Page 41 of Baxter's Right-Hand Man

I closed my eyes for a beat. “That would be cool.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll update you when I have real news, but the ball’s rolling so…fingers crossed.”

“Great. Thanks for letting me know.”

I ended the call and buried my head in my hands. No, I didn’t hate Tony anymore. I didn’t wish we were together at all. But it would have been nice not to constantly be reminded that I’d failed at my “forever” relationship when I wasn’t sure what I’d done wrong.

Maybe I’d held on too tight. Maybe I’d been too fabulous when I should have toned it down. In my quest to be out and proud and authentic, maybe I’d forgotten how to compromise.

Nah, fuck that.I’d tried and it hadn’t worked…that was all.

I stared at the empty chair where Pierce had sat across from me last night, his eyes alight with humor and mischief. He wore celebrity like a second skin, sharing stories about his upbringing, shrugging off his family’s abandonment as though he accepted that some things were meant to be lost.

That wasn’t me.

I wallowed and grappled and raged. I turned myself inside out and came up empty every time. I didn’t want to do that anymore.

What was gone was gone, and I was really truly ready to move on.

With Pierce?

Don’t be ridiculous. He wasn’t going to call again. But if he did, I’d definitely answer. Something told me I could use a meaningless, sexy diversion with no strings attached and he’d be perfect. I’d never fall for him.

A man who belonged to the entire planet could never belong to me. And the next time around, my bar was going to be set a lot higher.

Pierce

“How did your asshole brother get your fucking phone number?” Seb tapped his iPad and leaned his elbows on his kitchen island. “Once again, I smell trouble.”

I plucked at my T-shirt and sniffed, which earned me a small chuckle from Seb’s sixteen-year-old son, Oliver. I took that as a major win. Teenagers were a notoriously tough audience. Not Oliver.

Oliver was tall, lean, and lanky with dark-blond hair and a mild-mannered personality. He was an aspiring filmmaker in his own right. He’d done a series of Claymation shorts and was currently working on an animated short for his film studies class—a hero’s story about a surfer who befriends a penguin…maybe?

Oliver’s explanations could get kind of technical, but I tried to pay attention. I’d known him since he was five or six, and I’d always liked him. The kid grew up with a respected screenwriter mom and a famous producer dad whose best friend was a Grammy-award-winning songwriter who in turn was married to a huge rock star. And Oliver’s half-brother, Charlie, was a force of nature too.

He was born into insane privilege and could have been a total brat, but he was the most level-headed young person I’d ever met. He was as easygoing as Trent, and neither of them thought twice about me stopping by for breakfast on a Friday morning before 7 a.m.

Oliver cracked eggs into pancake batter and picked up a spoon.

“Language, Dad,” he scolded, turning from the stove on the opposite end of the kitchen. “Who wants blueberries in their pancakes?”

I raised my hand. “Me.”

“Me too.” Trent shook a container of orange juice from the open fridge. “OJ, anyone?”

“No, thanks,” I said.

“Only if I can have vodka in mine,” Seb grumbled, examining the photos the studio had published of Mr. Gowan and me. “I suppose it was inevitable that someone would find a way to capitalize on a puff-piece story. Of course it had to be your brother.”

“My asshole brother,” I corrected.

“He said ‘asshole,’” Seb griped, pointing at me. “Aren’t you going to yell at him?”

Oliver grinned. “No, his brother really is an asshole. Sorry, Pierce.”

I raised my empty coffee in a mock toast. “No apology necessary.”

“Is the old guy still in the hospital?” Trent asked, pulling out the barstool next to his husband’s.