Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Zander
I step into The Knotted Barn and scan the space. Romy’s nowhere in sight.
I’ve deliberately kept out the crew. This video is the first I’m co-directing.
I want it to be entirely my vision, but even that’s a risk.
Since I’m going to be in front of the camera, I’ve brought on Jack, who I’ve worked with before, to help as the other co-director.
Still, if it fails, it’s on me… He might be helping me execute, but I’m in charge of the direction we’re going, and it’ll be my vision everyone sees on-screen.
A loud crash rings out from somewhere in the back.
“Son of a bitch.” Romy’s voice carries through the quiet.
I follow the noise, my heart thudding with concern. There’s an open door I haven’t noticed before.
“Romy?” I call, stepping in.
“Yeah… shit… in here.”
The room is packed tight with wedding décor. There’re arches, chairs, and floral pieces scattered around.
“Be careful!” she calls from somewhere behind a stack of archways. They’re all stained different colors and etched with unique designs. “I do not need you spraining an ankle or getting some gash on your forehead.”
I find her sitting on a table, sucking on her finger, glaring at a jagged nail sticking out of one of the arches.
“You okay?”
“It’s nothing. Just a cut. Someone didn’t take out a nail, and it cut me.” She yanks her finger away from her mouth, inspecting the blood that’s still pooling.
“Let me see.” I hold out my hand.
“I’m fine,” she says quickly, standing before I reach her. “I just need a Band-Aid.”
She moves past me, still nursing her finger, winding through the room as though she’s mastered the chaotic labyrinth. I follow close on her heels.
She stops abruptly outside the bathroom door and points at the frosted glass with Women’s stamped in bold black letters on it.
I shrug. “No one’s here.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.”
She pushes the door open with her shoulder. “I don’t need help.”
I don’t move. “Look, I know you don’t think very highly of me, and that’s fair. But I’m not going to let you bleed out without at least checking the cut. You might need stitches or a hospital visit.”
She rolls her eyes. “You’re being dramatic.” But she doesn’t argue when I catch the closing door with my boot.
“Dramatic?” I lift a brow. “If you’d just let me help you, I wouldn’t have to start listing all my reasons.”
“It’s just a cut.” She pulls her finger from her mouth again, and blood drips in a slow, lazy trail down to her palm.
“Yeah, looks like you have it totally under control.” I slide my hands to her waist and easily lift her onto the counter.
“Zander,” she warns, her voice tight with resistance.
I pick up her hand. The cut’s deep. Not stitches-deep, but it’s not a nick either. “First-aid kit?”
“In my office,” she mumbles, still concentrating on the cut.
“I’ll be right back. Sit still. Be a good patient.”
“Do I get a sticker if I don’t cry?”
“You can have a lollipop if you’re really good,” I say, chuckling as I head out.
But the second I leave the room, I hear her jump off the counter.
“Actually—I’ll get it!”
“Relax. Where is it?” I keep walking down the hall, already knowing she won’t tell me.
Sure enough, I feel her presence behind me before I see her. Her fingers clutch the back of my T-shirt, and she yanks me out of the way. “I said I can get it.”
“Romy,” I warn, sidestepping her as she lunges for the drawer in her desk.
She pulls out the kit with victorious flair, holding it up as if she just captured the flag and is declaring victory. “Got it!”
“Congrats. You’re bleeding again.” I nod toward her hand.
She looks down and frowns. “Shit.”
I take the kit gently, brushing past her on the way back to the bathroom. She follows me in and hops back up on the counter, wiggling her ass, suddenly being the most cooperative patient ever.
I turn on the faucet and guide her finger under the cool stream of water, rinsing the blood away. Then I pat her finger dry and gently press gauze on the cut. “Keep pressure on that.”
“Yes, doctor,” she says lightly.
“You into roleplay?” I glance at her from beneath my lashes.
“You sure know your way around a first-aid kit,” she says, staring at my items all lined up in order of how to help her, completely ignoring my flirtatious comment.
She’s right to ignore it. I don’t know why I say half the shit that comes out of my mouth when she’s around. I just can’t seem to help myself.
“Foster kid.” My voice drops. Giving her a bit of my past that I usually let people discover on their own feels strange. Although it’s not a secret and since she was a big fan of mine, she probably already knows.
Her smile falters. “And that makes you an expert at patching people up?”
I grab the antibiotic cream. “More like… I struggled to keep my emotions in check, and I had to fix myself up after a lot of fights.” I peek up at her. “On the rare occasions I didn’t win.” I wink, but she doesn’t smile or laugh at my joke.
“You had to bandage yourself?”
I shrug. “Most of the time.”
She’s quiet. And when I glance up, her mouth is pinched, her eyes softening with the one emotion I hate—pity.
She grew up on this big ranch with her pick of family members to turn to whenever she needed support. She’ll find my childhood sad and depressing. It was, but I don’t want people’s pity. I’ve made a helluva life for myself by anyone’s standards.
“Don’t pity me, Romy.”
She inhales when I touch her again, wrapping the Band-Aid carefully over the wound. “Pity a superstar? Give me a break.”
I smooth the edges of the bandage, then make the mistake of looking up.
She’s smiling. An honest and unguarded one.
It’s her first real one since I stepped on this ranch.
The words rush out before I can stop them. “I’m sorry.” My voice is quieter than it should be.
She meets my gaze, and I swear, for a second, all the bullshit between us slips away.
But then she blinks, pushes off the counter, and cleans up the wrappers and gauze. “Yeah, we’re not doing this.” She tosses away the trash. “Thanks for your help.”
I cover her hands with mine. “Romy… just let me say it. I was an asshole. I handled everything in the wrong way, and you didn’t deserve it.”
Her head tilts, and her brown eyes sear me down to my soul. Every ounce of my energy is being used to hold me back from lowering my head enough to press my lips to hers. To feel their warmth, her want and her desire for me.
But I know the truth. She’d be kissing Zander Shaw, the famous singer. And I’d be kissing the woman I can’t stop thinking about, the one who might actually be able to break down everything I’ve built to keep people out.
“Thank you,” she says softly. She turns, closes the first-aid kit, and walks over to the door. “I should get back to work.”
Her hand hovers over the handle, and I brace for her to bolt. For the door to swing shut and lock me out again.
But instead, she glances over her shoulder. “Did you want to go through the storage room? See if there’s an arch you like? Seems senseless to build a new one.”
I blink and wait a beat until I realize she’s not pushing me away. Then I smile. “I’d love to. But you better be careful. My medical expertise ends at cuts and bruises. No promises on broken bones.”
She laughs. Actually laughs.
And I just stand there, stunned like a fucking idiot. Because that laugh is dangerous.
I don’t know what’s worse, her hating me… or her friendship. Because when this ends, one of us is going to walk away hurting. And I’m worried it won’t be her.