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It doesn’t help that Talia is going to town on her breakfast sandwich and shooting me snooty looks, rubbing my face in the fact that she has bacon and I don’t.
I’m staring longingly at the sandwich that José is snacking on—per Sullivan’s insistence—when Talia shakes a paper bag in front of me. Her sharp expression warns she’s about to drop the food in my lap, so I quickly accept the offering.
Sullivan looks at me and mimics dipping a spoon into a bowl. I open the bag and notice that there’s half a sandwich. Sullivan has the other half in his hand. He makes a ‘breaking in half’ motion and acts out ‘eat’ again.
My heart starts beating erratically.
The symptoms from earlier are back. Fluttering pulse. Flushed face. But this time, I blame it on the breakfast sandwich.
Talia finishes her meal while I nibble on mine after convincing myself that I’ll only eat one quarter of the biscuit and a pinch of the bacon. I watch as Sullivan cracks open a bottle of water for her and then hands her a napkin.
She tilts her face up to his, swinging her legs. He obliges, patiently wiping her face free of all crumbs. The gentle way he takes care of her shows another side to him. One that’s unquestionably humane.
And attractive.
His eyes connect with mine and, for one dangerous second, I imagine what it would be like if he was looking at me all the time because he actually liked me.
But that’s ridiculous.
Richard Sullivan does not like me.
He may think I’m hot.
He may want a night or two with me.
Butliking meas a person? No way.
I am his prisoner. A means to an end. A diversity shield to cover the sins of his rich, entitled family.
It’s ludicrous to even imagine that he mightcarefor me.
And even if—by some slim chance—he does, there is no way I would be interested.
He’s hearing.
I’m deaf.
It’s simple, really.
But he keeps looking.
And, despite my best attempts, I keep looking at him too.
* * *
The network TV studio is more chaotic than what I’m used to for photoshoots. Frazzled crew members rush back and forth in the shadows. Up ahead is a giant platform with harsh lights and a bunch of windows where sightseers, fans and tourists are already gathered to watch.
A woman trots toward me in a sharp grey pantsuit and red heels. I recognize her from that day at the contract signing. Her eyes are much warmer today than they were last week.
“Hello, I’m Athena,” she signs.
“I’m Yaya.” I smile. “I remember you.”
“Good. I don’t have time for a proper introduction. Come. We have a lot to do.”
I glance over my shoulder.
Sullivan is chatting with his assistant Mosely but, as if he can feel my eyes on him, he turns and gives me a little nod.
