—
ETHAN COULDN’T SIT still. He’d spent approximately half of the 110-minute runtime fidgeting, squirming, and sighing in his seat. His internal battle over whether to slip out to the bar for another drink, or respect Grey’s wishes and sober up a little, was spilling out through his tapping fingers and restless feet. He could tell Grey was ready to murder him. By the time the movie was nearing its end, she’d clamped her hand firmly over his and anchored it to the armrest between them. Surprisingly, it worked. Something stilled inside him at the pressure of her forearm covering his, her attention never straying from the screen.
He snuck a look over at her, the flickering light of the screen casting shadows across her elegant profile, her long neck bared by her ponytail. He couldn’t remember the last time he had found something as innocent as a woman’s neck so profoundly erotic. But it wasn’t just any woman’s neck: it was Grey’s neck. He imagined leaning over and touching his lips to the tender spot just below where her jaw met her ear. Ethan already knew how she would react; her eyes would widen, her breath would hitch. He would part his lips to taste her racing pulse and maybe she would moan a little in the back of her throat, the same noise she’d made when she’d tasted the wine at dinner. He shifted again in his seat, for a different reason this time.
As if she could feel the heat of his gaze burning into her, she turned to look at him, her eyes narrowing. He quickly turned back to look at the screen. The movie wasn’t half bad, actually, when he was able to focus on it. However, his renewed attention was too little, too late, as the credits began to roll and the audience applauded.
Ethan let out a sigh of relief. He made it. Now all he had to do was deposit Grey and her provocative neck safely back at her house, go home, jerk off, and drink himself to sleep without disappointing anyone. Another successful evening.
His well-laid plans were immediately disrupted when Grey turned to him and said with steely determination, “We’re going to the after-party.”
“No fucking way,” he murmured as they stood up and started to make their way through the slow-moving mass of people trying to exit the theater.
“We need to network,” she whispered through a smile, low enough that only he could hear it. “We can shut ourselves in your little depression cave the rest of the month if you want. Tonight we need to talk to people.”
“You go, then. I’m going home.”
“Fine. I hope you’re working on what you’re going to say to Audrey tomorrow when she sees the pictures of me there alone.”
They were back in the lobby now. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into another secluded corner so they could talk more freely.
“It’s not a breach of contract.”
“No, it just makes you look like a dick.”
“I am a dick; you haven’t figured that out yet?”
She looked up at him, her eyes impossibly blue. “I don’t think you’re a dick. I think you’re afraid.”
He flinched. As usual, she was right. Was she that observant, or was he just completely transparent? He wasn’t sure which one unnerved him more.
“Thirty minutes. Forty-five, max. Then I’m leaving.”
Grey seemed to realize that their body language at the moment didn’t exactly scream “true love,” so she reached out and took both his hands in hers, drawing him closer.
“Thank you,” she murmured, leaning up and brushing her lips to his cheek. She smelled fresh and sweet, like a garden after a summer storm. He tightened his grip on her hands, willing them to behave and not break free to traverse her body, her hair, her face. He had to touch her, it was part of the deal. But he couldn’t touch her the way he wanted to. It was fucking torture. She looked up at him with a questioning glance, and he released her hands before he broke her fingers. He shoved one traitorous hand into his pocket and dug out his phone with the other, turning his body away from her.
“I’ll have Ozzy bring the car around.”
* * *
—
THE AFTER-PARTY WAS around the corner at a trendy art deco cocktail bar, decorated with plush pink velvet booths and gold hardware. The party was already in full swing when the two of them arrived. After posing for photographs at the entrance, Ethan peeled off from Grey and made a beeline for the bar. Grey grabbed a skewer of something colorful and complicated off a waiter’s tray and surveyed the room. She spotted Mia in a corner booth, surrounded by fawning admirers.
As soon as Mia saw her approach, her face lit up, and she shooed the people next to her out of the booth so she could get out and greet Grey. Mia successfully extracted herself and flung herself into Grey’s arms. Grey could tell by the enthusiasm of the greeting that Mia was already hammered, but she appreciated it anyway.
“Congratulations! It was so good! You were so good! You killed it!” Grey gushed, rocking back and forth in Mia’s arms. She pulled back to admire her. “And you look fucking hot, goddamn.” Mia’s bronze curves had been poured into a second-skin pink latex minidress, perfectly complementing the décor of the restaurant.
“Thank yooou,” Mia cooed. “But what about you, rolling up with motherfucking Ethan Atkins? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to upstage me at my own damn premiere.”
Grey laughed, putting her hand on her chest in mock offense. “What? Never!”
“That’s so you, though. You never come out, but when you come out you come out.”
Grey was about to protest, but realized Mia was right. After she and Callum had broken up, she’d stopped going out to party with the cast, or at all. At first, she’d just wanted to lie low and lick her wounds in private, but soon she became accustomed to the quiet nights at home. After a while, going out seemed irresponsible, another opportunity to be photographed doing something stupid. Another day wasted nursing a hangover. Sometimes she tagged along with Kamilah’s other friends, but even back in college, the two of them had been more staying-in friends than going-out friends. Since she’d been gone, Grey had spent most nights home alone. She felt a twinge of guilt at accusing Ethan of hiding away and avoiding the world: to a lesser extent, she’d been doing the same thing.
A few men in suits came up to congratulate Mia, who introduced them to Grey as the Clutch producers. Grey fell into easy conversation with them as Mia turned away to greet another well-wisher. An elaborate pink cocktail found its way into her hand, then another, as the group around her ebbed and flowed. Grey was surprised by how much she was enjoying herself. She let herself flirt with one of the producers, lightly resting her hand on his chest, laughing a little too loudly. As much as she hated to admit it, this was part of her career, a part she’d been neglecting.
Throughout it all, Ethan remained absent. Grey was kind of relieved. Though he’d been on his best behavior (so far) while they were on display, everything else he’d done tonight had seemed designed to push her buttons, rile her up, force her to chastise him and keep him in line. When she’d caught him staring at her during the movie, his expression was pained and—resentful? Hostile? Whatever it was, it wasn’t her problem.
She was midconversation with Mia and one of their other former Poison Paradise castmates when she heard an all-too-familiar voice behind her.
“Having a reunion without me?”
Grey stiffened. She didn’t bother turning to look at him, but Callum edged his way into the group anyway. God, he was so sleazy. She couldn’t believe she’d ever been attracted to him, let alone loved him. His greasy, slicked-back hair and shit-eating grin made her stomach turn.
“Where’s your boyfriend, Grey? Didn’t I see him over by the bar?” Callum drawled.