Chapter 35
Ava
“So,” I say, nudging a carrot around my bowl. “I need you to know, I take my craft seriously. I’m a professional.”
Harrison looks at me for a beat, then gives a small, patient smile. “You’re one of the most celebrated actresses in the world,” he says. “I doubt there’s a soul alive who would call you anything else.”
“Up until a few days ago, you didn’t,” I point out.
“I’m a quick study.” He lifts his phone proudly. “And Connor let me borrow his Instagram account.”
I line the carrots up along the rim of the bowl, buying myself time.
I need to start dancing around this and just say it already.
“It’s just that tomorrow, maybe you and I could start later in the day. After this thing I have to do. For work.”
“I thought you were on vacation,” Gabe says, reaching for another tortilla.
“I am. But when I bolted to New York, apparently I skipped out on some photo shoot I forgot about. Some wedding teaser.” I grimace. “Kali offered to bring a rack of dresses, but I have one that will do. Just a quick, low-key commitment Myra signed me up for. I have to do it.”
Gabe’s spoon clanks against the bowl as he lets it drop. “I don’t even know why you stay with this woman. She makes you crazy.”
“It’s literally her job to make me crazy.” I manage a weak smile. “I can’t drop her. She’s the one who negotiated the deal that got me Princess Luna.”
“Where?” Harrison asks.
“Huh?”
“Where is it going to be?”
“Oh, some church,” I say, aiming for casual. “Myra told me the address. It’ll be early, though. And I’d hate to disturb your beauty sleep.”
He blinks. Once. Then again.
“I’m a former SEAL and a father of three,” he says mildly. “Sleep didn’t make the cut.”
“Great…” I scramble for an excuse, any excuse. “Who’s going to watch the kids?”
“My sister,” he says without hesitation. “She covers most days when they’re not in school. Or when I don’t have the day off, which is rare.” He leans in, hands clasped on the table. “So, what time should I pick you up?”
“Seven,” I say, hoping that’s what Myra said. Then, in a last-ditch effort to keep Harrison from coming, I grasp at one last straw.
And somehow, make it so much worse.
“You’d have to dress accordingly.”
I wince the second the words leave my mouth.
Clearly, that was the beer talking.
“You don’t like my wardrobe?” One brow lifts, lazy and suggestive.
Oh. God.
Is he about to tell Gabe we’ve been together?
No. He wouldn’t.
…Would he?
“I love your wardrobe,” I rush out quickly. Especially his jeans.
Something shifts in his gaze. A knowing look. A private one. Like he absolutely knows where my mind just went.
Straight to a million images of him, all permanently inked NSFW.
“Am I going to have to separate you two?” Gabe says, already standing to collect the plates. He shakes his head with a grin. “Don’t make me send you to your rooms without dessert.”
Harrison’s mouth curves, slow and so unmistakable, a rush of heat climbs up my neck.
He pushes up the sleeves of his shirt, revealing a skull tattoo I distinctly remember licking.
“I have plenty of suits,” he says, completely unbothered. “I won’t embarrass you. And I’ll happily remain invisible in the background.” He leans back, slinging an arm over the chair. “Who’s going to be there?”
Gabe takes my plate and heads for the kitchen.
Does he have to do that now? Right when I could really use a referee?
“Not too many people.” I pretend to think it through. “It’s a small set. The photographer. Actors…”
“Actors?” he repeats. “How many?”
Most people light up when they ask that question.
Not Harrison.
If anything, his gaze sharpens, like he’s running an op and taking stock of the situation.
I sip my beer, aiming for casual. “A few,” I reply. Please let that be the last question.
He nods once.
Just when I think we can move on, he adds, “As long as Pierce Maddox isn’t there.”
Oh, hell.
Harrison stills, something dark coiling just beneath the surface.
And then explodes.
“You’re not going.”
“Excuse me?”
His chair scrapes back an inch. Heat flashes in his eyes.
“Pierce fucking Maddox. No. Absolutely not. Wedding photos. In a church. It’s not happening. You’re not doing it.”
“This won’t exactly be a picnic for me,” I snap. “In case you missed the memo, he’s a big part of the reason I had to abandon everything I was doing. Haul ass out of LA. All with paparazzi on my heels. And news flash, Harrison: I don’t get to opt out.”
His hands fly up, frustration breaking free. “Then why do it?”
“Because I’m contractually obligated!” I yell.
He punches his hand.
“That piece of shit cheated on you,” he reminds me. “Publicly humiliated you. It’s all over Page Six.”
I jump to my feet. “I love how you think I don’t know this.”
But he’s too angry to reason with now. Too busy ticking off reasons to kill Pierce.
“He pawed you in front of photographers. Chased you like a mangy mutt at the auction.” His voice drops to a lethal growl. “And don’t even get me started on what he said he does to you during filming.”
That gets my attention. “What did he say?”
He looks at me now. Really looks at me.
He shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter.” Then, full force, “You’re. Not. Going. End. Of. Story.”
Now that he’s got it out of his system, it’s my turn to lose my fucking shit.
I poke his chest and lay into him and his thick, arrogant head.
“You don’t get to dictate who I’m on set with.”
He backs up, just a step. “Okay, okay.”
Rage pulses in my ears. “Remember how I said I need to be professional, Harrison?” I say, every word shaking. “This is me. Being professional. Whether you like it or not.”
Gabe returns then, worry edging his features, an enormous bowl of churros and chocolate dipping sauce in his hands. It’s clearly meant to be shared.
Well, too bad.
“What’s going on?” Gabe asks, frowning.
I snatch the enormous bowl out of his hands.
“Not a thing,” I snap, blowing past him and heading straight for my bedroom. “And if you don’t want to come tomorrow, Harrison Evans, good news. You don’t have to.”
I march down the hall and slam my bedroom door.
Hard.
I sit on the edge of the bed, anger surging through me like a runaway train.
I grab a churro, dunk it in the chocolate, and chew angrily. The nerve of him.
He has no idea what it’s like for me. I have to work with the man who publicly humiliated me, all while smiling through it. Pretending I’m deeply in love with a man whose face I want to punch every time I see it.
Someone call the Academy Awards.
I take another bite, so sick of crying today.
But the tears come anyway.
I grab yet another churro, basically chain-eating them, drowning my sorrows in cinnamon and sugar to keep myself from screaming. Because that’s how pissed off I am at Harrison Evans.
He doesn’t understand.
Nobody does.
And that’s the part no one warns you about.
Even in the most crowded room, I feel completely alone.
I pick up my phone, ready to call Kali and tell her to get me the hell out of here, when—
Knock. Knock.
I sniffle. “Go away,” I bark.
Two more knocks. Firmer this time.
I don’t move, except to shove another churro into my mouth and mentally hiss at the door.
A third round of knocks.
I groan, push to my feet, and yank the door open.
Gorgeous idiot Harrison stands there holding a pint of ice cream like a peace offering.
Ben & Jerry’s Karamel Sutra.
Perfect. Exactly what I need.
I snatch it out of his hands and shut the door in his face.
“You’re right,” he calls through the solid wood. “I was completely out of line.”
A pause. Longer.
“And a moron.”
“And a colossal ass,” I holler back.
I hear his quiet chuckle. “And a colossal ass. Can I please come in?”
I don’t answer.
I’m too busy sniffling and fighting with the plastic film on the ice cream lid like the Ark of the Covenant is sealed inside.
Ugh! Why are these things childproof?
The soft strum of fingers taps the door. “Come on, Pix,” he adds. “Don’t make me eat the whipped cream alone.”
I stop cold.
So now the butthead is holding out on me.
I crack the door open just in time to see him tip the enormous can, posturing like he’s about to spray it straight down his throat.
“Don’t you dare,” I warn, swiping for it.
I almost have it. Almost.
He lifts it out of my grasp, holding it over my head like a total dingbat.
“Give me that,” I demand.
“Not until you let me in.”
I glare, and our standoff lasts all of two seconds.
This is ridiculous. I’m a pixie. He’s a giant.
I can’t win.
I roll my eyes, step aside, and gesture him through the door.
He steps into the room while I’m still losing a fight with the stupid plastic film on the Ben & Jerry’s.
He wiggles his fingers expectantly. “Give it here.”
Frustrated and at my wits’ end, I blow the bangs from my face and hand it over.
He opens it like the cling film may as well have been a Post-it note.
It takes me all of one minute to realize I have nothing to eat it with.
He pulls a spoon from his back pocket, scoops a bite, and holds it to my lips.
Which, of course, I eat. It’s delicious.
We sit on the bed, close enough to feel each other, not close enough to touch.
“I mean it,” I say, mumbling around caramel and vanilla. “You don’t have to go tomorrow.”
“I want to,” he insists, taking a bite of his own now.
We share back and forth like this, eating through our feelings in silence.
And I don’t know if it’s the adrenaline finally crashing or if the ice cream really is that cold, but I shiver.
He notices.
He hands me the spoon and the ice cream, then reaches for the throw at the end of the bed and settles it around my shoulders.
Now he’s close.
Too close.
“So,” I say lightly, trying to break the sudden awkwardness between us. “Why do you want to be an actor?”
His hand lifts to the back of his neck. He rubs there once.
“Can we talk about something else?”
“Nope.” I turn to face him fully. “Because if you’re coming with me tomorrow, I need to understand your motivation.”
“My… motivation?”
“What’s driving you to pursue a career change?”
He blows out a long breath as he studies the floor, searching for an answer.
Finally, he replies.
“I’m… bravely pursuing my passion.”
His face contorts, pained. Like saying it out loud is physically cutting him to the core.
And I might still be a little mad at him for earlier, but I will not shame a man for chasing his dreams. Too many people did that to me when I started.
I reach out, my hand finding his. “I know that was hard for you to say.”
“You have no idea.”
“But you’re in a safe space here,” I add gently. “A place where you’re free to tap into your emotions. Your soft side.”
He looks at me like I’ve suggested an interpretive dance class.
“What soft side?”
He says it so deadpan that I laugh. “I see we’re aiming for comedy.”
When I don’t even get a smile for that, I smack a pillow into his head.
Finally, he laughs.
Then something shifts in his expression.
“So,” he says evenly, “can I come with you in the morning?”
It’s not the over-the-top begging that usually happens when people are desperate for an invite on set.
And it’s refreshing. Like he's not a fan, but a friend.
I eye him pointedly. “You won’t cause a scene?”
“I won’t cause a scene,” he repeats, suffering through each word.
“It’s not all fun and games,” I warn. “Tomorrow will be work. And not the kind you’re used to. Chopping wood for hours on end,” I tease.
A faint smile quirks at his lips. “That’s disappointing.”
I look up at him. At those piercing blue eyes.
“It can take an emotional toll,” I say seriously. “Working like this. It’s not for everyone. And it’s not all fun and games. Sometimes it’s not fun at all.”
I tighten the blanket around my arms, wishing I could take back the last thirty seconds.
Something changes.
His gaze darkens, and it’s like the armor he’s worn his entire life finally gives way.
“I didn’t understand what it took for you to do what you do,” he says quietly. “I respect you for it. And I want to be there for you, Pix. I really do.”
He brushes the hair from my cheek, and heat presses in from every direction.
The silence between us feels loaded. Alive.
And forbidden all at once.
I open my mouth just to break it. To breathe.
“So, you’ll be shadowing me,” I say, biting my lip. “Like an intern.”
“More like a bodyguard,” Harrison replies.
“Lockstep?” I ask, the sound coming out with the trace of a laugh.
His thumb brushes away a tear I didn’t realize had fallen. My pulse sprints in my chest.
“You move,” he says. “I move.”
“Like glue?” I whisper, breathless.
“Like. Fucking. Glue.”
My eyes flutter shut. His breath still ghosts my lips.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
“If you two ate all the churros, I will kill you,” Gabe shouts through the door.
Without missing a beat, Harrison calls back, “Your sister ate them.”
And just like that, another pillow smacks him in the head.