side by considering financing a documentary about the dangers of veganism,” I said slowly, testing the waters. Could I really do it? “Apparently Callum has had all sorts of health issues since he became a vegan, and he’s pissed that no one told him how bad it could be.”
“Living off beans and sawdust is bad for you?” Fletcher said sarcastically. “Who would have thought?”
“I guess it’s just way worse for you than anyone knows.” I shrugged at the fire as though it were my father, trying to inject just the right note of casualness in my voice. “He’s determined to make sure everyone knows.”
“So I have to finance a fucking documentary?” Fletcher sighed heavily, his voice edgy with annoyance. “This shit might be more trouble than it’s worth.”
“Julian doesn’t think so,” I said, gambling on the idea that beating Julian was worth any amount of trouble to Fletcher.
I could practically hear him gnashing his teeth. “Fucking Lewis,” he muttered. “I can’t believe I’m going to tell Callum I want to finance his fuck veganism documentary.”
“You should do it before Julian makes his official offer,” I said, feeling disembodied from the cool, casual voice coming out of my mouth. My pre-teen self was horrified. My sixteen-year-old self was vindictively pleased. My twenty-five-year-old self didn’t know what to think. I just knew that I had to help Julian win. It was important to him. He deserved it.
I could tell Fletcher wanted to get off the phone, but he asked a few obligatoryhow’s lifequestions–halfheartedly pretending like he cared about me. It was a sad effort. It was more than he bothered to do most of the time. I wondered what his conversations with Tiffany were like. They were close. They teased each other and spoke in a snappy shorthand I couldn’t follow. I got the feeling that Tiffany didn’t want me to keep up. I doubted Fletched noticed.
I hung up, feeling weird and sick and triumphant and sad. Then I walked back to the room and found him just walking out of the bathroom, the towel wrapped around his waist. He looked so good–his bare chest glinting with water droplets. His hair slicked back and dark, like old gold. The arctic blast made gooseflesh prickle up his arms, and he shot me a black look.
“Sorry.” I shut the door behind me quickly. “I wanted to call Miller, and I couldn’t get reception in here, so I went to the lobby.” I held up my phone, like Julian had asked for proof. My hand was trembling.
“Did you get through?” Julian asked, shrugging into his sweatpants and T-shirt. We weren’t going anywhere else tonight. He’d had an idea that we’d head to a bigger town, get a nicer hotel, but the snow was coming down too hard again.
“Yeah.” I walked across the room and wrapped my arm around him from behind. He stiffened when my cold limbs chilled him through his t-shirt, but he bracketed his hand over my wrist, refusing to let me pull away.
“You’re freezing,” he murmured, meeting my eyes over his shoulder in the mirror.
“Warm me up.” I pulled a hand free and tugged at the hem of his t-shirt.
He winced, but he let me tuck my hands against his bare skin and keep them there until they felt like hands again instead of chunks of ice. Until the trembling stopped, too. Then he turned and slid his hands underneath my sweater. Before he could do it, I pulled it over my head.
Julian’s eyes heated and he began walking me backward toward the bed. I pulled him down into it, pulling the blankets over us, driven by a need to be close to him that went deeper than lust. I wanted to feel every part of him against every part of me. I wanted to obliterate the space between us. I wanted to pull him so close and so deep that there would be no more room for secrets or lies. Just us.
No Fletcher Films. No Lewis Productions.
Just Julian and Willow
Afterward, we held each other tightly, the blankets still piled up over and around us. Just our heads poked out at the top, our noses and foreheads cooling as our entwined bodies stayed warm and toasty.
“I hate the snow, but I love being warm with you,” Julian murmured, his eyes heavy lidded, the blue of his irises glowing in the dim light. The sun was already going down. Soon it would be dark.
“I love it, too,” I whispered back, grateful that my tongue didn’t slip and betray me. The wordsI love youwere right on the tip. They’d been sneaking up on me for a while. Running through my head at the strangest times.
“I promise I’ll take you to a real hotel tomorrow. One with a spa and a pool.” Julian sounded rueful, like anything could be better than this.
“I don’t want a real hotel.” I held onto him more tightly, like he might try to get up and look for one right now.
Julian smiled, but his gaze became more intent. “What do you want, Laurier? I can never figure it out.”
