Page 153 of Dream On

Sleeping with him again would be complicated, and it’s already so complicated. Right now, it can be written off as an unavoidable combustion of attraction and years’ worth of bottled-up feelings. But doing it again would widen the door that’s already cracked. One of us would be forced to slip through it…or slam it shut.

I can already hear the hinges rattling, the wood splintering.

We live at opposite ends of the world. Completely different spectrums. Regardless of his stance on Hollywood, Lex would never give all this up, everything he’s worked so hard for, to live a quiet life with me in the Midwest.

And me?

I don’t know if I fit here.

My skin is too frail, my heart too soft. While acting has always been my dream, I don’t know if I’m cut out for everything that comes along with it.

The audition with Maverick Ramirez skips across my mind as I throw on a sweatshirt, slip on my sneakers, and make my way out the door. The streets are already filling with people in snazzy ties and prim pencil skirts, gearing up for another workday.

Maverick was kind and encouraging. The audition was cathartic and fun.

And yet my soul didn’t feel fulfilled. It wasn’t the same feeling I had standing on a stage years ago, music coursing through my veins, the audience alive with awestruck wonder.

It was a little stale. Stiff.

Dare I say…

Underwhelming.

I’m zoned out as I order two toasted bagels with cream cheese and a pair of iced coffees. A couple sit in a corner booth, sending curious glances my way. I smile at them, and the woman’s eyes light up before she goes back to her breakfast.

Rain sneaks from the clouds in a gentle mist. The sky is a dusky blue, sunrise over an hour away. I push through the glass doors with my tray of coffees and a paper bag of bagels. Car horns blare in the distance, tires skidding past me through slow-growing puddles. My mood is aligned with the weather in Los Angeles today. Dreary, downcast, and uncertain. The rainfall doesn’t pick up, only offering a mild drizzle, just enough to dampen my skin and infuse my hair with humidity.

As my thoughts climb and churn, I hear my name called.

“Stevie St. James!”

Blinking, I whirl around, squinting through the fog. A man races toward me in an inky duster, rain boots, and a Rams baseball cap. Camera equipment is draped across his shoulder.

I quickly turn back around and pick up my pace, the bag crumpling in my grip.

“Miss St. James, wait up!”

“No questions, please.”

Flashbulbs go off in my periphery. Coffee and ice cubes slosh around in the tray, my legs gaining traction as I approach the condominium.

“Stevie! Just one shot—or how about a comment on the real reason you’re back in town?” His voice grates like nails on crystal, the relentless snapping of his camera an overbearing invasion.

I grit my teeth, body tensing as I break into a jog. “I said no questions.”

He’s hot on my heels, panting like a predator champing at the bit. “The public has a right to know, don’t you think? Is this all a publicity stunt? Are the rumors true about Lexington Hall and his costar, Willa Farrow? Are they sleeping together?”

My pulse fires, heart thrashing against my ribs as the door to the condominium finally comes into view.

A hand curls around my bicep.

I shriek, a moment of panic sinking into me. The drink tray collapses at my feet, coffee sluicing across my sneakers. “Please, don’t touch me.”

His eyes are dark and eager as they filter into my sight line, pockmarks carving holes in his cheeks. The camera lifts, flashes blinding me.

Raising both hands in front of my face, I swivel around him.

The man jumps in front of me, blocking my path. “Come on, give us the juice. Is it a love triangle? Are you jealous? Are you—”