Total pages in book: 82
Estimated words: 77269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77269 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 386(@200wpm)___ 309(@250wpm)___ 258(@300wpm)
She was referring to the burglary, but she had no idea what I’d done with Roman. She had no idea we’d slept together, for God’s sake.
“Last night was… a lot,” I ended up saying.
“Was Garett’s party really so bad?”
I puffed out a bitter laugh. “It was a fucking nightmare. I forgot to tell you, while we were there, he asked if I was enjoying my life after quitting acting. Who said I was quitting acting? I’ve booked three parts in the last year and I was nominated for another Oscar.”
“He really said that?” Madeline asked, furrowing her brow. “Jesus. We’ve got to get you doing some more broadcast interviews so people know you’re still in the game.”
I waved a hand through the air. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I wish Garett wasn’t such a prick,” she said. “His movies are so good.”
I sighed. “They really are. Even I have to admit it. I guess… horrible people can make good things, sometimes.”
“Well, I’m glad you love it in Amberfield,” she said, sitting back in her white leather office chair. “Even if I can’t understand it.”
“I get it. You don’t have to understand it. I didn’t either until I spent a little bit of time there.”
“Clearly it’s where your heart is, right now,” she said.
I was glad I had my sunglasses on, because I didn’t want her to see the inevitable disappointment in my eyes. She was right, of course. My heart was in Amberfield, right now. My heart basically belonged to Roman, even though it was stupid and meaningless and clearly unrequited. Roman didn’t want anything to do with me other than being the best bodyguard he could be. And I didn’t blame him. Who would want to date someone that gets mobbed every time he goes to a public event? Who would want to date someone who has at least one crazy stalker?
It was strange how getting my number one wish in life—to be a famous actor—had actually ended up being a curse in so many ways.
Madeline and I talked through the necessary repairs and security that would have to be implemented in the Los Angeles house, and she ignored me when I said we should just sell the damned thing. Madeline was still convinced that Amberfield was just a phase I was going through, and that I’d want to come back to my big, beautiful LA house someday in the near future.
But more and more, every day, I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to return here permanently.
An hour or so later, we got up and hugged each other and left the office. Roman was waiting outside, standing tall and proud, every bit the perfect security detail.
I wanted to melt into his arms. Christ. The feeling hadn’t gone away at all since this morning—in fact, if anything, it had only increased in intensity. Madeline accompanied us on the car ride to the jet tarmac, and I was glad that she took the middle of the back seat, so that there was someone between me and Roman.
If I had to sit next to him, I would have been aching to lean against him every second of the ride. Some idiotic part of me had thought that hooking up with him might get it out of my system, but it seemed to have gotten it in my system, instead.
We finally arrived at the runway and filed out of the car, walking toward the private jet.
“It was so good to see you in person again,” Madeline said, giving me a long, tight hug.
“I miss you every day,” I said. Today was filled with little heartbreaks.
“I do, too.”
“Here,” I said, pulling out my phone. I took a selfie of my face with a big cluster of palm trees behind me. “I’ll post a picture of myself that’s clearly in Los Angeles. Maybe it’ll throw off my stalker for at least another day or two.”
“Genius idea,” she said. “Get him off your trail. Hey, you should do that more often. Just constantly post pictures of you that are Photoshopped to be in Paris or Prague or New Zealand. Really throw off the stalker.”
“I’ve actually had the thought before, but it wouldn’t work,” I said. “No matter where I am, somebody with a cell phone or a Twitter account or a blog ends up posting pictures of where I really am. Then the celebrity news sites find it, and then…”
“Then you’re screwed,” Madeline said.
“Yep.”
“Ready, sir?” the pilot called out from behind us, giving us a polite smile.
“Absolutely.”
The plane ride was quick and easy. As soon as we got on, Roman pulled out Bruce Lee and put the tiny turtle on the little windowsill next to him. He took out his phone, snapping a picture of it, clearly to send to his mom.
Another little heartbreak.
He was so fucking sweet. So adorable and tender and caring underneath his steely shell.