Page 21 of Over & Out (Redbeard Cove #3)

Chris

J ust like the ride home from Swan River, the week goes by with Hopper and I barely speaking.

In person, I say the bare minimum to get the job done.

If we’re in a room together, I leave. And if actual long-form information needs to be conveyed, I text.

It feels very, very shitty. Worse than when I hated him and didn’t know him.

I’m very, very tempted to leave. I would in a heartbeat, except Tru’s only a week out from her due date.

More than that, she finally seems to be stress-free and happy, if her texts are any indication.

The only good thing these days is that Cindi’s started filling the fruit bowl in the kitchen with mandarins. I love mandarin oranges.

“It’s because you were starting to like him,” Dolly told me at the Bean Scene on Sunday night.

“I was not!” I’d taken an indignant bite of muffin.

Dolly raised an eyebrow as she wiped the table next to me.

“Okay, fine,” I relented. “I was just beginning not to hate him as much .”

But that’s a bald-faced lie.

Stupid. I’m so stupid for being fooled. But three days later, I still can’t shake the hurt from what happened at the hotel. I keep thinking what about that rule? The one that demands you be straight with me? The thing is, do I really want to know the answer? What if it was something I did?

I peel a mandarin as I sit down for this morning’s video call.

That thought’s not helpful. It brings me right back to those nights when Dad fell off the wagon.

Multiple times. As an adult, I knew it wasn’t my fault he couldn’t get his shit together.

As a kid? I did mental gymnastics trying to figure out what I could do differently to make him my regular dad again.

I’m not doing that with Hopper. This was a good reminder, that’s all, that the man is not to be trusted.

He’s not of my world. He’s a hot-tempered, spoiled actor who thinks other people need to cater to his emotions.

The meeting today is with Adrian, Mabel, and a guy from the PR firm Hopper works with.

For the last few days, Hopper’s been on set, so I’ve been mercifully spared having to see much of him.

But today’s a gym day, so he’s only a hundred feet from me.

Today’s meeting is accompanied by the clanking of weights and Aziz’s commands.

“Lift! Squat! Two more! Get your head in the game, Hop! Eyes on me! ”

Unlike before, I don’t need to look over at him. I’m focused on work and work alone.

“So he’d need to lose all the muscle mass for the indie project,” Adrian’s saying on screen.

I grimace. I don’t think I could stomach being in this industry full time. There’s so much emphasis on bodies and looks. I press my hand to my stomach, feeling self-conscious even though I’m not the one they’re talking about.

“I’m still not convinced that project is right for his career,” Mabel argues.

The two of them have been at odds for a good portion of this call, with me and the PR rep mostly quiet.

Though the PR rep appears to be mostly disengaged, while I’m fascinated by this discussion, despite my feelings regarding Hopper at the moment.

According to an email exchange Tru shared with me before she left, Hopper’s been wanting to do more serious roles.

Independent art house projects. In the email, Mabel said this could go one of two ways: a new chapter as a more serious artist, or career suicide. And she’s betting on the latter.

This is all coming to a head in this meeting. Mabel and Adrian are in a stalemate about holding a meeting with this independent filmmaker versus one with a big-name producer with a vastly different type of project.

“What do you think, Chris?” Hopper asks.

I jump nearly out of my skin.

How long has he been standing there behind me? Not that long, judging by the sweat that rolls down his temples as he mops the back of his neck with a towel. Music still thumps loudly in the gym, so they must be on a break.

In the last three days, Hopper hasn’t asked me a question beyond logistical things like whether there’s gas in the vehicle he wants to drive. But now he’s asking me about his career? For some reason, this pisses me off. It’s like an ambush.

I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, the PR guy looks up from his phone and says, “With all due respect, Hop, what the hell would she know? She’s a temp.”

Hopper visibly bristles. “Did I ask you, Brian?” Hopper asks. His tone is pissed off. But it’s not the same pissed-off voice he gives me. This one has more heft. It’s icy.

“Please, Chris,” Hopper says, his face neutral as he turns back to me. “If you have an opinion on this, I want to hear it. What do you think?”

My mouth is dry, but I clear my throat, gathering my irritation for strength. “I think you should apologize to me.”

If Hopper is taken aback, he doesn’t show it. But he does show a flash of something else. I don’t think it’s guilt, though maybe that’s there. I think he’s…impressed.

Brian sets his phone down. “See? Can we not?—”

“And,” I add, ignoring him, “I think you shouldn’t need me to tell you to apologize. Once you treat me like a part of your team, I’ll answer like one.”

I didn’t know I was going to do this. The words just kind of came out. But I stand by them.

On screen, Adrian looks very interested. Mabel looks like she’s going to have a coronary event. And Brian, who I sincerely thought was called Jeff, looks like a piece of shit in a headset.

Hopper’s eyebrows are up. But he doesn’t look like he regrets asking me. Again, he looks impressed.

“But that’s just what I think,” I say. “Since you asked. About the question, I think you should look at the indie project.”

Brian rolls his eyes. “Oh for fuck’s sake. Do not listen to this girl, Hopper. She doesn’t know shit about this business.”

Hopper whirls toward the screen. “Maybe not, Brian. But she knows me. She has a better read on me in a month than you’ve developed in five years working with your firm.”

“But I?—”

“No. Do not speak again until I address you.”

Hopper turns back to me, his jaw popping.

He takes a step closer, his lips a thin line.

His head is bowed slightly, eyes pinned on mine beneath his furrowed brow.

I didn’t see it before, but he looks stressed, like he’s been carrying something backbreaking.

There are shadows under his beautiful blue eyes, like he hasn’t slept.

“Chris. I’m sorry.” His voice is low. Intense. Like he has a desperate need for me to hear every word. “I was an ass. You didn’t do anything to deserve what I did. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out the best way to make it up to you, but I should have just made the time to say sorry.”

My chest clenches. He doesn’t look relieved for having said it.

If anything, he looks at me like he thinks this isn’t enough.

He hasn’t asked for my forgiveness. He’s asked for nothing, just taken responsibility for what happened, including not coming to apologize to me on his own.

I don’t think anyone’s ever said sorry to me like this, with pain almost visibly radiating from them.

Not for crimes much worse. I’m floored, frankly.

Brian makes a choking sound. “Jesus. Is he sleeping with her?”

“What is wrong with you?” I exclaim, glaring at the asshole I’ve had just about enough of.

But Hopper’s already on it. “Mabel,” Hopper says, a look of stormy rage in his eyes. “Remove Brian from the call.”

“Hopper, I’m only looking out for your?—”

“If you’re about to say you’re looking out for my interests, no, you’re not.” Hopper looks directly at Brian, face calm, tone like ice. “You’re looking to make a buck by doing as little as fucking possible. You’re fired, Brian. And you know what? Consider this termination with the agency too.”

“Hopper!” Mabel exclaims. “You can’t be serious.”

“As a fucking chest wound,” Hopper says to her. “Get rid of him.”

Hopper nods at the screen, and the call shrinks to just the two remaining participants.

“Hop—” I say, but he presses a hand to the counter, ignoring everything in the room and on the screen, his eyes on mine. “Why the indie?”

The answer is right on my tongue, but I need a breath to collect myself. He’s so close. And he just fired a man—a whole firm—because he said a dickish thing to me.

As nervous as it makes me—because fuckface was right; I don’t know anything about this industry—Hopper was right too.

Because I’ve been listening to him. I’ve been watching him.

I was a server from the time I was eighteen years old.

I learned how to read subtle clues, along with not so subtle clues.

Before that, I had to adapt to situations that weren’t always safe.

To protect myself, I had to pay attention to the things people wouldn’t say.

“Everyone writes you off as being a temperamental asshole,” I say.

“They assume you’re saying things to be argumentative.

Or because you’re grumpy about everything.

But you’re not just spouting off nonsense.

You’re saying things that are important to you, if only people would listen. ”

Hopper’s expression remains neutral, but his sea-swept eyes stay fixed on me.