“Honestly? Dating me sucks. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone I liked. Even someone as famous as Cassidy struggled with it, and she’s been in the spotlight since before she could walk. Her social media turned into a bloodbath. Gossip blogs made up crazy lies and conspiracy theories, which kept getting picked up by the tabloids. Because we were also an on-screen couple, we had a lot of fans of our relationship who were obsessed with us. They still are. They trash any girl I’m even photographed next to.”
He clenches his jaw. “It all got too much for Cassidy, and I don’t blame her. Relationships aren’t a good idea for me.”
“So, you’re just never going to be with anyone?” I shouldn’t be so disappointed. It’s not like we were going to walk off into the sunset together.
His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Oh, I can be with someone. Just not in a relationship. And only with girls who know the way Hollywood works and can handle the life.” His gaze shifts down. “I don’t want someone I care about to get hurt because of me,” he says softly.
Like Daisy did, I think.
I’m definitely not the Hollywood kind of girl he’s talking about, the only kind he dates. My heart does another sad little flip. I need my heart to get a clue.
“It’s a lonely way to live.” An uncomfortable thought occurs to me—that hiding behind my writing and books, falling for unavailable men, is just as lonely.
He shrugs. “It is what it is, at least for now. And the few girls I reach that level with know this upfront.” His eyes boldly meet mine.
Are his words a warning?
Or a promise?
Could I be a girl he’s with, even just for a night? I don’t meet the Hollywood standard, but I’m here with him now, and he isn’t exactly running the other way.
A night with Chase, if I were lucky enough to have one, would be worth any pain that follows.
“Maybe when The Wanderers movies are done, your life will be a little less crazy? You just finished the last one, right?”
He hesitates, as if debating if he should say something. “I’m up for the role of Max Thunder.” He looks away and runs a hand through his hair. “They want to go with a younger lead, do his origin story, for the next movies in the series.”
I gasp. Legit gasp. That’s how big that part is. Even I, whose favorite movies are black-and-white, know that. Max Thunder is the lead in the most famous spy thriller franchise of the last fifty years. It’s an iconic role in cinema. If Chase is going to step into those shoes, he’ll be at the very top of the A-list, even bigger than he is now, and on the cover of the tabloids forever.
“Wow. Congratulations,” I say, trying to sound excited for him. And I am. It’s the role of a lifetime. “That’s amazing.”
“It’s not official,” he says. “It’s hush-hush, but they’re getting close to a decision. It’s between me and one other actor. They think he might be too old for the direction they’re going, though, which is lucky for me. My agent thinks I’ll get it.”
He’s so close to me, I can smell the whiskey on his breath and the familiar sandalwood of his cologne and something potent that is all Chase.
“Do you want to know a secret?” he asks.
I’m mesmerized by how handsome he looks sitting there on the couch, those famous cheekbones illuminated, his hair mussed, and his strong body showcased by his T-shirt.
“Yes,” I say, my breath quickening at the fallen angel look he’s giving me through slitted eyes.
“A part of me would be relieved if I don’t get it. I haven’t told anyone else that. Hell, I’m not even supposed to tell anyone I’m in the running for it.”
“You wouldn’t want to play Max Thunder?”
“It’s not the kind of part anyone turns down. But if I get it, my life will become even more out of control.”
“We only have one life, Chase. We have to live it in a way that makes us happy.”
He leans down, picks up the whiskey bottle from the floor, and takes a swig straight from it.
“Easy,” I say, staying his hand. “You’ve been sick. That will hit you hard.”
“Maybe I want to get drunk,” he says lightly.
“Why?” I pull the bottle from his grasp.
He runs a hand over his face. “Because it will keep me from thinking about leaving tomorrow. Keep me from thinking about what I want versus doing what’s right.”
I’m not sure whether he’s reminding himself or reminding me. We have one night left, and then that’s it. He’ll disappear from my life as fast as he appeared in it. Something sharp twists in my chest.
He wraps his hand around mine, engulfing my fingers in his, making my nerve endings tingle all the way to my core. At first, I think he’s trying to hold my hand, but he gently takes the bottle I hold and takes another deep swig of the whiskey, trapping my gaze while he drinks. I watch his throat work.
When he finally puts the bottle down, he asks, “Do you understand?”
My answer is barely audible. A soft “Yes” for only him to hear.
But it’s a lie.
I don’t understand. Not what he means. Not why, even though it’s only drizzling now and I could have left hours ago, I’m still here. And especially not why someone as gorgeous and famous and rich as him is paying attention to an ordinary girl like me.
The delicious tension is laced with the promise of pain to come when he leaves tomorrow, because I know with the certainty of my next breath that he isn’t coming back, at least not for me.
But I need his lips on mine.
I lean into him, shocked at my boldness. Despite all my insecurities, I force myself to move past the fear of rejection. I reach into myself for a lesson I’m trying to learn—that it’s regret that hurts the most, not only of what you’ve done, but of what you haven’t.
I don’t want to live with the knowledge that I had this moment, and I squandered it. So, I lean into him, into that hard body, with my soft one.
I press my lips to his. It’s soft and fleeting, more a question than a statement.
When it’s over, I lift my head a fraction and stare into his eyes, trying to gauge his reaction, but his eyes are hooded. Did he like it?
“You don’t want—” I say, embarrassed now.
“Oh, Olivia, but I do want,” he murmurs silkily. “I want so much. It’s fucking killing me to hold back.” He raises an eyebrow, challenging me.
Our faces are still inches apart. Our mouths a breath away. I look down at his lips, so tempting, and then back at his eyes.
“Come on, Olivia,” he gently mocks. “What are you waiting for?”
“I’m not sure what to do,” I admit in a whisper.
“Whatever you feel like,” he breathes back.
Whatever I feel like.
An elation I’ve never known flows through me. I close my eyes and let pure instinct and raw desire take over.
My lips press against his again, but this time firmer, deeper, as I memorize the shape, the softness, and the taste of him. His lips part, a whiskey-flavored invitation to all the best things.
He groans, and I realize just how much he’d been holding back. His hands pull me tight. One fists in my hair, the other molds my hips to his, and his mouth—oh, that wicked mouth—is sure and certain. Whereas my kisses were tentative, lips on lips, tongue barely tasting, his kisses claim and conquer. I open for him fully, luring him inside, and our tongues meet in long, luxurious strokes.
Our hips shift into each other in an aching approximation of what might come next. We’re aligned in such a way that I’m left with no doubt that he wants this, wants me. I may be a virgin, but I’m not completely innocent. I’ve been kissed before, just never like this. I’ve never been kissed in a way that lights up my whole body, in a way that makes me ache and burn and feel like I’d die for the fire to come. After what may have been a minute or an hour, he breaks free, panting, his forehead resting on mine.
He brushes back my hair with reverence. “You’re so damn lovely.”
And maybe, in his eyes reflecting back at me, I can see a little of what he sees in me. His mouth descends on mine once again, this time gentler, just a brush of lips on lips. I want to cling to him, to force the kiss deeper, to feel his hands on every part of me, but he leans away once again, as if he knows the wild direction of my thoughts.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Olivia.” His brows knit. “I’m leaving,” he reminds me again.
“Now?” I ask, confused, my blissed-out brain unable to process anything but him kissing me again.
He smiles, but it’s bittersweet. “No, not now. Tomorrow. I have to go back to LA.”