It’s a move guaranteed to sell a lot of magazines—and help set me up as a prime candidate going into awards season. The last thing I can afford to do is screw this up any more than I already have.
Which means, after everything, I’m going to have to see Ian again. I’m going to have to sit across from him and answer his questions, the whole time thinking about what happened between us. The whole time knowing that he’s thinking about the exact same thing.
Panic wells up inside of me, makes my head spin and my chest ache as it threatens to obliterate the calm I’ve worked so hard for over the last few minutes. As I blow out my unruly curls, taming my hair with the same ruthlessness I use to tame my emotions, I tell myself that it’s okay. That I can handle it. That I can do anything for a short while—even see Ian again.
It was just sex.
Just a biological function.
Just scratching an itch.
It’s no big deal, I tell myself as I straighten every last curl. Nothing I can’t handle. Nothing, even, to get worked up about. It was just sex and he’s just a man. And I know how to handle men—I’ve been doing it practically my whole life. What’s one more? What’s—
As the truth hits me, my brush clatters onto the counter and I sink onto the nearby vanity chair, my legs trembling so badly that I fear they won’t support me.
I can’t do it. I just can’t do it.
No matter how much I want to, no matter how important it is, there’s no way I can see him again. No way I can calmly answer his questions and pretend away what happened in that kitchen. Pretend away what he did to me—what I let him do to me. No, not let. Begged.
I all but begged him to take me like that and now I can barely face myself, let alone him.
I push myself up, ignoring the trembling in my knees that doesn’t seem to be going away anytime soon. I stumble into the bedroom, pick up the phone that sits on the nightstand. Then dial my agent’s number from memory.
His secretary answers on the first ring and as I wait for her to put me through, I take a few deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In through the nose, out through—
“Veronica, hi!” Cole’s voice suddenly booms in my ear, breaking the silence and my concentration. “I was going to call you in a little bit, see how the shoot went. I talked to the magazine and they’re thrilled. Said you were brilliant as always, and that the preliminary photos are astonishing. How are you feeling about the shoot? The same way?”
“Yeah.” I take another deep breath, then let it out slowly to the count of ten. “The entire shoot was great, very easy comparatively. They did the whole thing with vintage clothes and it was pretty amazing.”
“I bet. I can totally see you as the femme fatale in some 1950s film noir. Is that the vibe they were going with?”
“In some of the photos, yes. But others were lighter, more playful. I think it’s a good mix.”
“I’ll be interested to see which direction they choose—and what photos they go with. Whatever fits best with the interview, I’d guess.” He pauses—for a breath probably, since, per usual, he’s been talking eight miles a minute since he got on the phone. “How’s that going, by the way? You like Ian Sharpe? He’s supposed to be a pretty decent guy to work with. I’ve met him a couple times and really liked him. In fact, I—”
“I want you to cancel the interview.” The words come out before I even know for sure that I’m going to say them.
There’s a long pause, then, “What do you mean, Veronica? Are you all right? Where are you?” He sounds concerned. Worried, even. Not that I blame him. I’ve been his client for well over a decade and in all that time, I’ve never asked him to cancel any kind of promo for me. I’ve always shown up, always done what I was supposed to do—until today.
“I’m fine. I just…it’s a lot, you know?”
“I do know. But that’s par for the course—you’re about to start the press junket for Belladonna. Things are only going to get more hectic from here.” There are a couple beats of silence and then, “Are you sick?”
I should say yes. It would make sense to Cole, would get him off my back. But we made a promise many years ago—when it was just us against an industry that could destroy us both if we weren’t careful—that we would never lie to each other. As far as I know, we’ve both kept that pact and I’m sure as hell not going to be the one to break it now. Not over a guy I’m never going to see again.
“I’m not sick.”