It’s always been yes.
“Can you give us a minute?” Vince asks.
“Sure.” Gladly. I’m about to move out of the way so Vince and Xavier can talk when Vince reaches out and grabs my arm.
“Not you,” he says to me before looking at Xavier and Kevin with raised eyebrows.
“Oh.” Clearly miffed and confused, Xavier startles momentarily at being pushed aside. He narrows his eyes at me before looking at Vince. “Yes. Of course. Is there something I can do for you?”
“Yes. Give us the privacy I asked for,” Vince says, effectively dismissing them and making waves with my boss I’m not exactly thrilled with.
With gritted teeth, I watch them walk away while trying to ignore the feeling of Vince’s hand on me. His touch . . . it always affected me differently than anyone else’s.
Even now when I don’t want it to.
Fear and confusion snake their way up my spine. The two emotions force a decision. They pressure me to react—to choose self-preservation after everything we’ve been through, or to just accept what’s always been between us and cave.
But there is only one option this time.
There is only one way to keep him at arm’s length and—preferably—out of my life.
It’s fight or flight time and I choose fight.
“Are you trying to get me in trouble?” I yank my arm from his grasp the minute we’re out of earshot.
“Trouble? With who? That douchebag?”
“That douchebag is your new representation and my boss. Why the hell did you even sign with him if you don’t like him?”
“I needed a change. He’s supposedly one of the best.” His shrug tells me he’s not convinced of that yet.
“You had CMG. They are of the same caliber and better suited to manage you properly.”
“Things change.”
“Exactly. They change.” I’ve changed. I cross my arms over my chest. “And that doesn’t explain why you’re here in my space, in my company, pushing my boss away, and putting a huge goddamn spotlight on me—and not the good kind. Don’t you smirk at me like that.”
“Like what?” He holds his hands up, his face a mask of feigned innocence.
“Like that.” I shove a finger in his direction. “The last thing I need is to get fired and—”
“I’ll take care of him for you.”
“I don’t want that, Vince. I don’t want you ‘taking care of him’ for me. Not with my boss . . . just not ever.”
I know Vince hears my words, the conviction and determination behind them, because his smile fades and his eyes narrow. “You’re actually upset with me, aren’t you? It’s been years since I’ve seen you—”
“Seven to be exact, but who’s counting?”
“Clearly, you are,” he murmurs, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking his head to the side to study me. And in that brief moment of scrutiny, my insecurity rears its ugly head. There is Vince Jennings looking even better than the last time I saw him. Tall and tan and by the biceps straining the cuffs of his shirt, still as sculpted as my fingertips remember from running over them.
And then there’s me, in desperate need of a good cut and color, the bare minimum of makeup, and a little softer around the edges than the last time he saw me.
Seconds pass that feel like minutes as we wage a visual standoff.
“I thought we were fine with how we left things the last time we saw each other. We agreed beforehand that—”
“I know what we agreed on, thank you very much,” I snap at him and then hate that I do. But agreeing to no strings beforehand and then dealing with the emotional turmoil of the aftermath are two completely different things.
But he doesn’t know that.
He can’t know that.
“Still snarky, I see.”
“Still sarcastic, I see.” I lift my eyebrows in challenge as his eyes search mine.
“You look incredible, but then again, you always do,” he says, knocking the proverbial wind from my sails.
Wind that I needed to keep that wall of mine fortified . . . so he couldn’t knock it down like only he knows how to do.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes for a beat. Why can’t he see that he doesn’t get to say shit like that? Shit that makes it hard to be mad at him when that’s the only way I know how to be so I can keep him at a distance?
“How have you been, Shug?”
“Stop calling me that.”
He purses his lips and nods, but I’m under no impression that he’ll listen to me. Vince always played by his own rules, always got away with it, so it’s na?ve of me to think he’s any different now.
“Old habits die hard. Especially with our history.” His smile softens as does his stare and that familiar ache in my chest returns.
“It’s just that. History. In the past where we belong,” I say harsher than I should as I try to find my footing. To try to not fall under the Vincent Jennings spell. We’ve had our chances to make things work. It didn’t. I’ve had years to accept it. Years to question what if? Years to learn to love the life I’ve made. The last thing I need now that I’m finally settled is for him to show up and blow my carefully crafted world to smithereens.
“So much easier to say. So much harder to do,” he says and takes a step toward me that has me tensing and preparing myself for his touch that doesn’t come.
It used to be so easy between the two of us. Effortless. Carefree. Real.
Until it wasn’t.
And that until it wasn’t part is what I hold tight to as I look at the man a part of me will always love in some way, shape, or form.
“Don’t do this,” I whisper.
“Do what?”
“This,” I say emphatically.
His chuckle is a low rumble. “What is this? Talk with an old friend? Ask her how she’s doing? Wonder why she’s a—whatever it is your position is here—instead of running this damn company like you should be?”
Shame heats my cheeks. A million excuses for why I’m not where I should be in my career fill my head but remain silent on my lips.
“You know what I’m doing here, Bristol, but you haven’t told me what it is that you’re doing here.”
“Working.”
It’s his turn to give an exasperated sigh, but he doesn’t get to waltz in here and play the I’m-a-god card and think I’m going to answer every question he asks me.
I don’t owe him a thing.
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Excuse the interruption, Mr. Jennings, but we’re ready for you.” We both look to our right at a woman we didn’t even realize was standing there. Her headset, clipboard, and no-nonsense expression tell me she’s the assistant director or first AD or second AD. Some position to that affect where stress is something she thrives off.
“Of course.” He gives a polite nod. “Let’s get the show on the road. It’s going to be a long night. You ready?”
“For what?” I ask, my mind so scattered that I’ve already forgotten how this conversation started.
“To be my love interest in the video,” he says. The way his face lights up has me immediately shaking my head.
“No. You’re crazy if you think—”
“Fighting. Kissing. Making up.”
“Absolutely not.”
“For old times’ sake.” He shrugs, his boyish grin in full heart-stealing mode. “We used to be really good at it.”
I know. Believe me, I know. I chuckle and then take a deep breath to calm myself. This man is so damn frustrating. “It’s not part of my job description.” I take another step back. “And I sure don’t get paid enough to—”
“It’s a moot point.” We both turn and look at the AD when she silences our banter. “Casting pulled through last minute. An actress showed. She’s the gorgeous blonde standing over there who fits the part.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder to highlight said woman. And when I look back to the AD, her eyebrows are raised in what I try not to take as judgment but do anyway. “See? You’re no longer needed.”
Relief rushes through me followed by a slight streak of envy that I have absolutely no right to feel. Or want to feel.