Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
It’s eight p.m., and I’m stepping out of the shower when there’s a knock on my door. I assume it’s someone with the wrong apartment number—and just like I do with unknown numbers, I ignore it.
A couple of minutes later, another knock.
I huff, wrap the towel tight around me, and waddle over. I look through the peephole and see Harrison, holding two tubs of ice cream.
I swing the door open. His eyes widen as he sees me, and I don’t even get a word in before his hands are at my waist and his lips are on mine.
It’s short—but enough to make my legs wobble.
“Well, hi,” I smile up at him.
“Hmm.” He kisses my cheek this time, giving us a sliver of space. “I missed you.”
“You could’ve stayed last night,” I remind him.
He gives me a wicked grin. “Was the back room not enough?”
The memory rushes back. We’d gotten tired of dancing, and I’d insisted on helping him clean up. Somewhere between drying glasses and trash talk, he’d teased me into another round of pool.
We never finished the game.
“The backroom was...” I can’t come up with a PG word to describe it. “Nice.”
“Nice?” He raises an eyebrow. “That’s not what you were saying then…”
He’s staring down at me like I’m the only thing he wants in the world. I lift my chin, a knowing smirk on my lips. The way he pulls confidence out of me with just a look? Exhilarating.
“If this is how you’re going to greet me when I come over at night, I’ll be here every day,” he teases, his voice low.
“That can be arranged,” I purr.
I walk toward him with purpose, determined to make him squirm the way he always makes me.
“What do you have there?”
“I was taught it’s bad manners to show up unannounced and empty-handed,” he says, lifting the bags. “I wasn’t sure which one you’d be in the mood for, so I bought both.”
“Cookie dough and mint chocolate?”
“Of course,” he winks.
That soft-boy smile, and the way he just remembers everything about me, is enough to make me feel more loved than I’ve ever felt.
“You’ll have to give me a few minutes,” I say, glancing at my still-dripping body.
He takes the last few steps separating us and grabs my hand, pulling me towards him.
“Maybe we can have dessert in the bedroom,” he says, thick with suggestion.
I rise onto my tiptoes, my lips inches from his. It’s probably harder for me to resist than it is for him—but I do it anyway.
“Are you implying what I think you’re implying, Mr. Harrison?”
“How about I just show you?”
He tugs on the corner of my towel where it’s tucked, and it drops to the floor in one smooth motion. With anyone else, this would’ve had me feeling exposed, vulnerable.
But not with him.
He’s single-handedly made me feel comfortable in my own skin after years of feeling like a stranger.
The night runs long, like the way it always does with us.
Having Harrison as my alarm is a thousand times better than the shriek my phone does every morning.
Not today beeping sounds, not today.
He’s been up—who knows how long—but hasn’t moved from my side. I’m woken up just before seven a.m., with a minute to spare to turn my alarm off. Almost as if he knows I hate it. Have I told him before, and I can’t remember?
“This is nice,” I murmur, curling into his chest. “You must be ready to crawl out of your skin. It’s late for you. No workout today?”
“I got all the exercise I needed with you,” he whispers, brushing a kiss across my lips. “Come on. I’ll make breakfast.”
He shuffles out of bed and struts to the kitchen in just the sport shorts he’s left here for nights like this. His back flexes as he walks.
I could have him for breakfast.
“Coffee and eggs sound good?” he calls out.
In the kitchen, he’s already set us up on the counter. I drop onto one of the stools and take a long sip from the steaming mug waiting for me. A satisfied hum slips out.
“I know I’m rushing your morning routine,” he says, now beside me. “I didn’t want to leave while you were asleep. I can’t stay long.”
I tilt my head, pouting. “I liked it better when you weren’t working.”
As if on cue, his phone rings.
“It’s Peter. I have to take it.”
He checks his watch. “What’s so important you had to call this early? Aren’t we seeing each other in less than an hour?”
Muffled voices from the other side. Harrison’s expression shifts—hope, then hesitation.
“They are?” His eyes flick toward me. “That’s… good news, I guess.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“Yes, okay. I’ll be right there.”
He hangs up with a huff.
“Everything okay?” I ask, mildly concerned.
“Still nothing on the directing side,” he mutters. “Peter hasn’t found anything. Not yet, anyway.”
He pauses. The air changes, and something unsettles in my stomach.
“They just confirmed they want to reboot the show. Netflix wants to pick it up,” he doesn’t sound excited. “My schedule’s about to get a whole lot busier.”
“If that’s what you’re worried about, don’t be. We’ll find the time.”
I try to sound steady, optimistic. But if I’m getting busier and so is he… things are about to get even more complicated. Real life is catching up.
“That’s not it,” he says, the words dragging out. “She might be cast again.”
I suck in a breath. Right.
Chances are Emily Lawrence will be back in the picture.
I don’t hear from him all day.
I tell myself not to panic—he said it’d be hectic—but this tight coil in my stomach won’t go away. Female gut feeling, I say.
He left this morning in a rush, his schedule newly filled with meetings and calls. I assured him everything would be okay, but his expression reflected my own thoughts. A storm was brewing.
I buried myself in work. Ate lunch at my desk. Even avoided looking at my phone until it was time to go home.
Disappointment washed over me as I stared at my screen shining bright with no new notifications from him. No missed calls. No ‘Today’s insane but I miss you.’
Is he waiting for me? He always texts.
On my way home, I give in. I call.
It rings a few times before going straight to voicemail. I remind myself we knew it was going to happen. Nothing’s necessarily wrong. He’s just… busy.
And I knew this going into it. Meetings, events, networking… it’s all a big part of his life. And yet, something just feels off.
I spend the evening in the living room, half-expecting him to show up with another round of dessert and that charming smile.
He never does.
I wake up Friday morning to a missed call and texts. He rang at six a.m. I’d been so emotionally wrung out, I must’ve slept through it.
Harrison
Good morning.
I’m sorry I missed your call yesterday; I was in a meeting. I got home late, and didn’t want to wake you. Crazy busy. Talk later?
Hope you have a good day.
I huff, frustrated. He wouldn’t have woken me—I’d been wide awake, worrying about him. I try to call. Voicemail again. His phone’s off.
I stare at the message.
Maybe I’m in my own head. Maybe I’m reading too much into it. But the texts don’t sound like him. Not the him I’m used to.
I can’t tell if he’s checking in because he wants to—or because he feels like he should.
Yes, super busy too. Hope it’s all going well.
I think about adding I miss you.
Even consider just saying I love you.
But I don’t.
I’m waiting for my toast to pop, nursing my coffee, when I open my Instagram and start to scroll. I know I shouldn’t—it feels like an invasion of privacy—but curiosity wins.
It doesn’t take long.
A few swipes in, and there he is. Inside some absurdly elegant restaurant, seated with two men—and her.
She’s across from him, head thrown back in laughter, bathed in flattering candlelight and effortless charm. It’s not casual.
A passionate re-encounter—could we have a second-chance romance AND a reboot on the horizon?
And just like that, I’m out of the spotlight.
At this rate, maybe my promotion is back on track. No pesky romance to interfere.
The dread doesn’t fade. It deepens and clings to me as the day goes on. I call him twice. No answer. He finally rings me back during a team strategy meeting—naturally, I miss it.
Any updates on the show?
He hasn’t mentioned Emily since that first vague heads-up. No confirmation, no context. I thought at the very least he’d let me know.
By dinner time, more pictures have surfaced. The last dated from a couple of hours ago. They’re walking out of a building—her in a sleek dress, him a few steps behind. She’s looking back at him with all her pearly whites on display.
His next text comes through as I’m getting into bed.
Harrison
Nothing for sure yet.
I stare at the screen. That’s it?
What about her?
I don’t sugarcoat it. I’m tired of walking on eggshells.
An entire episode of Friends passes before his reply lands.
Harrison
She’s not sure yet, either.
I groan.
I hate texting. I can’t hear the tone of his voice. I don’t know if he’s pausing to think or if he’s confident. I have a dozen questions—all of them tangled in the same thread.
Why aren’t you telling me more?
Do I need to worry about old feelings resurfacing?
Are you… pulling away?
I hit call. Voicemail.
Harrison
Can’t call. Reading scripts with Peter.
Peter and… who else? My gut folds in on itself.
I want to ask, but I don’t want to cause a scene. Instead, I call Emma.
“I already know what you’re going to say,” she says before hello. “I’ve been expecting this call. I just didn’t want to be the first one to bring it up.”
“Yeah, well—honestly. What the hell?”
“It looks to me like that little snake is trying to wiggle her way back into his life.”
“I wouldn’t put it past her,” I hiss. “And I haven’t been able to get Harrison on the phone. It’s like our lives went immediately out of sync.”
“Not even through text?”
“Barely. Random messages here and there. None that actually explain why every tabloid and gossip blog seems to think they’re rekindling their romance over expensive food and good lighting.”
“Uff,” she says. “He may be an actor, but you can’t fake what he’s done for you. I want to have faith that there’s nothing to worry about.”
“Same. Mostly.” I pause. “I don’t need to know her to know I don’t trust her. And they were engaged, Emma. What about residual feelings?”
Emma hums in agreement. She knows I’m not being dramatic. Just real.
“Let’s just see what happens,” she says, her voice calm. “Bright side? If he starts filming again, at least he won’t be in London. No long distance to juggle.”
I blink. “That hadn’t occurred to me.”
“Well. There’s your silver lining,” she chirps. “And I still can’t believe you’re coming back in two weeks. As much as I love our daily calls, I can’t wait to have you home.”
“I know. Time has flown by,” I say, the corners of my mouth tugging up. “Let’s just hope this whole thing doesn’t go up in flames right before the end.”
“I would be so salty if that happened,” Emma groans. “At least let me meet him before you two seal your fate.”
“I love your sensitivity during my extremely delicate life unraveling.”
“You know what they say about true friends,” she declares, “we’re like rare gems—precious and hard to find.”
I laugh. “I don’t think anyone has ever referred to you that way.”
“No, they haven’t,” she deadpans. “And frankly, I find it insulting. I’m delightful.”
“That you are,” I answer honestly. “The best of friends.”
I didn’t text him back last night, and naturally, I’ve woken up to a new message.
Harrison
Any dinner plans for tonight?
I want to stay mad. He should’ve told me—something, anything. But I take a breath and remind myself it’s his job.
Not that I know of. Anything in mind?
I’ll let you know if I can sneak away for a couple of hours.
My heart sinks. Not exactly what you hope to hear from the person who supposedly adores you. I’d hoped that seeing him tonight was a sure thing, a chance to finally get clarity. Now it feels like an appointment waiting to be cancelled.
Brunch becomes my distraction plan. Claire gives me a pitying look when I walk in—but mercifully, she doesn’t say anything. I must look like I haven’t slept in two days, because everyone’s being unnaturally sweet. I appreciate it. But kindness isn’t a cure for this kind of slow-burn, rising anger.
Not even Emma’s usual therapy-by-sarcasm worked.
It’s hard when none of us know what it’s like to be him.
His world is fast-paced and cutthroat and glittered with NDAs and night shoots.
Meanwhile, I plan my weeks around Google Calendar blocks and a 9-to-5 that ends when I close my laptop. I get that.
But you can’t even spare a couple of minutes for a phone call that’s not at an ungodly hour? I find that hard to believe.
My phone is sitting face-up beside me, volume cranked embarrassingly high. I sneak glances at it every few minutes. One hour passes. Then another. No calls. I excuse myself to the bathroom before we leave.
My reflection stares back, ghostly and hollow-eyed. My less-than-par attempt at makeup does little to cover the bags under my eyes. I slap on some more concealer—pointless, but at least I’m trying.
When I return to the table, something’s… off. All heads are turned looking at me, and everyone’s gone silent. I frown.
“Are you okay?” Claire asks gently, voice too cautious.
My frown deepens, confused—I’ve been gone only a couple of minutes, and I’m certain I look better than I did before.
“Yeah. I’m fine. Why?” I ask. I can feel the furtive looks from the rest.
“You haven’t checked socials recently, have you?”
Well, at least they waited until I was done with my toast to ambush me.
“I’ve seen the pictures,” I say, aiming for casual. “It’s just work.”
Claire’s face softens. “Yeah… I don’t think you’ve seen this yet.” She cradles her phone like it might explode. “Maybe wait until you’re home?”
“What is it?” My stomach tightens. “I can handle it.”
“How about we do dinner? We can talk then.”
“Claire,” I snap. “Just show me.”
She hesitates—but finally unlocks her phone and turns it toward me.
And just like that, my heart cracks wide open.