Chapter 2
ASHER
The city burns with the kind of heat that makes you want to rip your skin off, and I’m already regretful by the time I pull my car into an empty strip mall on Highland.
The air outside shimmers with gasoline and ozone.
I check my teeth in the rearview, touch the nearly invisible scar below my lip—a souvenir from that hell shoot in Pretoria—and try not to think about Emma Rowan and her megawatt smile.
Which is fucking impossible, since the entire reason Myrna Ross is beside me in the passenger seat, clacking at her phone, is to wrangle both of us into a “relationship” that’s half press release, half military-grade propaganda campaign for Eclipse Run.
“Have you reviewed the talking points?” Myrna’s voice could slice brisket. She doesn’t look up, just flicks her fake-tan thumb over the scrolling screen.
“I know my lines, Myrna. Even when the script is bullshit.” I twist the gold ring on my right hand, ignoring the flop sweat gathering at my collar.
She slaps her phone onto the dash. “Look, Asher. The public doesn’t care about the movie’s budget or the new gravity rig.
They care about you and Emma, and whether you’re the next big devour-each-other duo.
You’re a star; start acting like one. She’s already in there, by the way. Try not to offend her sensibilities.”
I kill the engine and let my head rest against the seatback. “I haven’t seen her since we reshot scenes in February,” I say.
“I know. That’s why it has to look like you’re both obsessed with each other.
That’s what sells. Not the film.” She adjusts her sunglasses, which already cover half her face, and climbs out, stilettos clicking against the torn asphalt.
I imagine her as a cartoon, a giant praying mantis with a Prada purse and the will to destroy.
The Vine is a long, glass-walled rectangle designed for A-list lunch meetings and breakfast soft launches.
They let us in before hours, a flex of Myrna’s clout, and the AC is so cold I feel my exposed skin tighten.
Emma is at the back booth. She’s in a white sundress with blue flowers, hair up, tiny crescent-moon earrings catching the sun.
Her skin is as pale as I remember—like candle wax, like something that would bruise from strong wind.
Next to her is Jessie, her manager, who wears a suit and expression so nondescript she could be airbrushed out of the scene.
For a second, I reconsider the decency of this entire enterprise. Then Emma looks up, catches my eye, and something in me goes punch-drunk stupid.
I clear the length of the restaurant, force a half smile that probably looks like a grimace. “Rowan,” I say, and slide into the booth across from her, bumping the table so hard her water glass wobbles. “You look, uh, lovely. How have you been?”
Emma’s mouth twitches at the edges, her cheeks flushing slightly. “I’ve been well,” she says, then immediately looks down at her napkin, fiddling with the corner. “You look tired.” She glances up, meeting my eyes briefly. “Though somehow that just makes you more photogenic.”
I recognize what she’s doing—classic Hollywood move.
Insult me, then compliment me in the same breath.
It’s how people in this town tell you they see through the bullshit while playing the game themselves.
I want to say something equally clever, but my brain has always lagged four seconds behind my mouth, a fact that’s ruined every serious relationship I’ve ever flailed through.
Jessie does the handshake thing with Myrna—manager to executive, hate disguised by good dental work and matching Botox foreheads—while Emma pours herself water from a sweating pitcher that looks like it belongs in a 1950s diner.
Her hands are bare of jewelry, nails bitten to the quick like tiny shipwrecks.
She catches me noticing and makes a big show of tucking them under the table, as if I’ve seen her smuggling contraband.
“So,” I say, fiddling with a sugar packet shaped like a tiny pillow, “are we here to rehearse our new roles as tragic lovers, or do we get to be ourselves for one more meal before the public execution?”
Emma leans forward, hands clasped like a Victorian orphan, elbows on the clean glass that’s probably been Windexed seventeen times this morning. “That depends. How much do you like lying to the general public?”
"As much as the next actor. Though I’m more comfortable with justified murder.” I mime stabbing myself in the heart.
She grins, revealing a slightly crooked eyetooth that somehow makes her more beautiful. “I know. I watched half of the back catalog last night in the name of research. You die, like, three out of five times. Always dramatically, usually with excellent lighting.”
"Eight out of ten if you count television. My death reel could win an Emmy for Most Creative Blood Spurts.”
From the far end, Myrna snorts, the sound like a designer horse. “This is adorable, but can we get to business? We’re on a schedule tighter than my Spanx.”
Emma’s eyes stay on mine, green-gold like expensive olive oil, and I feel them burrow in, exploratory, as if she’s picking apart the scaffolding of my face for the first time. It’s unnerving, and I love it. No one in this city ever really looks at you—they just scan for helpful reflections.
Myrna slings a thick manila folder onto the table with the thwack of a judge’s gavel.
It probably includes everything from targeted hashtags to the exact shade of guilt we’re meant to project, possibly color-coded by season.
“The campaign’s called Eclipse Together.
We need to establish your dynamic early.
No weirdness, no ‘just friends’ energy. I want you to see at Runyon, at Earthbar, at every place that telegraphs ‘we have sex, but also talk about books we never finish’. Got it?”
Emma picks up the folder, thumbs it open like she’s checking a bomb for wires. “Is there a section for allergy disclosures, or do you prefer we find out the hard way when I go into anaphylactic shock over your cologne?”
“Funny,” says Myrna, “but you’ll have handlers. You’ll be fine.”
Jessie, ever the silent executor, drains half her coffee and maintains eye contact with no one. She’s measuring, constantly. “Are you comfortable with this, Em?” she says, voice low.
Emma bends her head, the bun threatening to collapse. “Let’s call it three months of performance art. Then we transition to an amicable breakup and resume our separate identities.”
“And you?” Jessie’s deadeyes lock on me.
“I’ll play my part. Eclipse could really use the help.
” I smile, to hide my wince, because the one thing no one in this booth will say out loud is that our movie is ambitious, expensive, and about to be outmuscled by three Marvel reboots and whatever horror flick Blumhouse spits out for Halloween.
If we don’t get people emotionally invested in the stars, those seats will be empty.
Food arrives—egg-white omelets, green juice, toast so brown it seems pre-burnt.
I thank the server, who gives Emma a nervous up-down.
She ignores it, focuses on the food with low-level panic, as if eating in public is a new concept.
I remember a wrap party in Bel Air where she’d spent an hour talking existentialism with the stunt coordinator, then left before dessert. She’s not made for social metabolism.
I spear a piece of omelet. “So, Emma. Pretend it’s just us. What would you actually want from this?” I gesture to the table, the restaurant, the entire PR quicksand we’re slowly descending into.
She chews, thinks. “I want to survive it without being mistaken for someone I actually am. Or being cancelled for having visible pores, or, God forbid, not being interesting enough. And I want you to not make the whole thing into a competition.”
I almost snort my juice. “Are you suggesting I can’t behave myself?”
She raises her eyebrows. “You got arrested outside Chateau Marmont during your first pilot season. In swim trunks. At three in the morning.”
The memory hits hard. “I was twenty-two,” I say, too fast. “And that fountain looked really inviting after six mojitos."
“Everyone saw it on TMZ. They said the officer had to fish you out while you recited Shakespeare." She’s half-smiling, but it’s a tight, wary thing.
“He was cool about it. Still have the mugshot somewhere.”
The booth is quiet for a beat longer than usual.
Jessie and Myrna start talking dates, logistics, and the bland posturing of people who survive on contract language and plausible deniability.
I watch Emma touch a bead of condensation on her glass and realize I’m watching her the way you’d watch a a bubble of soap—afraid to breathe in case it pops.
We spend another twenty minutes covering the script of our pseudo romance.
There will be joint interviews, at least four “candid” pap walks, and one staged argument that will “leak” during week five.
We’re both to co-host a charity sushi event for a marathon in Santa Monica.
The details are a whole genre of bleak, but Emma surprises me by zeroing in on the photo op at The Getty, where we’re meant to art-flirt in front of a David Hockney masterpiece.
She points to it with a little exasperated hum.
“At least let us pick our own outfits for the Getty. The last time I wore a stylist’s idea of ‘accessible’, I looked like a substitute teacher who moonlights as a taxidermist.”
“I’ve always wanted to try improv,” Myrna says, deadpan.
Jessie gestures at the page. “Will there be, like, a protocol for physicality? Are they supposed to touch, or just, you know, hover attractively?”
Oh, Jesus. I glance at Emma. “I mean, if you want to pretend I don’t smell like wet dog after cardio, I can do some hand-holding. Maybe a ‘steal a fry from your plate’ maneuver?”
“I dare you,” says Emma, her smile now fully weaponized. “Go on, make it believable. Method or nothing.”
The ball lands in my court, and before I can let my brain veto, I reach across the table and gently peel a toast slice from her plate, break off the end, and pop it in my mouth. “Is it working?” I ask, trying not to ruin the moment with a stupid grin.
She makes a face—mock horror, then something softer. “Maybe. You’ll have to keep trying.”
Jessie shakes his head, mutters something about “children,” and resumes scrolling his phone. Myrna leans in. “This is perfect. You’ll need to keep this energy up for the cameras. I want at least three viral moments by Monday.”
They finish eating and start finalizing calendars. I’m about to zone out when Emma leans over and, in a voice only I can hear, asks, “Did you really keep it? The hideous mugshot?”
I nod, pulse hopping. “It’s in my house somewhere. Want to see it?”
She shrugs. “I can look for it online. I need a good laugh.” She stands, gathering her bag, the movement making her briefly dizzy. I notice her steadying herself, and something protective stirs in me, idle and dumb.
Myrna says, “We’re ready to go,” and herds us out into the blast furnace of the LA morning.
In the parking lot, Emma lags behind, forcing a moment where it’s just us and a thousand watts of sunlight. She dips her head so her hair shields her face. “Hey, Asher?”
“Yeah?”
“I don’t mind the pretending. Just—let’s not make it cruel, okay?”
I want to tell her I don’t know how to be anything but kind to her, but the words catch. Instead, I promise, “No collateral damage. You have my word.”
She nods, then looks up at me. The sunlight makes her eyes go oddly unguarded—an effect you never get on camera. “See you at the Getty, I guess.”
I’m about to offer her a ride, something dumb and unnecessary, but she’s already striding toward her manager’s Tesla. I watch her go, pulse hammering, and realize I have no idea where to file her in my head—too bright, too strange, too genuine for any of my usual categories.
Myrna slides into my car, sunglasses deployed, and mutters, “You’re a lucky bastard. Treat it like a job and don’t fall for her. The last thing we need is an actual scandal.”
I manage a laugh, but my heart isn’t in it. I’m already outside the rules.
I start the car, but before I pull out, I pop the glovebox. The bracelet is still there, its plastic beads tangled around a pen. I let my thumb run over it, then tuck it in my jeans pocket, just in case.
The sun climbs, the city cooks, and the only thing I know for sure is that I’m not going to regret this. Not even a little.