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“Think you’ll sink the franchise?”
“I’m a good actor. That’s why I got the role.” He says it like he doesn’t want to engage, but can’t let me drag him through the mud either.
“Okay, let’s pretend that’s true—you do a good enough job, but fandom still doesn’t like you. The backlash to your performance is huge. The fans demand Nic back because let’s face it, he’s Warwick.”
His face is like thunder. “He can’t act.”
“Of course, he can’t act! But he puthimselfinto that role and made it his. Every broody shot? That’s Nic, not Warwick. You have to measure up to that.”
“I’ll do better than that,” he mutters. He’s clenching the steering wheel and a muscle in his jaw tics. He takes a hard turn onto a country road and accelerates.
I’m finally under his skin and I don’t feel good about it—in fact, it makes me nauseous—but I can’t stop the words from continuing to spill out of my mouth. “Worst case, the franchise caves to the whims of disappointed fans. They write out your entire career as Warwick as an aberration, an alternate universe that never happened, no one ever watches your movies, and they offer Nic enough money he can’t say no—”
“That’s not going to happen. I’m a better actor than Nic.”
“Please. Not in this role. He’s better than you’ll ever be because he’s true to himself. He’s not lying or pretending to be something he’s not so people will like him.”
He pulls over, turns the car off, and gets out.
My stomach plummets. Fuck. Why am I like this? Why can’t I leave him alone?
He stomps a good ten feet down the dirt road, his hands in his hair. After a moment of staring out at the nothingness around, he strides back to the car, past my door, and to the trunk.
Maybe he’s taking a leak. Hurling rocks or kicking a fence post. I don’t know. I can’t bring myself to look. I should go after him. Apologize.
I jump when he opens my door.
“Get out of the car,” he growls, a blanket tucked under one arm and heat in his eyes.
Oh shit.
“Ashley.” His voice gets sterner and I don’t know how that’s possible, but oh my god it’s doing something to me.
Anticipation sky-high, I unbuckle my seat belt and slide out of the car. Gabe doesn’t give me an inch, and I have to press against his chest while he glowers at me. “Yes, baby?” I blink up at him with innocent eyes when I should be apologizing and telling him I didn’t mean it, I don’t know why I said it, I’m sure he’ll be a great Warwick…well, I’m not sure but I also don’t care.
“Get over here.” He closes my door and walks around to the front of the car, throwing the blanket over the hood. “Shoes off,” he snaps.
I slip them off and point at the blanket. “Is that for wrapping my body up after you murder me?”
He looks unimpressed. “The only one dying is me.” He scoops me up and sets me—gently—onto the hood of his car, muttering about dents and spreading my weight out a bit more so it’s not all on my ass.
Then he steps back, pulls his phone out of his pocket, and holds it up.
“Really? We’re doing social media shit right now?” I ask. On reflex, I push my tits out and find my angle with the sun.
He doesn’t say a word. He takes the photo and types something on his phone. I’m too scared I’ll dent or scratch his baby to slide off the hood—he can pick me back up and put me on the ground—so I stay where I am.
He hands me the phone. The shot is in black and white, which makes my pale pink dress pop against the darker shade of his metallic car and the much darker blanket. There’s a pinup vibe to the photo I like, but when I read the caption, I nearly drop his phone.
Quick lunch stop.
He’s posted it too. Somehow, out in the middle of nowhere, he has enough of a signal topostthis?
I bite my lip and read it again, a hot, tight feeling building between my legs. He isn’t going to—
Gabe takes the phone from my hand and tucks it in his back pocket, his hungry eyes drifting down my body.
My knees part about six inches.
