“So?”
“So,” I say, reaching across to finish her half-eaten samosa, “that’s why I think there’s something else going on with Brad and you. It doesn’t add up.”
“I have no idea what else it could be,” she says, shrugging helplessly. “Field Day is what he always mentions.” She wipes her mouth with her napkin and pushes her plate away. “Whatever, it doesn’t matter. All it will take is for Brad to hint that I had something to do with this Variety leak, and that’ll be it. Nobody will hire me.”
“But you’re not even mentioned in the article,” I say.
“It doesn’t matter. It might have been your name, but Dave came to me first, and I sent him on to you. Everyone knows Dave and I go way back. No matter what happens, I look like I had an ulterior motive.” She presses her hands to her eyes. “God, this sucks. And you come out looking like a snake. It’s unreal.”
“I know,” I say, pulling her closer. “But what I still don’t understand is who could have given Variety the story to begin with. I only told Brad.”
“Dan is surrounded by idiots,” she says. “His manager is a nice enough guy, but the rest of his little entourage are world-class mooches; I wouldn’t put it past any of them to mention it in passing to someone whose skirt they were trying to get into. Maybe they told the wrong person.”
“So what now?” I ask. “I can’t get hold of Dan or Caleb. Dave is MIA, and we have to wait until tomorrow to rip Brad a new one.”
Evie stands, carries our plates to the sink, and then takes my hand. “Let’s see. So far I’ve seen the kitchen, the granite countertops, the parking space, and the wood floors. Maybe you could show me that adjustable showerhead?”
“I don’t have a TV in the shower, Evil. So if you’re looking to multitask in there I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
I can hear every footstep, every thump of my pulse in my ears as I lead Evie down the hall.
I wasn’t expecting anyone, and only now does it register that I should do the mental girlfriend-in-the-house checklist. I exhale when we walk in and find everything in order: freshly washed comforter and sheets and a pile of pillows tossed haphazardly on top. My mind pushes forward and suddenly all I can see is Evie in that bed, sheets twisted around her or gone completely, her legs tangled with mine.
We’re on the same page—Evie’s already pulled her sweater off and then tugs off the shirt underneath. We stand, grinning at each other across a few feet, painted in stripes of fluorescent streetlight as we peel off our clothes one piece at a time.
“I feel like we should have music for this,” she says, grin widening.
“I could beatbox?”
“No.” She pushes me down and climbs over my lap, straddling my hips. Her kisses are soft and sucking, a sweep of tongue, the sharp bite of teeth. There are about two working cells in my brain right now and it takes both of them to move to the side of the bed and feel along the edge of my nightstand for a drawer.
“Condom?” she says, and I pull away, dragging in a lungful of air while she trails kisses down my neck.
“Looking.” I pull the drawer open, searching. My movements become more frantic and I nearly dump Evie onto the floor when I stretch as far as I can, finally wrapping a triumphant hand around the box.
I pull the top half of her body back onto the mattress, climbing over her and laughing into her neck. “Sorry.”
She’s cracking up under me, legs and arms wrapped all around my torso. When I pull back, even in the dark I can see the happiness written all over her face. We needed this chance to lose ourselves and check out for a little bit.
I hand her the condom and she studies it very intently for a few shaking breaths before reaching between us.
And then, in a breath, I’m there and she’s pulling my head back down to her neck. I can’t decide which part of her I want to touch first and so my greedy hands grip her ass, squeezing so I can fuck harder. I skim across her stomach, her hips, her nipples. She rolls and arches from underneath me, and moving with her pulls every other thought from my mind. My hands are in her hair, and my head is full of her sounds. I am mesmerized by the way my movements alter the rhythm of her breaths.
We manage to pop the sheets off all four corners.
“How’s the tour of the apartment?” I ask her at one point, my hand behind her knee, her luminous brown eyes focused on my face above her.
I feel the way she laughs, her body gripping me, and I smile into the dark. This is absolutely the most fun I’ve ever had . . . well, ever. She pulls me down, drawing her legs up to my chest and our hips flush together, and I come out of nowhere, too lost in her to even be embarrassed.
Pulling out, I move down between her legs, and with her hands in my hair and my name ringing around the room, all is forgiven.
? ? ?
Evie has an early appointment to talk to Trent about the Bay script, so she doesn’t spend the night. Just after midnight, I pull away from her and dress. I walk her down to where she’s parked, take her face in my hands, and kiss her until I’m begging her to come back up to my apartment.
“Just another hour,” I say against her mouth. “Thirty minutes. Ten. I think we both know I’m good for at least that. How about from behind, just inside the door.”
She sucks in a breath, and with her palms on my chest, she pushes and puts the tiniest bit of space between us. “You’re dangerous. I have to go.”
I spend most of the next three hours awake and staring at the ceiling, head spinning with everything that’s happened today.
My thoughts bounce around, and I’m not even sure what to focus on: that Evie and I are happening, that it’s so fucking good, that Brad has apparently lost his mind, that I’m Dan Printz’s agent, the possibility that I’ve damaged any future relationship with Dave and the Hollywood Vine, or that someone—still unknown—leaked the damn story to Variety in the first place.
Jesus, take the wheel.
Exhausted but too keyed up to sleep, I start scrolling through the various apps on my phone.
Michael Christopher might pride himself on being twenty-seven going on nineteen, but virtually every photo he posts, anywhere, is of Morgan. Morgan at the park, Morgan in the bathtub, Morgan playing dress-up with Daddy. I save the one of him wearing a tiara because that is going on his birthday card.
There’s a post from Becca with her thumb pointed down in front of a treadmill, followed by one of a doughnut and a thumb pointed directly up. I laugh into the darkness.
The time stamp on the post is less than fifteen minutes old—still pretty early—so I decide to try my luck and send her a text.
You up?
This is Carter, btw.
Is my eyeroll font coming through?
I know it’s you.
You have a new job, you didn’t die and take your contact info with you.
I smile at my screen. God, I’ve missed her.
Can you talk?