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“I understand,” I say.
“Good. Let’s have lunch.”
That’ll be fun.
* * *
Lunch isn’t fun. But it’s eye-opening as she lets me into her world, sharing behind-the-scenes tidbits on productions she’s worked on, telling tales of the business. With something like the pride of a self-proclaimed mentor, she says, “I see big things for you.”
The message is clear: choose work because love won’t last.
She’s probably right. Not for the reasons she’s said, but for even more complicated ones.
Ones I shouldn’t ignore any longer.
Finn and I were never destined to be real. It was only ever role-play with him.
28
MY IMPOSSIBLE WISH
Jules
Things that make me feel like I’m doing something wrong—furtively glancing behind me while I knock on the door of Finn’s hotel room in the early evening.
I already texted and told him I wasn’t sure if I could meet tonight, but he asked me to come by to talk in person anyway. I’m not cut out for sneaking around. I can’t keep doing this.
No less than two seconds after I knock, he opens the door, his expression resigned.
I step into his room, wanting to fall into his arms but knowing that’d be a mistake. “Hi,” I say heavily.
“Hey, you.” His voice is like a warm hug, one I hardly deserve.
“I was such an idiot to be so public with you,” I say, my shoulders falling.
“Don’t say that. You’re brilliant and bright. You’re not an idiot.”
“But I am. For thinking I could…”
Could what? What’s the point of this confession? Finn and I never made any promises to each other. We never said we’d do anything but spend every night together in Paris. We were always an affair.
I draw a soldiering breath and try to put the lunchtime conversation in its proper place—it was a valuable piece of advice that I was lucky to receive from a woman who’s made it. “Solange said I should focus on work, and she’s right,” I say, resolute.
Finn’s lips straighten into a ruler, and not in a sexy way like they did the other night. His eyes turn guarded. His nod is slow as he takes this in. “Okay.”
His tone is stripped of emotion. And I hate it. I just hate all this pretending. I hate all this sneaking around. I hate all this…role-play.
“Look,” I say, grabbing his shirt collar. “I fell for you too. Maybe that’s ridiculous and stupid. But I did. And we both knowwecan’t happen. We were never supposed to be more than a one-night thing, and we kept falling into each other. Tomorrow I go back to New York and you have your son. That’s your focus, and I need to think about work, and there’s my father and—”
His lips crash down on mine. Hard, bruising, passionate.
He pushes me against the wall and grabs my face in his hands like I belong to him. Like no one else can ever touch me. He kisses me possessively and madly.
But like he’s angry with me too.
When he breaks the kiss, he huffs, still mad. “You’re so fucking perfect for me it makes me crazy.”
What?
