Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
CLOVER
Is it possible to break one’s body from overexertion? If so, I think Roman and I have both done it. We’re lying on the mat a few hours later, after having run the stunt enough times that we know our bodies would give out if we tried it anymore.
Tanya, being the nut she is, smiles overtop of us as we both try to catch our breath.
“Excellent work today,” she says, “You’ll be ready to film that one in a few weeks.
Of course, we’ll keep meeting and practicing before the camera rolls, but it’s in good shape.
You’ve got tomorrow off, and then we’ll run some new stunts the day after.
We only have so much time to make sure you’re ready for everything.
Take a hot bath tonight and stretch.” With that, she leaves us to pant and wipe the sweat from our brows.
“That was…” I say between gasps.
“Fucked up,” Roman finishes. I can’t help but crack a smile.
“For once, I think we can agree on something.”
We sit in silence in Roman’s car together as he drives us to a nearby cafe. Apparently, this is a spot that the paparazzi frequent, and he told me earlier that there should be some waiting for us.
“How do you know there’ll be paparazzi there?” I ask, mystified at how the whole thing works.
“There usually are at a few common spots where celebrities frequent. Outside this cafe is one of them,” he says as we turn onto the road where it’s located, “and on the off chance that there weren’t going to be any, Janine called in a tip to say we’d be headed there this afternoon.”
“People actually do that?” I ask, bewildered. “I thought all paparazzi encounters were by chance.”
He laughs, but it sounds hollow. “No. There’s a lot more to this game that I’m sure you’ll learn in the coming months.”
“I don’t even know what I don’t know at this point…
” I admit as I spot a few paparazzi standing outside.
I’m nervous about walking in front of them.
This is the first time I’m going to get physically close to any of them, and I don’t want to screw it up the same way I screwed up my first attempts at the trust fall today.
My stomach also sours at the thought of the negative comments on the last article that came out.
I’m sure there’ll be another slew of them this time around.
I need to get thicker skin for this shit.
When I look over at Roman, I can see he’s studying my expression.
He doesn’t say anything, but the silence is pointed.
“It’s nothing,” I mutter.
He still doesn’t say anything, and now his eyes are appraising me more closely. I don’t like it.
“Can we go already?” I ask, eager to get this over with.
“Fine. But you should know that they’ll probably be shouting things at us, and they’re known to say things that’ll get a reaction out of people. My best advice is to keep your head down and ignore what they say,” he admits. When I look over at him, his gaze seems far away, distracted.
“Okay,” I say, trying to pull him back to the present. “Let’s go.”
“I’ll help you out of the car, and we’ll hold hands on the way in,” he says.
“Okay.” I appreciate him giving me the heads up when it comes to what kind of PDA will be occurring.
Roman gives me a brief smile that doesn’t touch his eyes before he hops out of the car. As soon as the door opens, I hear a flurry of movement and shouts.
“There!”
“Look, he’s over by the car!”
Putting his acting skills to the test, Roman pretends not to notice.
He keeps his head down and walks over to my side of the car, opening the door for me and offering me his hand.
I grab on tightly, allowing him to help pull me up and out of the seat.
He draws me in close, tucking my body in tightly to his.
My heart kicks into overdrive at the contact.
“Showtime, Daly.” Roman moves to pull us toward the coffee shop when the horde of photographers descends upon us.
“Roman!”
“Roman Everett!”
“It’s his new co-star!”
“Clover!”
“Over here, please!”
They all shout at once and on top of one another, desperate to get Roman or me to look at their cameras and give them a shot worth lots of money.
I don’t know how profitable a photo of two tired and sweaty actors entering a cafe would be, but clearly it’s got to be worth something based on the frenzy.
As they push in closer to us and yell louder, Roman takes the lead and pulls me by my hand.
What we didn’t anticipate, however, was the crush of the photographers pressing in closer and closer and eventually completely obscuring the path to the cafe entrance.
All I see are flashes everywhere, and my hands fly up to cover my eyes.
Christ, these things are blindingly bright.
I am by no means someone who suffers from claustrophobia, but the way they’re all beginning to press in from every direction sends my heart rate hammering. Is this normal? Surely they have to let us pass into the cafe. What are they going to do, stand here and hold us in this spot all day?
“Clover, are you excited about the role?”
“Are you nervous?”
“What’s it like to work with Roman Everett?” They shout at me.
I don’t know where to look, and I’m trying to keep my mouth shut. I understand why the paparazzi don’t have a good reputation. When I think they can’t get any closer, they press in a little more. The cameras are inches away from my face—if I move too quickly I’m in danger of bumping into one.
Right as the feeling starts to turn into panic, I hear Roman’s commanding voice.
“Step back, we’re going inside,” he says with such authority that I can’t help but have my mouth gape open a little.
He brings his body between me and the more aggressive photographers, creating a much-needed barrier for me.
“Excuse me,” he grits out to the photographer standing directly in our path.
The man quickly steps to the side, and cameras continue to flash in our faces as Roman offers me his hand once more.
I know it wasn’t part of our plan to hold hands twice, but the feel of his large palm wrapping around my hand provides me with the extra sense of security that I need right now.
Looking at the ground and shielding my eyes with my free hand, I let Roman pull us both into the safety indoors. As soon as the door shuts behind us, relief washes through me. Roman’s hand continues to firmly grip mine.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Are they normally like that?”
“For them, that’s tame, unfortunately,” he mutters. I have a feeling there’s more to what he’s said, but honestly I’m a little shaken up and not in the mood to pry. Roman gestures to the empty back corner of the coffee shop, where there’s a cozy-looking booth. “How about there?”
“Sure,” I say.
“I’ll grab us some coffees and food. What do you want?” It’s an offhanded question, and it shouldn’t stop me in my tracks like it does. But suddenly my palms feel sweaty, and even though I’m starving, I might need to puke.
Since my mind is apparently my worst enemy, it conjures up that stupid comment section once more. Playing a highlight reel of the shitty comments over and over again.
I’ve been working out hard, and logically, I know I’m in fantastic shape for this role. I’m talented, and I’m beautiful, I wouldn’t have been cast otherwise. But the comments sink their nasty little hooks into my brain.
I’ll show them.
I’ll be perfect.
I’ll control what I can.
“Clover?” Roman asks.
“Uh… a black coffee is good, thanks,” I rush out and head to the back corner booth before Roman can question me further.
The space is warm and has a mid-century modern vibe to it. I busy myself with looking at the décor on the walls and absentmindedly scrolling on my phone to avoid looking back at Roman, who I can feel staring daggers at me from where he waits for our drinks.
When he slides into the booth a minute later, he’s holding two steaming mugs.
“So you want no milk, and no sugar?” he verifies.
“Nope, black is great, thanks.”
He raises his eyebrows in a way that calls out my bullshit without having to say it out loud.
“It’s good this way,” I defend.
“That’s fine, so long as that’s how you actually like it,” he says before taking a drink from his mug. I can’t tell what he’s got in there, but odds are it’s better than my black coffee.
“Since when do you care about what I like?” I counter before taking a sip. I try my best not to shudder at the bitterness.
“Since now it’s part of my job to sell us as a couple,” he says, clearly not buying my story.
I roll my eyes in response. “How long do you figure we need to stay in here?”
Roman looks down at his watch. “About an hour should sell it.”
“Will they still be out there when we leave?”
“Is the sky blue?”
I level a glare at him. “Would it kill you not to be a dick for twenty minutes?”
Before he gets a chance to respond, a server pops out with a plate of food for Roman.
I’m surprised she can even see where to place the food with hearts in her eyes clouding her vision.
Ridiculous. He’s just a guy. A smarmy, dickish guy.
Albeit a very attractive, smarmy, dickish guy, but that’s beside the point.
“Here you go, sir,” the server says, completely starstruck.
“Thank you,” Roman says, maintaining eye contact with her for a second too long and shooting her a grin that could weaken even the strongest of knees.
I look at her nametag. “Thank you so much, Sarah, that’s everything.”
With a parting smile, she turns and leaves.
Roman chuckles and grabs his utensils. Suddenly, I feel ravenous as I stare at his plate of food. There’s a breakfast sandwich and hash browns on there, and I would probably do very bad things to get one of those in my mouth right now.
Roman lifts his hands in supplication before diving into the food. It smells divine, and his eating in front of me feels like torture.
“You sure you’re not hungry?” he asks as he takes in my expression.
“Positive.”
He raises his eyebrows and then licks his lips in a way that has me thinking about anything but food for a minute. It must be the hunger making my brain malfunction, because my horrible, awful brain thinks about him going down on me and licking his lips like that, savoring me.
Good God, pull yourself together, Clover…
I hiss internally. I should not be having thoughts like this about Roman Everett of all people.
It’s just been so long since I’ve had any action that it’s only natural for my brain to wander, I reason with myself.
Yes, perfectly natural and normal, and stopping right here right now.
Roman lets out a satisfied groan at the food, and I swear the noise goes straight to my core. God damnit.