8. Chapter 8
LONDYN
SEAN AND THE SECOND BODYGUARD are here.
I glance around my apartment, suddenly feeling like everything in here exposes me too much.
The neutral walls that I never bothered to personalize show how invisible I'd rather be.
My overstuffed bookshelf shows my longing to be someone I'm not: a reader.
I keep buying books, wanting to dive into them, but all those unread spines are promises to myself that I keep breaking.
Yes, I'll read you. Yes, I'll grow and evolve and move on and become someone greater.
Lies.
Lies my guests might judge me for.
The doorbell rings again and I pocket my phone, ignoring the vibration of Raven's incoming message.
With trembling fingers, I adjust my glasses—the large, ugly ones that hide half my face—and tug at my oversized blue t-shirt, making sure my body is covered, shapeless, and unremarkable.
A blank canvas no one would look at twice.
Sean was very respectful at the conference, his eyes never once dropping below my face. And he maintained a careful distance until I felt comfortable. But I haven't met the other man yet. He's a complete stranger who will be watching me, observing me, seeing all my little tics and routines.
My throat closes at the thought.
God, I can't breathe.
The doorbell sounds a third time. Then there's a knock. If I hesitate any longer, Sean will probably call, wondering what's happened.
Like Raven said, deep breaths. One foot in front of the other. It's like rehearsing blocking for a scene. Just hit my mark and remember my lines and I'll get through this.
I move through my apartment to the front door. My hand reaches for the doorknob, and I draw in one final, slow inhale before greeting my guests.
I swing the door open.
Unfortunately, there he is again.
The Director.
No , it's Sean. Just Sean in some jeans and a leather jacket. There's another man who is also in jeans but wearing a black polo. He's shorter and has a lot of compact muscles.
My gaze meets Sean's for a fraction of a second, really trying to only see him . But it's that hair. Same length. Same slicked-back style. Same color.
I look away, focusing instead on the doorframe, the floor, anywhere else. My pulse quickens like I've just run a mile, and I actually really hate running.
No, brain. Don't do this.
It's too late, though. I'm triggered, and it hits me like truck.
Suddenly, I'm no longer in my apartment doorway. I'm on set, nine years ago, gripping my script as I rehearse lines with Trent, my sitcom co-star. We're laughing, working through a difficult comedic beat, when I feel the weight of being watched.
I glance up and catch The Director's gaze from where he sits in his high-backed chair.
He's a man who had an easy ascent to the top—having a famous actor for a father will do that.
He holds himself with privilege, back straight, limbs at right angles, expecting the entire world around him to agree with anything he demands.
The way he holds himself… he's daring even his body to protest to his will.
He's sitting with one ankle resting on his opposite knee, holding the call sheet in his hands. Hair slicked back. Square jaw. High cheekbones. Handsome in that classic, magazine-cover way.
But it's his eyes, those dark eyes, that grab my full attention.
They're normally professional and warm with approval.
But this day, this second, I notice something else as his gaze traces my body, and the clingy cut-off shorts and tank top from the costume department.
His gaze is possessive. Ravenous. Like I'm not a person but a painting he wants to add to his private collection.
I freeze with the script pages clutched in my hand. Our eyes lock. One heartbeat. Two. Then, as if nothing has happened, his expression shifts, softens, and he calls out, "Ready to shoot the scene when you are, Elle!"
I smile and dismiss it. It was just my imagination, just the pressure of being the lead on a popular TV show. Just the lighting.
Everyone back then adored The Director. They shared stories that characterized him as this great guy who was generous and such a wonderful person to work with.
I was the only one seeing things. I was the outsider in the wrong.
"Londyn?"
Sean's voice yanks me back to the present.
I blink rapidly, trying to ground myself and not let my body tremble in a way that's noticeable.
Thank God for baggy clothes. Finally, I glance up at my new bodyguard.
Those brown eyes are… not The Director's.
They're warm and steady. The long top lashes flutter against solid eyebrows. He seems concerned.
The other security guard also looks worried, like he thinks I'm going to faint or something.
Where are my acting skills?
I switch 'on,' flashing them both a welcoming smile before my eyes drop to Sean's feet. He's wearing combat boots. I like combat boots.
"Sorry," I say with an even tone. "Just spaced out for a second. Thinking about… work. Lots of deadlines. Sorry." I almost laugh because my work rarely has 'lots' of deadlines. It's actually 'lots' of dead most days.
Sean gestures to the man beside him. "This is Mike. He'll be helping with your security detail."
Mike offers a friendly smile and extends his meaty hand. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Seever."
As I noticed just before slipping through a crack in reality, Mike is shorter than Sean, stockier, with close-cropped blond hair and kind blue eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles. Nothing about him triggers me, which is a huge relief.
But he's still a stranger.
I don't take his hand, instead pressing my palms against my stomach. "Nice to meet you too. Please, come in." I step back, giving them plenty of space to enter.
Mike doesn't seem offended by my refusal to touch him, and he just smiles warmly as he follows Sean in.
Sean moves past me into the living room and he has that same quiet grace I noticed at the convention.
The light from my two street-facing windows is filtered and dim through the closed blinds, but it's enough to see him scanning everything—my carefully positioned furniture, the two generic landscape prints that came with the place, the way I've tucked my desk into the small alcove where I can see the door while I work.
He notices my messy bookcase and one of his eyebrows twitches.
Wonder what that's about.
"Have you seen that man again?" Sean asks, turning to face me. "The one in the baseball cap you thought was following you?"
His expression is concerned, gentle even, but I still can't quite meet his gaze directly. I focus on his shoulder instead.
I'm hyperaware of how the space feels smaller with two men in it, so I inch toward a corner. "Actually, I… I haven't left my apartment since I got back from the conference. I've been working from home."
Now both of Sean's eyebrows twitch. "Two weeks? You haven't gone outside at all?"
I shake my head, feeling suddenly foolish. "I can be a hermit sometimes. I get groceries delivered. And work doesn't care as long as I check in virtually."
He flashes a lopsided smile that stretches his full lips, and that bloom of warmth across his face actually quiets my trembling. "Eh, I do that too," he says. "Sometimes it's nice to hide away. 'Cause you know… people."
I find myself returning his smile. "Yeah. People." I end with a shrug to emphasize our shared understanding that people can be… ugh.
He laughs, and I try to make proper eye contact like a normal human being.
I manage it for a second, long enough to notice the various shades of brown in his eyes: rich mocha, chestnut, honey.
He has a really handsome smile. His posture is perfect, his body lean but clearly strong.
He's not bulky with showy muscles, but I suspect there's significant power contained in that frame.
The kind of strength that's functional rather than decorative.
Then I think of his hands. Well, holding his hand at the conference.
Really, I don't know what came over me. First, I surprised myself by actually accepting a handshake; I haven't touched or let a man touch me in six years.
Then when his longer, thicker fingers were wrapped around mine I felt…
safe. It felt like I had been dangling off a cliff and Sean suddenly appeared, reaching over the edge to grab my hand, saying, "Don't let go.
" And I knew, I just knew that he wouldn't let me fall; he'd pull me up to safety.
The strange feeling I felt at the conference overwhelms me again until I snap back to reality and realize he's smirking at me. My brain, of course, superimposes The Director's face over Sean's again, and I have to look away.
This isn't fair to Sean. It's just my mind's masochistic way of tormenting me.
I glance at Mike, who looks like he wants to share in our understanding of 'people' but doesn't know what to say.
Sean tries to shift things back to the task at hand. "Why do you think someone is following you?"
"I… I don't know. I'm probably making it all up. I'm, you know, an anxious type." That would be the best-case scenario.
Mike chimes in, "Is there anything you can tell us about your situation? Have you dealt with stalkers in the past? Anyone who might have reason to intimidate you?"
The question lands like a bomb in the middle of this sunny afternoon. My heart rate spikes, and I can feel sweat prickling along my hairline. Yes, I want to blurt out. But I don't because how could I actually tell them? About The Director? About what happened?