Chapter 37 Monk
THIRTY-SEVEN
Monk
“Did you have any notes for that Hazel Scott scene tomorrow?” Canon asks from the speakerphone on Verity’s kitchen counter.
“Nope,” she replies, warning me to be quiet with a finger to her lips when I enter the room. “I think we’re locked.”
We’ve managed to keep our… whatever this is we’re doing…
a secret from the crew, but this is Canon.
I wouldn’t care if he found out. Yeah, he’d tease me mercilessly, the same way I always rib him about his attraction to Neevah, but it wouldn’t be a big deal.
I’d actually love to talk to him about this.
Ask him if I’m delusional, naive, or something in between to let Verity this close again.
She and I agreed to keep it on the low, though, and that’s fine for now.
Because I only allow myself to think for now. I don’t want to consider how tangled up my feelings will get if we keep doing this. I wanted her however I could get her, and I have her. That’s about as far ahead as I let myself think.
“I feel good about the script,” Canon says. “And Belle is perfect as Hazel. She’s a trained classical pianist. She and Monk were at Juilliard together.”
I slip behind Verity, rest my hands at her hips and drop a kiss to the curve of her neck. Wearing only her denim cutoffs and a pink camisole, she melts into my chest and tips her head back to smile at me, but resumes chopping vegetables for our salad.
“She was gushing on her audition tape about how Hazel was accepted for private study into Juilliard at only eight years old,” Canon continues.
“That’s right,” Verity says, finally abandoning the vegetables. Letting the knife fall to the cutting board with a clatter, she turns to tip up on her toes and wind her arms around my neck.
“So how are you doing?” Canon asks, his tone shifting a little. “I know the last time I asked that question, you thought I was asking about your—”
Verity whirls around, wiggling out of my arms and snatching up the phone. She takes it off speaker, and in a blur of pale silk and tousled curls, speed-walks from the room, leaving me with confusion and empty arms. The snick of her bedroom door closing down the hall only makes me more curious.
Over the last couple of weeks since Thanksgiving, we’ve been completely circumspect if we had to be on set at the same time, but usually we spend the night together at my house or hers.
We said casual, but it’s like our bodies have twelve years to make up for and we can’t keep our hands off each other.
In all that time, I’ve taken calls from my agent, manager, family—never worrying that Verity could hear, speaking freely in front of her. And she’s been as open.
But it’s clear she didn’t want me to hear whatever Canon was about to say.
I try to set aside the twinge of annoyance, of…
doubt? Why would it be doubt? As much as I said we could put the past behind us, start fresh with no expectations, there is a part of me that maybe doesn’t trust her to tell me everything.
Because there is a part of me that believes she never has.
What really happened that semester in Cali? Why did she behave so out of character the weeks leading up to that shitty night? How could she possibly be with anyone else when I know she loved me?
Like discordant notes, something is jarring about her story. It doesn’t make sense. There are pieces that don’t fit, and every time I’ve asked about those pieces, Verity has shut down and shut me out.
Like she just did.
I frown, taking up where Verity left off at the cutting board. I’m chopping the last of the cucumbers when she returns to the kitchen. I glance up, keeping my face neutral.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Yeah.” She doesn’t look at me, but walks to the refrigerator and takes out the chicken breasts we grilled last night on her patio. “You still want this for the salad, right?”
“Sure. If you do.”
It’s quiet while I finish the salad and she slices the chicken, but it’s not comfortable or easy like other nights when we’ve worked together—her on the script she still hasn’t managed to break and me on songs for the Dessi score. No, this silence is wound tight with tension and things unspoken.
“So, Canon says Belle’s working out?” I ask when we sit down to eat. “For the Hazel role, I mean?”
“Oh, yeah. Canon thinks she’ll be great.”
“I heard him say that.” I leave space for her to add more, but she just chews blithely like she didn’t flee the room as if I were a Russian spy. “The Hazel scenes are some of my favorites.”
“Of course they are.” Verity smiles while she chews. “They all involve a piano.”
“Did something major or new come up since the last version of the script?” I ask, giving her room to elaborate.
“I don’t think so.” She frowns, spearing a chunk of grilled chicken. “Why?”
“Vee.” I push my plate away and lean forward to search her face from across the dining room table. “What the hell?”
She holds her fork, letting it hover in the air on its way to her mouth, and watches me with wide eyes. “What?”
“What?” I release a humorless laugh. “Canon’s in the middle of a sentence and you snatch the phone and run from the room like I’m eavesdropping on your calls and reporting to the FBI. What’s up with that?”
“I… it was a private call,” she says stiffly.
“Look, I’m not being nosy, but—”
“It feels like you are.” She sets her fork down and pushes her plate away, too. “It was just work. Why are you making such a big deal about it?”
“That’s what I’m asking you. Canon was done talking about work and he was asking about you. That’s when you freaked out.”
She’s quiet, swallowing. Picking up her fork and putting it down again. Fidgeting.
“At first I thought I was overacting, but now, I’m worried.” I reach across the table to take her hand. “Is there something wrong? Are you okay?”
She looks from my hand gripping hers to my face, and back and forth again, like she’s checking to make sure she’s seeing right.
“You’re worried about me?” she asks, stretching the question out like it might not be true.
“I am now, yeah.” I get up and go around to her side, coaxing her out of the chair, sitting down and then settling her back on my lap. “Tell me.”
“I…” She sets her hand on my shoulder and then cups my jaw. “Thank you for being concerned, but it’s nothing. I just… there was a guy I worked with years ago who told Canon some shit about me.”
“What?” I snap. “Who?”
“Down, boy.” She laughs, but it’s indulgent. Her eyes fill with the affection that has somehow, since we started shooting Dessi, become the norm between us again. “He told Canon I was a flake because I didn’t deliver some work for him.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.” I rub her back and wait for her to elaborate.
“He wasn’t lying,” she admits wryly. “I messed up and missed his deadline. It was… it was a bad time for me.”
A tough season. A bad time.
“Was it—”
“Can we talk about something else?” she cuts in, her eyes begging me to change the subject. Even though I want to keep digging and probing until the picture is clearer, I let it go.
“Okay, but listen for a sec.” I tilt her chin up so she has to look at me. “I know we’re keeping this casual.”
“And open.” She bites her bottom lips and smiles. “I remember.”
“Are you seeing anyone else?”
What the hell was I thinking asking that? It’s none of my business, but apparently there are no stops between my brain and my mouth now.
“Sorry.” I run a hand over the back of my neck. “Forget I asked. I don’t—”
“No.” Now she’s the one lifting my chin until I’m looking at her. “I’m not seeing anyone else.”
“You can,” I say, even though the knot in my chest loosens at her assurance. “I know this isn’t… I know what this is. You can see other people if you want.”
“So can you.”
The thought that for the last two weeks, I’ve gotten to have Verity Hill, to sleep in her bed, to wake up beside her once the sun’s up—but would think twice about anyone else is ludicrous.
I don’t want to examine that too closely because what does that say about me?
That I could be with someone else, but she’s the only one I want?
Still.
She leans in to kiss me sweetly, chastely, and mumbles against my lips. “Well, now that we’ve established yet again that we can both do whatever we want, do you want to finish dinner?”
“Yeah.” I shift, gripping her hips and turning her to straddle me.
“This doesn’t feel like dinner conversation,” she says, rolling over me, getting my dick—always at half-mast as soon as she enters any room—even harder.
I laugh, feeling lighter, even though some sixth sense tells me there is more to the conversation with Canon than what she shared. I don’t believe she’s lying to me and that’s enough for now.
“Looks like we’re not gonna finish eating,” she whispers, feathering kisses over my jaw and neck. “But I’m not complaining.”
I stand, lifting under her thighs and walking down the hall to her bedroom.
“Then neither am I.”