Page 15

Zoe

A s I set up my laptop in my room on Monday morning, I trip over Bronco, who gives me the saddest, droopiest puppy dog eyes.

But he gets no sympathy from me. “Out.” I point at the door, but he doesn’t budge. “I told you I have an important call.” He clearly doesn’t care. I don’t know why I had hoped he would. Selfish dog hasn’t cared about my needs since I moved in.

Nan is at a physical therapy appointment, and if I shut Bronco out of my room too early, he’s likely to howl on the other side of my door for my whole call. Not what I need when my stomach is already in knots.

Rubbing my stomach, I try to ease the pain that could be from nerves. Or from the fact that I didn’t eat breakfast. I just couldn’t manage a bite.

A problem that I think Grant has never had.

He sure had no issue putting away everything he ordered and most of what I did too on Saturday. The very memory makes me chuckle. Or maybe it was the way he groaned like he might never recover after pushing empty plates away from him. Well, they were mostly empty. Except for the last three bites of the pancakes I ordered.

At least he paid.

The alarm on my phone reminds me that I have three minutes until my call with Knight Burkhardt. As I turn it off, I notice a text from Caro.

Gurrrllll! Why didn’t you tell me?

She probably heard about my meeting with Knight. Sets are notoriously gossipy, and if even one person caught wind of it, everyone within a twenty-mile radius will have heard that I’ve already been offered the role.

I can only hope.

I’ll reply as soon as I actually talk to the director.

Sweeping Bronco toward the door with one foot, I fluff my hair with my fingers. The mutt immediately begins whining, a low howl echoing through the whole house.

“Come on. Not now, Bronc. Don’t you want to play in the living room?” I give him my most convincing smile. “I’ll give you a treat later.”

He’s clearly not persuaded as I nudge his round rump another foot toward the door. He just digs deeper and lets out what can only be compared to a baby’s cry.

Two minutes to go.

I cannot be late.

“Fine. Stay. But you have to be quiet.”

Bronco woofs loudly.

Not what I asked for. Maybe if I wear my earbuds, Knight won’t hear the background noise. And those are . . . I reach for the little white box on the nightstand, but my hand comes up empty. I have no idea where I left them. I can’t even remember the last time I used them. And there’s no time to tear my room apart right now.

As I slide into the creaking chair in front of the white wooden desk—one that looks more appropriate for a ten-year-old’s room—my phone chirps. Right. I silence it, but only after catching a glimpse of the text.

Good luck

One minute to go, and I whip out a quick reply.

Don’t you know you’re supposed to say break a leg? And aren’t you supposed to be at practice?

I am

I want to chide Grant for not focusing, but I’m out of time. I open the video meeting just as Bronco sets up shop at my feet, resting his belly against my toes. Knight is already on, and I immediately flash him a smile.

“Nice to meet you, Mr. Burkhardt.”

“Miss Peebles.” He nods but his gaze is trained somewhere near his desktop. His hair is jet black, save for a silver stripe that starts near his widow’s peak and strolls toward his left temple. “Surprising we haven’t met before this.”

“I know. I’m a big fan of your work and have been telling Cyndi I want to work with you for years.”

He remains silent, even as three horizontal lines form across his forehead.

I know I should stay silent and wait for him to speak, but my mouth won’t listen to my head. “ Where the Wild Ends has been my favorite movie since I was eleven.”

His eyebrows arch, and he glances up. “Isn’t that a little young to be watching that film?”

I rein in the urge to shrug or to blame mostly absent parents. “What can I say? I had good taste—even as a kid.”

He snorts but then looks directly into his camera. I feel like he can see right through me. “You know what, I almost believe that.”

“Good. It’s true.”

“Miss Peebles—”

“Zoe,” I interrupt.

He nods, tracing the line around his mouth with his thumb and forefinger. “Zoe, I like you. I’m a fan of your work, and I’ve heard mostly positive things about you from other directors.”

Hope bubbles in my chest.

“Which is why your current . . . reality really surprised me. Some of my producers don’t want me to even consider you. Too much drama, they say.”

The bubbles pop just as quickly as they arrived.

“I understand their concern.” Pressing my lips together for a long beat, I try to find the right words. “I didn’t anticipate landing on the cover of the tabloids during my last project. I made a na?ve mistake, and I’ve certainly learned a lot from that experience. I promise you, it won’t happen again.”

“So what do you have to say about today’s headline?”

My stomach plummets to somewhere near the earth’s core, and even though Knight’s lips keep moving, all I can hear is the thunder of my pulse. Head spinning, I try to make sense of his words, but I can’t.

Today’s headline? Like a new one? Like not about Joe and Marissa and that confrontation at the restaurant in South Africa?

It takes every bit of my training and experience to hold it together, to play the role of the calm, cool, and collected woman. One unphased by whatever is going on.

Even though I have no idea what that is.

When Knight pauses, I offer a light chuckle and wave it off. “Oh, today’s? Which one do you mean?”

Bronco can clearly sense the stress in my voice, his body shifting against my feet, his nose nudging my knees. A pat on the head doesn’t do much to calm him down, so I try to ignore him.

Meanwhile, Knight doesn’t really respond to my lame joke. “There’s more than one new story about you today?” He pauses, his narrow mouth dipping into a serious frown as his dark brown eyes squint at his camera. “I mean the pictures of you all over Grant Reddington.”

My heartbeat triples, and I press my hand to my chest like that’s going to help it keep from racing out of my chest.

Of course it’s not. But a girl can try.

I have to do something. Because this is the worst. Grant’s been nothing but a friend to me—a friend who doesn’t want to kiss me. But still. He’s never asked me about Joe or tried to dig for more info on why I was basically kicked out of Hollywood. He’s taught me how to throw a football. I’m not great, but that’s not because of his teaching.

And he was only being kind to me on the Incline.

Honestly, those guys who were following me and Kenna gave me the creeps. And even though I said I could make it back to the parking lot on my own—well, I’m so glad I didn’t have to.

Grant was just taking care of me the same way he takes care of Kenna.

I’m basically like a niece. Or a cousin. Or another distant family member with zero kissing privileges. Clearly that’s why he ended our could-have-been first kiss.

And this is absolutely not the time to be rationalizing why he pulled away. Or wishing he hadn’t.

Forcing myself to feel nonchalant—not just trying to appear like I feel it—I smile at Knight. “Oh, that? Grant and I are old friends. We’ve known each other for years. He plays for my dad’s team, you know.”

“So, he’s not ‘the rebound guy’?” He suddenly holds up his hands. “Their headline, not mine.”

I laugh that off too, tucking the phrase away to ponder later. Grant couldn’t be anyone’s rebound guy . “He really just came to my rescue. I’m staying in Colorado with my Nan right now, and we happened to be hiking at the same place. I didn’t wear the right shoes—silly of me, I know—and when my shoe broke, Grant helped me get back to my car. It was all very innocent.”

I want to tell him that the tabloids are just looking for another story about me. Making up scenarios about me serves them a whole lot better than the truth. But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

If Knight hires me, that will definitely become his problem, too.

Scrambling for some way to smooth it all over, I offer a lame, “We’ll get it cleared up. It’s nothing to worry about.”

He nods slowly but doesn’t quite smile. The corners of his mouth tighten, which tugs them up, but there’s no joy in his face.

“Between you and me, Grant has been helping me prepare for this role.” I immediately want to pull those words back in, but it’s too late.

Knight raises one eyebrow. “Really? Tell me more.”

Acting is about honesty. About really feeling the emotions and drawing from them. And right now, I’m no longer acting. Maybe telling the truth will make a difference.

“I want this role.” I swallow as Bronco nudges my knee with his nose again. This time with less worry and more cheerleading. “This is a story about underdogs, and I don’t think you’re going to find another actress who understands that better than I do right now.

“But it’s also about football. And even though I grew up around it, I don’t have a lot of hands-on experience. So I asked a friend to help me.”

“And your friend happens to be the starting quarterback who took his team to the playoffs last year.”

With a shrug, I say, “Something like that. He’s teaching me how to throw a spiral.”

“And how’s that going?”

I laugh. “It’s hard. But I’ve never been afraid of hard work.”

Knight pauses for a long moment, then finally gives me a single nod. “Thanks for your time, Zoe. I’ll be in touch.”

With that, his window disappears, and Bronco seems to know he’s free to bark again, letting out a low howl.

“Thanks for holding that in, boy.” I give him a scratch behind his ears, and he whines a bit before plopping down beside my chair again.

Picking up my phone, I take a few deep breaths. Then another for good measure. It’s better to know what the articles say and how many there are.

I’m going to keep telling myself that until I start believing it.

But before I can even get my internet browser open, I see another message from Caro. What I thought was one text from her earlier is actually a string of them demanding to know why I didn’t tell her I was dating Grant.

“Because I’m not,” I tell the only other being in the room. Bronco huffs like he’s not sure he believes me. “I’m not.”

But before I can text my best friend that, another message pops up. This one from Alita, my dad’s executive assistant.

Your dad’s office. Immediately.

I should have known that was coming.

Dad doesn’t even look up from the laptop on his massive wooden desk as I slink into his office. Not even a thank-you for responding to his summons. But I do notice a distinct curl to his upper lip as he picks up a shiny magazine and chucks it in my general direction.

“I thought I made myself clear. Don’t bring your drama into my locker room.”

I stoop to pick up the pages that have turned upside down, my stomach swooping even before I can see the cover.

There’s no doubt what this is, but I glance at it anyway—the grainy picture of Grant and me on the Incline. My arms wrapped around his neck like I’m afraid he’ll drop me. For the record, I was not. Never had been.

“Wow. They didn’t waste any time getting this in print.”

Dad scowls. “It hits newsstands tomorrow. The team publicist got an early copy. Not that it matters. It’s all over the internet.”

But as I look at my face staring up at me from the cover, I see something that I hadn’t noticed before.

I’m smiling.

In the picture, arms and legs wrapped around the hottest QB in the NFL—I’m seriously biased at this point—I am beaming. Nearly glowing. Memories from that moment flow over me. The way Grant chased off those creeps. The pounding of his heart through his back. The steady rumble of his voice as he hiked. The bounce of his shoulders when I made him laugh. The strength of his hold.

The sure knowledge that he had me. I never thought for a moment that he would drop me.

It’s my turn to have his back.

Standing up, I say, “I’m not dating your QB.”

Though I might break my own rule about being with someone in the public eye if the man had any interest in me. Not that my dad needs to know that.

“That’s not what the tabloids are saying.” He still doesn’t look up, and his voice is completely flat.

“And you know what a paragon of truth they are.”

Dad’s fingers fly over his keyboard, completely disconnected from the words he mutters. “I don’t care if it’s true.”

Seriously? Shouldn’t the truth count for something?

With a scowl, Dad continues. “It’s not good for Reddington, and he’s the face of this team. I want it to stop.”

I try to find my smile, but it’s hiding pretty well. “Whatever happened to any publicity is good publicity?”

“Not when you’re involved. You could tarnish a nun’s reputation.”

His words slice through me, cutting off any response and leaving me doing my best fish impression.

“Just fix it.”

“But I don’t have—”

“This is your mess, so clean it up. Don’t I pay for an overpriced publicist?”

No. He hasn’t paid her salary since I was eighteen. And a man as obsessed with his money as he is knows that.

When I remain silent, he finally looks up, eyes narrowed and shrouded, thick eyebrows pulled together. “Get it done. Or I will.”

Suddenly I’m fifteen again, grounded for sneaking out of the Manhattan penthouse to see a show on Broadway, that same threat in my father’s voice. It’s the tone that says I won’t like his fix. It’s the tone that says life as I know it is about to change.

It doesn’t matter that I’m twenty-seven and have been living on my own for ten years, supporting myself for nearly as long.

My mistake was doing exactly what he warned me against—getting involved with his locker room.

And I don’t know what I hate more. His insistence on control. Or that he was right.

Tears spring to my eyes, blurring the lines of his face. But I refuse to knuckle them away or give him any indication that he’s gotten to me. “I’ll deal with it. Your precious reputation will be fine.”

Your daughter’s heart, maybe not so much.