31. Matt
THIRTY-ONE
Matt
“Fuck,” I curse when Harrison’s phone goes to voicemail again.
I’m breaking every speed limit in Los Angeles on my way to his house. It’s the last place I know she was for sure, and if she’s not there, at least Julia can help me.
Anxious doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’ve been rehearsing apologies since I got in the car. None of them are good enough. There’s a devil on my shoulder whispering that I already hurt her, she’s better off without me.
Maybe she is.
But this time, I’m choosing to fight first.
Emma made it clear her feelings are not my decision to make. If she wants nothing to do with me, I’ll respect that.
Eventually.
After I apologize profusely. For like the next fifty years.
Harrison’s car is in his driveway, so I roll down my window and hold down the buzzer until the gate rolls open. I don’t wait for it to stop. My foot slams on the gas. The back tires spin, undoubtedly leaving marks I’m going to have to pay for later.
He comes out of the front door in nothing but swimming trunks, completely soaked, drying his hair off before wrapping the towel around his waist.
“Dude, I called you like a thousand times,” I growl.
“Dude.” He checks his watch. “I expected you to call this morning. It’s noon. I
was out back swimming.”
“I have to see Emma,” I say, already trying to look around him.
“You read it.”
I give him a disbelieving look.
“Yes, Josh. Of course I read it.” My lungs suddenly don’t seem big enough. “Where’s Emma?”
Harrison shrugs and gives me a sympathetic smile.
“The girls moved their operation over to her house yesterday after she got back from work,” he explains, opening the door to reveal an empty living room. “Julia didn’t stay over. She’s in the pool. You can ask her.”
I brush past him and head straight for the backyard, where Julia’s doing laps by herself.
“Julia, thank God,” I say when she surfaces. “I need to find Emma. I’ve been an idiot. Again.”
I rake a hand through my hair. “Both of you know what she was doing and no one warned me. She’s blown up her whole career,” I argue.
“It wasn’t our place to tell you,” Harrison says behind me.
“Where is she?”
“She got called into work about two hours ago,” Julia says without hesitation. “I haven’t heard from her since. Calls aren’t going through.”
Emma’s at work. Good. She’s safe, reachable. If Julia’s calls aren’t being picked up either, at least I can cross being blocked off the list. Her phone must be turned off—
For a meeting. At work.
Right after the article that breached her contract has gone viral.
She got called into the office for an ambush. To get fired. Or cornered into deleting everything. Worse, maybe they’re threatening legal action. She published independently and threw Golden under the bus.
While I’ve been nurturing my feelings, she’s been fighting an entire war by herself.
“She would’ve updated you with news, right?” I ask. I hate how desperate I sound, but I don’t care. “If something bad happened?”
“I’d like to think so,” Julia confirms.
That means she’s probably there. I check the time. Two hours. If I take traffic into account… I might still make it.
I turn around so fast I almost tackle Harrison.
“Matt?” he asks.
“I have to go.”
An office building like the one Golden’s in has security all over the lobby. Even if I can make it past them, I’ll need a working ID to get the elevator moving. My only chance is to wait for someone to call it and sneak in behind them.
My worn-out Dodger’s hat that lives on the floorboard of my backseat makes a guest appearance. I pull it down low over my sunglasses and make a beeline for the doors.
Inside, it’s almost empty.
One receptionist, two guards, and absolutely no one near the elevators.
Shit, okay.
I wait outside the lobby and keep watch, bringing my phone up to my ear to pretend I’m mid-conversation. At least if Emma comes down, I’ll be able to spot her.
Come on, I think. Someone in this building must need a sad little desk salad.
Four women cross the road. I keep my head down while they walk by. At this point I’m praying for some luck, but it seems to have run out because they all continue into the next building.
The plan needs to change.
If I can’t make it upstairs undetected, then God help me, because I’m going to have to weaponize being famous.
I take off the cap, tucking it into the back pocket of my jeans, and let the sunglasses hang from my T-shirt. I’m two steps into the building when the receptionist spots me. Her eyes grow wide. I flash her my signature smile, throw in a wink to seal the deal.
“Oh m-my God! You’re Matt Hunt,” she stammers, tripping over her words. “Am I dreaming? Pinch me.”
She stretches her arm out, and despite everything, my smile turns a bit genuine.
I take hold of her hand.
“You’re not dreaming, Ms.—”
“Prescott. Delilah Prescott,” she offers nervously. “Your movies are awesome. I literally read an article about you no more than ten minutes ago. Isn’t that crazy? Do you actually do all your own stunts? What about the—”
“That’s actually why I’m here, Delilah,” I interrupt her rambling. “I need to see the journalist who wrote it, Emma Miller. She works for Golden.”
Delilah turns toward the elevators, where the security guard who was previously by the entrance now stands, watching us. His eyebrows rise, but he doesn’t look amused that I’m here.
If I had to guess, this guy irons his socks and practices his scowl in the mirror for thirty minutes each morning.
“I would love to let you go up there, Mr. Hunt,” she says, fidgeting with the lanyard around her neck, “but I’m afraid I’m not authorized to give you a visitors pass unless you have an appointment.”
My head’s bouncing back between her and the John Wick wannabe.
“I completely understand. But you do realize I could get a pass with a few calls, right? Do you really want to put me through all that trouble?”
Her face falls. She chews on her bottom lip, full of worry.
My stomach churns. I can count on one hand the times I’ve said something like that in the decade I’ve lived here. The words are just as bitter as they were the first time.
“Sir, I’m sorry. I really am,” Delilah says. “I can request a—”
The elevator dings.
A couple of seconds later, the metal plates slide open and a woman walks out.
“Hold the door,” I call, already on the move, with Delilah trailing close behind.
“What the hell?” the woman says.
The security guard intercepts me, but thankfully she blocks the elevator before it closes.
“Sir, you can’t—”
“This is an urgent matter,” I say. The suited man is a couple of inches shorter than me, but he’s still doing his best to stop me. “Five minutes. I need to find Emma Miller—”
“Emma’s not here,” says the woman.
I stop dead in my tracks. “You work with Emma?”
She nods, hurries over, and grabs my arm steering me to the side, away from security and Delilah.
“I’m Kate. Basically, Robyn to her Batman,” she jokes.
I can’t muster a laugh.
“I’m sorry. On any other occasion, I’d be much nicer, but right now I just need to find her,” I apologize. “Where is she?”
“You don’t know?”
My pulse jumps. I shake my head. Something cold slides down my spine, and I feel my muscles stiffen. I’m too late.
“She quit,” Kate explains. “Packed her things. Didn’t look back. I offered to go with her, but she said she needed some air. Mentioned a hike, although she hates hiking so I think it might have been some sort of metaphor.”
A hike.
I’d bet every dollar in my bank account there’s only one trail Emma would go to.
Our trail. The bench overlooking the city. The place where our epilogue is waiting to be told. Almost like it’s our safety spot.
I don’t even say goodbye.
I turn on my heels and run.
“You’re welcome,” Kate yells after me.
“We’ll meet again!” I shout over my shoulder.
Bad idea.
This becomes apparent five minutes into the hike.
I’m wearing jeans. High quality, dense denim. Designed for looking like a model in candid paparazzi photos, not scaling a mountain in almost one-hundred-degree heat. My sneakers are just as bad. I wore them one to an action-movie conference and they’ve been admired, rather than used, ever since.
By mile one, when my feet start blistering, I remember why.
By mile two, my jeans are so damp and heavy my movement is now restricted to no more than slight knee bending.
This is ridiculous. I’m scrambling through my breaths, cursing the moment I decided to do this completely unprepared.
Halfway up, I stop beneath a small tree with shade big enough to cover most of me. Sweat’s dripping down my temple. My white T-shirt is basically soaked through, but I still grab the hem and use it to wipe my face.
My legs are shaky, and my vision is blurring.
I’m so thirsty I would drink salt water if I had it.
The trail is empty, because no one in their sane mind would subject themselves to this in the middle of the day.
But if there’s even a chance Emma’s up there, wondering if I ever cared, then turning around is not an option.
Fuck.
I push off the trunk and take off running again with everything I have in me. Twenty more minutes. I spend my days dangling off moving cars, I can survive twenty more minutes.
The sun is scorching by the time I finally make it to the top.
My T-shirt clings to my chest like I’m shooting one of those sexy cologne ads that make no sense.
My jeans are so uncomfortable I briefly consider taking them off.
The only thing stopping me is Jennifer having a heart attack if I added public indecency to my record.
I bend over, hands braced on my knees, trying not to collapse while my lungs work overtime. At this point, I’m hearing colors, tasting smells, and seeing sounds.
Then I look up.
There’s movement ahead.
I take a few more steps, and there she is.
Emma’s sitting on the bench in her overalls and worn-out Vans. Her hair sways softly in the breeze. Her eyes are closed, face tilted up toward the sun.
She looks at peace.