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“Mm-hmm. So you’ve mentioned.”
“Are seriously telling me you had nothing to do with this?”
“I solemnly promise I have nothing to apologize for.”
Harrison believed him, but Lee didn’t have to sound so damn pleased about it. He wasn’t the one wearing his coffee.
“It’s gotta be her, then. If she thinks I’m going to lie down and take it, then she has severely underestimated me.”
“It’s like sixth grade all over again. You were obsessed with —”
“I wasn’t obsessed,” Harrison argued.
“Bullshit. Hey, here’s a thought. Maybe don’t antagonize your cowriter. You’re a big boy now. Suck it up, finish the script — hell, let her do all the work, and by the end of the week, you’ll be free.”
But the thought of his name being attached to a project and not at least attempting to make it something he could be proud of was worse than walking back into that damn coffee shop. No, he was going to do everything he could to make sure this wouldn’t end up the black mark on his career. He had a reputation to uphold.
And even Hayley Bennett, with her biteable lips and perfect skin, wasn’t going to mess with that.
* * *
After a long shower and two fingers of whiskey he planned on charging to Lee (the bastard), Harrison threw on a robe, relaxed on the sofa, and went in search of one of Hayley’s films.
It was as trite and cliché as he remembered, but there, within the seams, between the chalkboard outlines of the so-called characters, was Hayley’s warmth, wit, and heart.
And dammit, he wanted more.
He was going to actually do this, wasn’t he?
The grimace rumbled through his bones. Arom-com.
Fuck.
* * *
Any hope of a quiet, unassuming morning was swiftly dashed when the elevator doors opened to reveal the hotel manager and his oddly knowing smile. Pre-caffeine Harrison wasn’t his best look, and even the calm of an unhurried jerk hadn’t improved his mood this morning.
“Morning, Mr. Kyle. Which floor?”
“Ground,” he mumbled.
“Going to visit our breakfast buffet, or taking yourself to enjoy a meal at one of the excellent cafés nearby? If you need a recommendation, I’d be happy to assist.”
JesusChrist. There should be a law against being this energetic. Maybe his pep was a little more chemical than Harrison had first assumed.
He could use some chemical encouragement. Preferably in a mug with infinite refills.
“I’m fine.”
“We wanted to apologize for the room mix-up yesterday. As a gesture, I have this.” He then presented Harrison with a stuffed bear the size of a toddler. Where the hell had he been hiding that thing?
Emblazoned across its chest was a glittering red heart and the words “Be My Valentine.” Overhead, a pop song warbled about a beach house.
Harrison scratched the scruff on his jaw. “Ah…”
What — and he couldn’t stress this enough — the actual fuck?
* * *
