Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 162947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 543(@300wpm)
Except, he might never forgive me if he ever found out.
“You okay over there?”
My head snaps up at the sound of Jenner’s concern. “Yeah.” I glance quickly away. “I just have a headache coming on.”
“Looks like we’re in for some weather,” Betty offers up. Either she has her hearing aid switched on, or she’s not as deaf as we think. But she’s right, judging by the sudden sea of dark clouds.
“Atmospheric changes,” Jenner offers sympathetically.
“Sure.”
Fear. There’s only one way to deal with it, right? And that’s head on. With a quiet exhale, I click to the page’s inbox and the one unread message.
Maybe she was looking at visiting the area and somehow stumbled on the High Grounds page, saw the post, and recognised me. She might want to catch up. Except she didn’t really like me back then. But maybe she’s in a different place right now. She could’ve found Jesus or been pseudo-spiritual. She might want to apologise for being a bitch.
But as I stare at the unread message icon, I don’t believe one bit of it as I reach out and click the button as though it might bite me.
Am I ever going to escape this?
Hey hun, long time no see! How are you?
April and I were talking up a storm last week over a cool glass of Chardonnay at my place (you know how it is), and we got to talking about old times, and her birthday in Vegas came up.
Here, she inserts a row of emojis. A glass and a red high heel and a few others.
She told me you had a baby—congratulations!
Thanks. You’re only seven years too late.
And that you moved back to Mookatill.
I feel myself frowning, but April knew where I was from, I guess, even if this feels a little stalkerish.
We were wondering if you still kept in contact with Roman, the hot Aussie from April’s birthday night. I know it’s been a minute but—
My blood stills. That’s what it feels like, at least. I’m beginning to feel like my worst fears are about to be realised, and I don’t know how.
She knows. She knows. And she’s going to tell him about it the next morning. About brunch. Has he seen her since—
I halt that thought before my mind spirals.
—so hot. Did you see him in Tayla Sparks’s “Cruel Lovers” music video last year?
What?
He looked good in a tux and opera mask. And in those polo pants? *chefs kiss*
Next, she leaves a row of sweating emojis. I guess someone who looked like Roman starred in the video. I know the song, but only from the radio. Maybe it’s one of his brothers because Roman isn’t an actor, and he’s definitely not a singer. I’d pay to watch him sing in the shower but only for the view.
But we both know he looks even better out of them ;)
Acid rises to the back of my throat. I swallow over it, forcing myself on.
You probably think I’m crazy, and I expect you haven’t heard from him since (cue an eye roll here and a mutter of you wish, bitch) but when I heard he was about to star in the new Naz Kurman movie, I about flipped. What the what what? Blinking, I hurry on. I know it’s a long shot, but if there’s any chance you’re still in contact with Mr Hot Stuff, could you pass on my email? We didn’t stay in contact and, well, I’m in the business myself, and—
The gist of the rest of the email is she’s looking for a leg up. For contacts. You scratch my back, and I’ll give you a blow job, I’ll bet.
Over the sting of bile, a sudden ache sticks in my throat. I sag back against the seat, my gaze sliding to the street outside. To the town I tried so hard to leave.
It was never going to be real between him and me. Never in a million years.
Navigating to Safari, I type in two words:
Roman Phillips.
I sit forward and press my elbow to the table and my hand to my mouth as I scan the results. There are over four million hits. Professional accolades. An Instagram page with a huge following. Magazine editorials. Catwalk images. Model agency mentions. Notes about campaigns. A freaking IMdb page! Halfway down the page, an article from Variety mentions Roman. It looks like Chelsea was right. And that I’m an idiot.
How can he have expected to be here for Wilder and be off filming in Morocco early next year?
A strange sense of calm and inevitability washes over me, cool against my clammy skin. I don’t want to be involved with someone famous—I don’t want that for my son. I also can’t afford to get involved with Roman if he’s destined for stardom. It would be a hot minute before Chelsea, or someone like her tried to climb over me to get to him, spilling my misdeeds like tarnished pennies at his feet.