Chapter 10
Ava
“I’ve heard people say happily ever after isn’t real,” I say, soft enough to feel like a confession. “That it’s just something people tell themselves when the world gets too loud. Too messy.”
I draw in a slow breath. Let it settle.
Then I look at him.
Really look at him.
He almost says something.
I see it. Right there. The flicker of him about to speak.
And then it’s gone.
A thousand words, swallowed whole behind that well-controlled mouth.
His dark waves cascade just along his face, framing his signature style like even the ocean breeze is on his payroll. He’s got the kind of face that doesn’t just turn heads, it rewrites entire expectations.
To ruin women.
Case in point, the one who swooned and nearly hit the sand not five minutes ago.
I tilt my head, letting the moment stretch just enough.
“And looking at you?” I add, softer now. “It’s enough to make a girl believe in… fate.”
His mouth curves.
Not a full smile. Just enough to do its job.
But he doesn’t touch me.
Doesn’t move.
And I’m actually relieved. The last thing I need is to lose focus.
The sun settles warm against my skin. A breeze drifts through, carrying salt and jasmine, and for a second, my mind slips somewhere else entirely.
Flannel. Heat. A towering lumberjack.
I let it pull me under just a little.
“Everything feels…” I trail off, as if searching for the right word. Then I shake my head, like even I don’t quite believe it. “Too perfect.”
My gaze flicks back to his.
“Like the universe is finally smiling down,” I say softly. “And handed me exactly what I’ve wanted… before I even knew to want it.”
I pause for effect.
Which stretches.
And stretches. Until I say, “You mean everything to me, Harrison.”
“Cut!”
The moment shatters on impact. I blink from being in character as I see the pained face of Jay Callahan, director.
Shit. I wince. “I did it again, didn’t I?”
By the edge in it, his eighth “cut” in the last hour, he’s officially done.
And frankly?
Same.
His voice cracks across the set like a whip, the wounded battle cry of a man who’s directed this same scene all day.
The one I keep mucking up.
“That’s lunch, folks.”
Cameras dip. Crew chatter rushes back in. And the rope line of extras erupts—cheers, applause, a hundred phones lifting for photos.
The leading man is a stand-in today.
Chase Cartwright.
He sidles up beside me. “Want to grab a bite?”
“Sure.”
We duck into the nearest lot café, weaving past writers and PAs still glued to their phones. It’s one of those quick-service spots—order at the counter, grab a number, and pray no one pitches you a project before you can sit down.
We grab food at the counter and I grab a grilled chicken salad. He pays and gestures toward the farthest booth in the back corner, like he can’t believe it’s actually open.
It’s what I love most about Chase. The way he always needs an off switch from the spotlight.
“Mind if we sit here?” he asks.
“Whatever keeps me from running into Pierce Maddox,” I say with a smile.
“I’d love it if that fucker vanished off the face of the earth. Then I could be your costar.”
He really could. As a former model for Calvin Klein, Versace, and Dolce & Gabbana, his star is rising faster than mine is.
He also happens to be my ex-roommate.
Not in a romantic way. More in a two nobodies splitting rent and surviving on ambition and instant ramen kind of way.
And with Chase, sleeping together was out of the question. Not only did it violate our strict just-friends-if-we’re-going-to-be-roommates rule, but the line to his bedroom was insane.
Like, wrap-around-the-building insane.
My first Christmas gift from Chase?
Soundproof earbuds.
Because no matter how pretty he is, I’ve never even kissed him.
Nope.
Not when he’s the same guy who’d sit across from me at breakfast, casually detailing his overnight conquests, and his apparently very talented tongue, then wash it all down by drinking milk straight from the carton.
Talk about shock value.
And he judges me for skipping cream in my coffee?
He unwraps his sandwich and takes a bite.
I stare at him like I’m witnessing a crime. “Are you eating… bread?”
“Bulking,” he says around another bite.
I smile. “For?”
He simply shrugs, flashing that boyish grin.
“Are you a Bieber now? Are we signing NDA’s, Mr. Newly Appointed Sexiest Man Alive?” I stab at my salad.
“Don’t drool. It’s unbecoming.”
“The only thing I’m drooling over is that ridiculously good-looking sandwich you’re inhaling.”
His eyes flutter shut as he takes another bite, adding a full on When Harry Met Sally diner-style moan.
“Where are those earbuds you got me when I need them?” I giggle, still smiling for the first time in weeks. “Is it weird we’ve never actually filmed together?”
“No weirder than you calling me Harrison all day.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Sorry about that.”
“Are you? I bet you say it in your sleep.” He throws his head back dramatically. “Oh, Harrison…”
I toss a piece of lettuce at his overacting face.
Chase laughs, catching it in his mouth. Then his smug grin fades as he chews.
“So you and Harrison,” he says more quietly. “It’s real?”
That lands somewhere beneath my ribs.
I glare.
“Fine.” He lifts both hands. “Not a stunt.” Chase leans back in his chair studying me over the rim of his water. “So when do I meet him?”
I narrow my eyes. “Why? Trying to profit off my very hot husband?”
He grins. “Maybe. TMZ would pay an obscene amount for any little tidbits you can spare. Especially the where and when.” He leans closer. “If you could climb him like a tree in slow motion, I’d really appreciate it.”
That makes me laugh.
Mostly because Chase comes from old money. The kind where he could have unlimited access to the family fortune if he just kissed his father’s ass every hour on the hour.
Frankly, he’d rather survive on expired ramen for two years.
And has.
Honestly, despite what Hollywood thinks, Chase has all the ruthless ambition of a Captain America.
Still, I play along.
I point my fork at Chase. “First of all, sell dirt on me and your worn-within-an-inch-of-its-life Fight Club shirt mysteriously disappears.”
He pauses mid-bite and points at me. “What did I say about talking about Fight Club?”
“And second,” I continue, “there’s nothing tid or bit about him. He’s a very delicious wall of man.”
That earns me a grin. One that softens. “I just want to make sure the big lug is taking care of you.”
Something in my chest pulls unexpectedly tight.
Because Harrison does take care of me. In all the quiet ways that matter.
Making coffee before I’m awake.
Charging my e-reader when he thinks I won’t notice.
Throwing himself between me and hyped-up fans like a titanium shield.
And when I’m in a rumpled sweatshirt, the man looks at me like I hung the moon.
It’s terrifying how quickly I got used to all that.
To us.
Which is probably why the silence these last three weeks feels so loud.
I stab another piece of lettuce a little too aggressively.
Would sending one text really kill the man?
Chase pulls me out of my spiral. “So what are we calling this one?”
I fight a grin. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Oh please.” He starts counting on his fingers. “Thor from Target because he looked like a discount Hemsworth. Goldendoodle because the man trailed after you like an emotional support animal.”
I snort into my drink.
“Then there was Redbeard.”
I groan. “We are not revisiting Redbeard.”
Chase ignores me completely. “Was that because the man looked at your ass like a pirate discovering gold?”
I deadpan. “It was because his beard was red.”
“Not on his face, it wasn’t.”
We both laugh.
Chase motions impatiently. “Come on. What’s this one called?”
I try not to smile. “Lumberjack.”
“Lumberjack?” He barks out a laugh. “Strong, silent, good with his wood. Nice.” He nods with approval. “So where is your lumberjack?”
I deflate. “New York.”
“I see. The reality check of stars loving mortals.” He takes a sip of his water while I pick at a salad I still haven’t touched. “This, right here, is exactly why I’m not looking for love.”
I scoff. “Please. The revolving door to your bedroom screams Searching for Cinderella. Just seeing if the shoe fits. All others pass only once.”
“I wasn’t trying to fit a shoe.” He smirks. “And that’s… field work.”
“That’s field work… if you’re a man whore. Which you’re not. You’re just putting yourself out there, holding auditions for your Oscar-worthy love story.”
“Shh,” he says. “You’ll ruin my reputation.” He finishes his last bite, then adds, “Does your husband have a last name, or should I just go with Big Dick Daddy?”
“That would make me Mrs. Big Dick Daddy.”
“And explain the shotgun wedding.”
We both laugh.
Then his gaze shifts over my shoulder. “Duck.”
On instinct, I do. “Why?”
“Because Pierce Maddox is sniffing around like a bloodhound, and I’m pretty sure you’re the prime beef he’s after.”
“Ugh. Can you not refer to me as livestock?”
“Moo,” he mutters. Then, a second later, “He’s gone.”
I breathe out, leaning back in my seat.
He checks his watch. “We should probably head back.”
He grabs a bag for my untouched salad, and we make our way back toward the lot, cutting through back alleys to avoid Pierce, the attention junkie.
“Is there anything better than Christmas Eve in California?” Chase sighs, hands in his pockets, soaking up the sun.
There is.
When your heart’s in New York.
“What are you doing for Christmas?” he asks.
Sulking.
Staring at the ceiling.
Eating cold Chinese food out of a box.
I don’t say any of that.“You know. One party after another,” I lie.
He watches me, reading me the way he always does.
“Well, if you get partied out and need a fix of raw cookie dough and rom-coms, you know where to find me.”
“Since when do you watch rom-coms?”
He kicks a pebble down the road. “My sister told me to check a few out. Said it would, quote, ‘broaden my range.’”
Broaden his range?
In Sienna Cartwright’s world, that’s code for rebrand my player brother.
At this point, he’s practically the poster child for Page Six.
Today’s headline?
Chase Cartwright at Center of 3-Way Catfight… Again!
How Hollywood’s PR maverick isn’t on a permanent IV drip of migraine meds is beyond me.
“Sienna recommended Friends with Benefits, 10 Things I Hate About You, and No Strings Attached.” He shrugs. “Based on the titles? I’m totally in.”
“Those are irony, genius. Not a masterclass.” We reach the lot, and he opens the door for me.
“Any chance we’ll get out of here early today?” I ask.
Chase shrugs. “You’ll have to ask the boss. The fact they’ve got us working around the clock tells me they’re rushing the release.” He glances at me. “Upside? You’re about to be bigger than K-Pop Demon Hunters.”
“You think so?”
He deadpans. “Between filming and the promo circus, you’ve basically signed your soul to the devil for a solid two years.”
“Maybe you could sign away your soul too?” I ask, only slightly desperate, because the thought of being shackled to Pierce will break me.
“Abandon action and adventure to hitch my wagon to your star?” He hooks an arm around my neck and sighs dramatically. “I guess someone has to carry the show.”
“I will elbow you.”
“Empty threats.”
I elbow him.
Laughing, he drops his arm. “Fine. If by some miracle Pierce Maddox is suddenly, tragically unavailable,” he says, straight-faced, “I’ll see what I can do.”