Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
CLOVER
It’s been a couple months since I signed the relationship contract with Roman, and I haven’t heard a word from him. Not one damn peep. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised considering how our last encounter ended, but still I figured I’d have heard something by now.
My stomach twists into an uncomfortable knot as I flip through a copy of the Darkness Rising comics.
The script for the movie isn’t ready yet, so I’ve been doing a deep dive through old comics to get a better understanding of my character.
Beside me, my journal is packed with various notes about backstory and motivations for Moonbeam.
I have been working my ass off for this role.
Literally, and figuratively. Over the last few months, I’ve been putting in hours at the gym, and making sure I’m stronger than ever.
The trainers have been working me so hard that muscles I didn’t even know existed are sore on a daily basis.
But it’s all worth it knowing I’ll be able to pull off the stunts, and that I’m doing the character justice.
Growing up, I was teased for my body. Hitting puberty before your classmates sure does wonders for a young girl’s mental health.
Back then it felt like I was in a constant battle with my body, always trying to be smaller than I was, but never doing it in a healthy way.
If only high school Clover could see me now.
Hopping up from my bed, I grab another highlighter.
Color-coding my notes feels like a concrete step I can take that’ll help me feel more prepared.
At least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
The truth is, I am sweating bullets at the prospect of being a co-lead on such an enormous project.
I don’t want to seem like I don’t know what I’m doing or anything like that.
I want to feel like I deserve to be there, like I deserve to act alongside Roman, whether or not that dickhead thinks so.
When I sit back on the bed, Smokey swats at the purple highlighter, knocking it onto the floor. Clearly, she isn’t a fan of my process.
The gentle vibrations of my phone pull my focus away from the notes, and when I look down, I see an unknown number pop onto the screen. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a call from someone I don’t know.
“Not today, Satan,” I mutter before hitting ignore. It’s blessedly silent for a minute before the ringing starts up again. Figuring it must be something important, and resolving to hang up immediately if it’s not, I put the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Clover.” Roman’s rich voice comes through the speaker.
“Roman.”
“I received a rather pointed email from Janine this morning, so we need to start being seen in public together.”
Straight to business, I see. “What do you have in mind?”
“Let’s meet at a gym, and we can be photographed leaving together.”
“Text me the time and address and I’ll meet you there.” I try to keep the vocal equivalent of an eye roll out of my voice.
“Perfect,” he answers tightly before hanging up.
It’s almost time for me to meet Roman for our first date.
“Date” is a bad word for two reasons. First, because I’m not actually dating Roman Everett.
And second, because the idiot picked the gym for our first outing.
The gym. Nothing screams “romantic” like roided up men, the sound of metal weights being dropped, and the smell of sweat. I’m a lucky girl.
I carefully pack away my notes and comics before doing a quick once-over of myself in the mirror on the back of my door.
This pale blue workout set was the best that I could do on such short notice.
The cropped workout top clings tightly to my body and shows off a bit of cleavage, and the high-waisted pants are tight enough to help compress any bits of myself I suddenly feel are too soft.
I need to go shopping for more clothes that I’m comfortable being photographed in. Preferably something black.
The more I think about going to the gym for this date, the more annoyed I am with Roman. Did he really have to pick something where the first time I’m being photographed by paparazzi is in something form-fitting? Talk about feeling exposed.
When Roman suggested the gym, I didn’t realize that what he meant was we’d arrive at the gym separately, work out separately, and spend a grand total of two minutes or less together when we leave the building to get photographed together.
I’ve been silently stewing throughout the duration of my workout as Roman jogs on the treadmill on the other side of the room.
He makes the speed he’s running at look effortless, even though I know it’s got to be tough.
He’s a lethal combination of grace and power, and I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t hot watching him work out.
I mentally kick myself. I shouldn’t find anything hot about Roman Everett since he’s a douchebag of the highest order.
He didn’t even say ‘hi’ when I arrived. Just looked me up and down, gave a brief nod of acknowledgement, popped in some AirPods and then launched into his workout.
So for the past forty-five minutes I’ve been working through a series of weightlifting exercises. After spending so much time with my trainer, I know them like the back of my hand.
This privately owned gym has all the bells and whistles and it’s got mirrors throughout. Mirrors that I caught Roman looking at me through when I was doing one of my heavier sets. His eyebrows raised when I did my deadlift. No doubt he was expecting me to use a lighter weight. Jackass.
With an annoyed huff, I plunk myself down onto the mats to work my way through a series of stretches, and roll my muscles out.
Looking up from the floor, I notice a beautiful blonde woman walk into the gym.
Since it’s a privately owned space that’s closed off for us, it must be someone Roman knows.
She looks like a Victoria’s Secret model without the wings.
Perhaps a little too short for that, I think on closer inspection. Her platinum hair is pulled into a bun that’s somehow perfectly messy and chic at the same time, and she’s wearing a long-sleeved pink workout set with trainers that are so white they must be brand new.
The woman gives Roman a quick wave before spotting me. She heads in my direction, plopping herself down about ten feet away from me and giving me a smile that feels warm and genuine.
“Hi,” she beams.
“Hey,” I answer, fighting hard to make sure it doesn’t sound like a question on my end. I have no clue who she is, or why this blonde bombshell is trying to talk to me.
“I’m Jill,” she says, “Roman’s sister.”
Oh.
“Do you mind if I share the space?”
“Uh, sure.”
“Thanks,” she says breezily, “already done your work out?” She gestures to the mats.
“Just a little one for me today. I don’t want to get too sweaty before getting photographed,” I explain before realizing that shit, I shouldn’t be talking about being photographed to her.
What is she supposed to know? Am I supposed to pretend even for her?
Is she supposed to think that Roman and I are a legitimate couple?
Before I have the chance to go into a total tailspin of worry, Jill puts me out of my misery.
“Understandable, the tabloids are brutal even on a good day.” She looks at me and gives me a quick little smile before launching into some calisthenics that she makes look as easy as breathing.
I feel like a weirdo just watching her, even though she started the conversation. “Mind if I follow along?” I ask, hoping that somehow makes it less odd.
“Of course not,” she beams before dropping into a plank with form so perfect it would rival that of a Navy SEAL. Following suit, I look into the mirror.
Roman’s moved on to weightlifting. The sleeves of his dark gray shirt go down to his wrists, ensuring the tattoos are mostly hidden, save for the compass.
It’s easy to lose focus on what I’m meant to be doing as I watch him repeatedly lift and lower an impressive weight on the barbell.
Can I be faulted for staring at the man when he’s squatting like that?
He may be a total jerk, but that doesn’t stop me from staring at his perfectly formed–
“How are you feeling about all of this?” Jill asks.
My head whips back over to her, heat flooding my cheeks. Mercifully, Jill doesn’t comment on what I was looking at.
“About the workout?” I laugh, trying to gently steer the conversation.
Jill sees right through me as if I were cellophane. “Sure, if that’s what you’d like to talk about.” She gives a soft smile that chips away a bit of my resolve. She’s so genuine it’s hard not to immediately take a liking to her.
“I don’t know. It’s all a lot to take in,” I admit as I stare down at the mat.
“Yeah, I can only imagine,” she says wistfully. And I suppose that’s true, the Everett siblings were born famous, with their parents being huge celebrities back in the day—thank you, Google—and being in the industry themselves, they’ve never known a life without paparazzi and contracts and films.
Unsure of what to say, I come out of the plank. Jill follows and begins to launch into a series of burpees.
“Well. If it ever gets to be too much or if you ever want someone you can talk to, you can always shoot me a text,” she says after a set of ten, before pulling out her phone and sliding it over to me so I can put my number in.
I have no idea why she’s this invested in being kind to me, but the idea of someone wanting to trade numbers and reaching out like this fills me with something warm and bright.
We trade numbers, and then, being the beautiful drill sergeant she is, Jill leads me into a workout that could make a grown man cry.
An hour later, Roman finally deigns to speak with me. When he approaches Jill, he gives her a smile, and then when he looks at me, it fades all too quickly. Jill gets the cue.
“I’ll see you later, Roman. Clover, it was nice meeting you.” She grins before walking toward the back of the building.
“Nice of you to finally come over here,” I say, voice dripping with sarcasm.
“There are no photographers or people in here we need to pretend in front of,” he says matter-of-factly. “And I needed to work out. In case you missed the memo, our movie has a lot of stunts we’re responsible for.”
“Yeah, thanks, Tips. I’m well aware.”
“Great, then let’s get going. I have shit to do today,” he announces.
While we’re pretending and doing this for the PR, it still doesn’t feel great to be reduced to an item on his daily checklist.
“Congratulations on having shit to do. Now stop talking and lead the way,” I snap.
He gives a lopsided smirk before heading toward the front door.
Through the dark glass, I see a small cluster of people waiting where the road meets the pathway.
This must be the paparazzi. My hands feel clammy.
These people have large cameras in their hands, and they look around like sharks who smell blood in the water.
As I stare at the photographers, Roman steps away to a mirror nearby to do one last check before we step outside.
He scrubs at his jaw before checking that his hair is perfectly mussed.
Annoyingly, it is. It’s perfect despite the workout.
Mine on the other hand? I’m scared to assess the damage my time on the mat has done.
Jill may look sweet, but she’s a mean, mean woman when it comes to leading a workout. I’m sure I’m a sweaty mess.
He feels my gaze on him and sighs. “If pictures are going to be taken, I might as well make sure I look my best.” He gestures for me to do the same, so I step forward to the mirror and instantly regret it.
Suspicion confirmed, I’m a sweaty goblin.
I rub at the bags under my eyes, and like a grandma born in the 1930s, I pinch at my cheeks, trying to infuse a little color.
Grumbling when I don’t get the desired effect, I move on to adjusting my messy ponytail.
I grimace when I realize that this too can only get so good when I’m in this state.
Next time I go anywhere that the paparazzi will be, I know to put in more effort, even stashing some concealer, blush, and lip gloss in my purse or pockets would’ve helped exponentially.
As I start mentally picking apart my appearance, Roman places his hands on my shoulders and pulls me away.
“Cut that out,” is all he says.
I glare at him. I hadn’t even verbalized anything, but he clearly picked up on what was happening inside my head. At least to some extent.
I sigh, straightening out my workout top, hoping at least my boobs look good. That’s gotta count for something, right? I look up at the mirror again and catch his gaze lingering on the spot I was adjusting.
“Roman Everett…” I scold, “were you just checking me out?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Ms. Daly.”
“Sure, sure.”
He ignores me and blasts straight on to a new subject, as close to an admission of guilt as I’m going to get from him. “Before we officially kick this off, we need to talk about how we’re going to behave on set,” he says.
“I plan on behaving professionally, is that too much of a struggle for you?”
“On the contrary, sweetheart,” he smiles, and the nickname makes my stomach do a little dip. “I want to make sure we’re on the same page for how we’re interacting with one another in front of the cast and crew.”
“What do you mean?”
“If reports come out about us being an item, and we look like a couple off set, but on set we’re cold and distant, no one’s going to buy us being in a relationship.”
“So, we’re essentially lying to our colleagues?” I deadpan. This keeps getting worse.
“I wouldn’t call it lying per se…” he says.
“Really?” I ask, eyebrows ready to hit my hairline.
“Would you call all acting lying?” he counters. Damn. The bugger has a point with that one. I decline to answer, instead giving him an eye roll that confirms I acquiesce. “Look, think of it as an extension of the role, that’s really all it is.”
“Lucky me.”
His silky laugh wraps around me, and I have to work hard to tamp down the delight I feel at hearing that sound. For such a dickish personality, he has a beautiful laugh. The kind that makes you want to respond with a smile and laugh of your own.
“I’ll have you know there are plenty of women who’d kill to be in your place,” he says before crossing his arms over his broad chest.
“And yet poor little Roman Everett got stuck with me, how unfortunate for him.”
“Now you’re understanding, Daly,” he says and gives me a quick pat on the shoulder like a fucking boy scout before heading to the door. “Follow my lead.” And just like that, Roman exits the building.