11. Anna
ANNA
Light pours through the window.
His bed is empty when I wake up.
His side of the bed is cold.
His pillow still smells like him.
I find my underwear on the floor. My bra.
I put on his robe. Come downstairs.
Nina is there making breakfast.
"If you're looking for your dress. I have it. I'm taking it to the cleaners later."
She knows.
I hear Zeke barking outside.
Luke comes in from walking Zeke. "Good morning."
"Good morning," I look at him for some sign of what happened last night.
I don't get one from him. But I get a raised eyebrow from Nina.
"I'm going to work out."
I go back up to my room. My bed is still made. Yup, she knows.
I put on workout clothes.
Come back downstairs.
He's doing bench presses. I wait for him to finish the set.
"Is it okay if I work out with you?"
He rises from the bench without a word and walks over to the cable machine, adjusting everything. He lowers the pin into place, tests the tension with one hand, then gestures for me to step closer.
He explains the grip first — where my hands should sit, how tight to hold without locking my wrists. Then he shifts the pulley slightly, changing the angle with careful precision before positioning himself behind me. Close.
I can feel the warmth radiating off him before he even touches me.
His hand settles lightly against my waist, steadying me as the other guides my arm into place. "Shoulders back," he murmurs near my ear. "There. Like that."
Nina can see us from the kitchen.
The contact is brief, professional even, but it sends a sharp pulse of awareness through me anyway.
Every adjustment feels deliberate. His fingers press against my spine to straighten my posture, slide along my forearm to correct my movement, linger at my hip just long enough to make my breath catch.
"Good," he says after my first rep, his voice low and approving.
We fall into a rhythm after that. The clatter of weights, distant music, muffled conversations — until all I can focus on is the tension in my muscles and his presence beside me.
He watches every movement carefully, stepping in whenever my form slips, offering quiet instructions that somehow feel more intimate than they should.
For nearly forty minutes, hardly a word passes between us.
By the end of it, I'm sprawled on the floor after a brutal abs workout.
He stands between my legs, every inch of my body burning. I can't move a muscle, but I still manage a smile.
She makes breakfast. The same every day — no toast.
Luke sits down across from me and opens his phone. Zeke puts his head in my lap under the table.
"How was last night?" Nina says. "The party?"
"Good. Anna was a rockstar," Luke gets up. "I'm going to take a shower."
Luke goes up.
"Enjoying yourself?" Nina says.
"I'm a bit overwhelmed,” I say.
“It's a lot to take in. Go slow. Or should I say slow down?"
"I'm going to take a shower too."
She watches me go to my room.
The taping room is downstairs — soundproofed walls, a ring light, a camera on a tripod, a monitor showing the feed.
I've been over the sides a hundred times. Three lines in a beach bar scene, a woman who says something that changes everything for the main character without knowing it. Simple on the page. Devastating if you get it right.
Luke sits off camera with the script.
"Whenever you're ready," he says.
I do it once.
He shakes his head. "Look right into my eyes."
"It says I'm looking at the beach. I'm bored."
"Never play bored, no one watches bored people. Some stupid writer wrote that."
I do it again.
Better.
"Again," he says.
"Luke—"
"Again."
I do it six more times.
"Think about last night."
"This scene is not about that."
"Do it. But the first two lines stay on this side of camera, and the last line look at me."
I think about last night. His touch. His lips all over. Consuming me.
When it's over Luke is quiet for a second.
"That's the one," he says. "Send that."
He gets up from the chair and crosses the room.
He's going to kiss me.
"You did good," he says.
He doesn't. He goes back upstairs.
I stand in the taping room alone for a minute.
Wanting to be kissed.
I send it to Delia like she asked.
I have to get out of the house. I can’t breathe in that house.
I call Chloe from the Mercedes with the top down, parked on a side street in Silver Lake where the signal is good and nobody can hear me.
"Tell me everything," she says. She already knows from my voice.
We meet at Starbucks on Santa Monica Boulevard.
I order our drinks on the app.
She picks them up and has them at the table when I get there.
The second I walk in. Sit down. "What happened?"
I tell her everything.
The party. Rebecca Anderson. Coming home. The zipper. What I told him. What he said. What happened after?
Chloe is silent for three full seconds which is the longest I have ever heard Chloe be silent.
"Anna."
"I know."
"You had sex with Luke Wolfe. Your fake boyfriend."
"Fake boyfriend. Real orgasm," I say.
"Yes."
"I never had one before. When it happened, I though LA was having an earthquake and then I realized it’s me. I am having the earthquake.”
"No fucking way."
"It happened. I went there. My first two times were so bad, I thought something was wrong with me. Or I hated sex. All these years, I thought I was broken, and there is nothing wrong with me. But it was those two guys. I’m fine. I’m good.
"Anna. I'm so happy for you."
"Do you think he has feelings for you?"
"I don't know," I say.
"What does your gut say?"
I don't answer.
"Anna. What does your gut say."
"My gut hasn't had a boyfriend. Fake or real."
Chloe laughs. I laugh.
It feels good to laugh.
"Just be careful," she says. "Okay? Just be careful with yourself."
"And it was good for him too. I could tell.”
We step outside. The night feels calm around us as we walk together.
I lead her across the parking lot and show her the Mercedes.
"Very nice," she says.
“It doesn’t suck,” I drive home.
The house is quiet. The city glows through the glass. Zeke is asleep at the foot of the stairs.
I stand in the entryway for a moment.
Down the hall to the left, my room.
Down the hall to the right, his room. His bed.
I don't know which way to go.
I go to my room.
I leave the door open.