Chapter 38
Ava
I rush out the door that Harrison walked out of.
The light hits bright at first, my eyes slow to adjust. The landing opens into a garden that slopes toward a small pond. The water lies still, broken only by fresh ripples.
Harrison sits at the edge, one knee bent, flicking pebbles into the center of the pond. Each splash breaks the stillness, ripples fanning out until the water smooths again.
He doesn’t look up.
I sit beside him. Close enough to feel the tension humming beneath his surface.
I want to ask him what's wrong, if there’s anything I can do. And then he says below his breath, “What do I do, Cecile?
“Who’s Cecile?”
He doesn’t even look at me. But I can’t stop looking at him.
He opens his hand, palm up, a quiet offering of pebbles.
I want to throw those damn pebbles in the lake. I’m so hurt right now. I’m thinking of him while he’s thinking of another woman.
One he obviously has deep feelings for.
Why him?
Why couldn’t I be falling for someone uncomplicated? Someone who wants my number, wants dinner, wants the ordinary things that suddenly feel impossible?
Hole up on the couch with pizza. Game night with the kids. Loud, messy, ordinary happiness.
Bliss.
I take a pebble and toss it all away. The wants. The what-ifs. It skips once, then sinks.
He doesn’t fill the silence. Just stares at the water, jaw set, his necktie discarded on the ground like he couldn’t stand it another second.
“We really need to wrap up—” I begin to say when the words die in my mouth. Whatever’s going on with Harrison is obviously impacting him.
This isn’t exactly a weepy, soft, emotional guy. This guy is solid. Something's bothering him.
So, I swallow back the words and ask, “Are you okay?”
His fingers curl around another stone, but he doesn’t throw it right away.
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
He isn’t gruff when he says it. Not overbearing in the get the fuck away from me way.
He's so tender. So battered. And all I want to do is be here for him.
I don't know why. But more than that, I don't know how.
But I know loneliness. And this man is drowning in it.
He’s strong for everyone. His children. His family. Gabe. In a weird way, even me.
Who's here for him?
“I just need a minute, Pix,” he says, and turns to face me. His voice is rust and steel, and so many devastatingly beautiful emotions at once.
And all I wanna do is hold him in this moment. Which is the voice of insanity because it would be like holding a wounded lion when he's hurting the most, fierce and ready to attack.
I keep my eyes on the pond. On the way the ripples fade. “It’s probably best if we don't work together.”
“Is that what you want?” he says, seething, the pinnacle of restraint.
No. Not even close. But what’s the point of chasing something you want when wanting it only teaches you what it costs?
My career taught me that.
So did Pierce Maddox.
Same lesson. Different scars.
My breath trembles. “I don’t want you torturing yourself trying to work with me. Not when you’re this upset. Not when it's obvious, you can't stand to be near me.”
I'm barely a step away when he grabs my hand. “Don't go, Pix.” The way this man makes my heart slam against my chest has emotions rushing in faster than I can sort them.
It’s too much.
Especially when he's thinking of another woman, when he's this close to me.
I pull my hands free. “I’ll let the team know we will need to wait for Pierce.” I don't say it to be hateful. But the reality is Pierce was supposed to be here, and Harrison wasn’t.
And as much as I detest the idea of any part of Pierce Maddox touching any part of me, I'm backed into a corner, and I don’t have a choice.
I suck in a breath and bite back a tear. “Yes. That's what I want.” Oscar-winning performance, at your service.
He hurls the pebbles into the lake all at once, and I flinch as the splash explodes across the surface.
He scoffs. “Suit yourself, Pix.”
Suit myself.
Jesus. My teeth snap tight; I'm so angry with him. Angry with myself is more like it.
I whip around and march back to the church, my skin crawling every time I think of Pierce touching me.
But this is what I signed up for.
And Harrison Evans isn't.
When I return, the photographer and the priest are chatting like old friends.
That’s how this industry works. Strangers one minute. Inseparable the next.
And then it’s over.
The acoustics in this place are unforgiving. I hear every syllable the photographer says.
“I wonder if he left her, too. She can’t seem to hold a guy. Look at the shit show with Pierce. Pardon my French.”
So much for my biggest fan.
My throat tightens. I want to vanish. Just fold myself into a corner and stop existing for a while.
I want an excuse. Something tidy enough to explain why a man walked out on me on set.
With the Pierce cheating headlines still fresh, the rumors would spread fast. Probably on social media by morning.
But whatever excuse I would make up would be a lie, because Harrison is neither unprofessional nor a lackey.
If anything, he’s steadfast.
And I want to anchor myself to him.
“Hey, guys,” I say, forcing myself forward, humiliation catching hard in my throat. “We’re going to need to wait this out.”
“Where’s the groom?” the priest asks. The photographer lifts a hand, a quiet told you written all over it.
I swallow my pride. Again. Ready to be the professional I am and assure them Pierce will be here shortly.
Unless he’s too busy banging yet another woman for all of TikTok to see.
But before I can say a word, the deep voice of a man interrupts. “I’m right here.”