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I nod, relieved.
“But.” Chrissy knocks down the rest of her beer and slams the mug against the sticky bar. “I also thought he likes you as more than just a friend, which, Arya said, was impossible, because he apparently doesn’t do feelings. Well, I don’t care what he wants to do, in practice, he caught a lot of feelings toward you, and there ain’t no cure for that.”
She pauses, tilting her head to examine the issue more carefully. “And I also thought it peculiar that you decided to ru—move after you managed to pull through Paul-less in New York. The timing was suspicious.”
“I didn’t run,” I grit out, remembering Arsène’s words.
“Sure, honey. Sure.”
“You haven’t answered my question.” I pop the last of the mushrooms into my mouth and chew. “Have you spoken to him recently?”
She shakes her head. “Not recently, and not really at all. He hasn’t been taking my calls. Apparently, he ripped your contract up for all to see the day he came back from Tennessee—made a whole big stink about it, Lucas said. That was the last anyone has heard or seen of him at Calypso Hall. He’s a hard man to pin down. I could, obviously, work my contact with Arya, but what’s the point? I wanted to talk to him about some of my up-and-coming actresses, and I’m pretty sure that bridge is burned.”
I don’t feel half as guilty as I should be about this piece of information. In fact, I’m more concerned with his public display of scorn for me. Ripping my contract in front of an audience? It is so different from the man I grew to know back in New York. The indifferent, aloof creature. He seemed like the kind of man who wouldn’t take anything seriously. He must really hate me.
“Please don’t make that face.” Chrissy sighs. “I wish I hadn’t told you. Who cares what he thinks, anyway? It’s not like he owns Broadway. And he’s a well-known asshole in town, anyway. No one’s gonna judge you for bailing on him.”
I let out a half-strangled laugh, just because I know she is expecting some type of reaction. But deep down, I want to weep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ARSÈNE
“Maybe he’s dead.”
I hear Riggs’s voice before I feel something—a stick?—poking the side of my neck. I’m tempted to grab the thing and snap it, but then think better of it. If I ignore them long enough, they might leave me alone.
“He’s not dead,” Christian says with conviction. “That’d be too convenient for us. No. He is going to drag out this existential crisis until my son is college bound and you run out of places to visit in the world.”
The astronomy book I’ve been reading slips from my chest to the ground. I keep my eyes shut. It was Riggs’s and Christian’s idea to whisk me to an exclusive compound in Cabo like I’m a goddamn socialite they want to woo. No part of me understands the plan. First of all, I am perfectly okay. Second, even if I wasn’t, a sunny villa is the last place you’d catch me in voluntarily. Third, and to top all that, I have work to tend to back home. This is a nuisance. Not a luxury vacation.
“How long has he been lying here like this?” Riggs asks.
“Two hours, maybe more?” Christian replies. “Oh, hell, maybe he is dead. Let’s just leave him here and go back to the compound. If he’s dead, we’ll come back to find his body medium well.”
I hear them gather their belongings, and after a few minutes of silence, when I conclude the coast is clear, I open my eyes.
I’m immediately met with two pairs of eyes staring back at me. I sit upright, letting out a roar. “What’s the matter with you, idiots?”
“He’s alive! Alive!” Riggs turns his palms heavenward, à la Frankenstein. “And can I just say—only slightly better looking than a reanimated corpse.”
I pick up the book I dropped and shove it into my duffel. We’re sitting by an edgeless pool that’s built on a cliff, right above the Pacific Ocean. The rocky formations, including the famous arch of Los Cabos, are sprawled in front of us, basking in magnificent shades of pinks and yellows as the sun sets. This place is on the edge of perfection, and yet the world never looked as flawed as it has these days.
“We’re leaving tomorrow night.” Riggs falls on the edge of the lounge chair I’m occupying. “And you still haven’t told us what makes you pout like a cakeless birthday girl.”
“Actually, we know exactly why he’s being a cakeless birthday girl.” Christian takes the seat opposite to us, and this feels a lot like an intervention.
Passing my gaze between them, I shrug, refusing to budge.
“You’re in love,” Christian announces, point blank. “You haven’t been able to think of anything else, to date anyone else, to do things worth doing. You need to tell her what you’re feeling.”
