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“Do not say that. If you missed me, you’d have called before now. This is about Chen Law getting in touch with you, I’m guessing.”
“I had a phone call from a very terse woman, Thursday afternoon. She’s informed me you’re filing a copyright claim on my script.”
Hisscript?
My fingers curl around the phone.
I almost chuck the device across the room. My temples feel hot. My heart is pounding. “That movie is not yours, and you know it.”
“You would have never written it without my help.”
“What planet are you living on? Sylvester, that’s insane. You didn’t help me with that movie. I wrote it on my own.”
“Yes, you wrote it… while living withme. Under my roof. Under my tutelage.”
‘“Excuse me?”
“I taught you everything you know about writing movies.”
“That is crap, Sylvester. I went to graduate school. I have a Master’s in Fine Arts.” Now I’m fuming. The air feels hot, leaving my lungs. “You know what? I can’t do this right now. I have a busy day ahead of me.”
“Talk to that lawyer of yours. Tell her we’ll deal with this between us.”
“No way. Not a chance.”
I hang up and fling the phone on the bed like it burned me.
In the shower, I try to let the steamy water wash away my anger.
It doesn’t work.
When I get out, I storm to my suitcase to resume my rummaging. Now that I’m upset, I barely pay attention to the clothing I pluck out. I stuff my feet into my high tops, and then spin around to survey the unmade bed.
“Outlaw?” I peer at the rumpled blankets, where he usually likes to lounge.
He’s not there.
I crouch down, peek under the curtain of falling blankets. My wet hair falls across one side of my face. “Bud?”
He’s not under the bed, either.
My hair’s dripping on my T-shirt, now, so I grab my towel and wrap it around my head, turban-style. Then I start my usual rounds: kitchen, laundry room, under the entryway desk. He’s not in any of his favorite haunts, which could mean only one thing…
“Shoot,” I mutter, when I finally locate the torn screen. It’s the bottom left panel of the back door.
Now I’m sure he’s at Nick’s.
The thought of popping into Nick’s house right now makes my heart flutter. I’m not up for seeing Nick right now. He might look gorgeous, with sleepy eyes and a soft T-shirt and handsome pj pants and adorably bare feet.
He might pull me in again for one of those heart-stopping kisses.
After my talk with Sylvester, I’m not in a good frame of mind.
Kissing Nick would only make me feel more confused.
I feel like a fugitive as I creep through Pansy’s house, ducking down under the windows. I know Nick has a clear line of sight to this living room, and I don’t want to be seen.
When I make it to the front window, I peek out.
