Page 20

Zoe

B ronco, stop eating that leaf.“ I gently tug on the silly dog’s leash as we resume our very slow afternoon lap around the block, crisp orange foliage crunching beneath his paws. He deigns to lookup through one eye, fully judging me for making such a ridiculous demand.

“Yeah, well, join the club.” I’ve been judging myself pretty harshly since my meeting with Knight. Since reading the newest headlines. Since my dad made it clear that my drama is ruining Grant’s life.

Since Grant suggested I shouldn’t believe who they say I am.

Like it’s that easy. Like I could just wipe my memory and start over. Like my actions won’t follow me—aren’t still following me. Like they’re not affecting him too.

An image of my dad yelling at his quarterback flashes across my mind’s eye.

Grant towering over my dad’s beet-red face, that vein in his forehead on full display.

No.

Dad won’t yell directly at Grant. An underling will take the brunt of it.

Great. That’s another person’s misery on my conscience.

Way to go, Zoe.

Maybe—just maybe—I’ll get a chance to begin to make things right in Knight’s film. Maybe I can show them all that I am not that person.

A gust of a wind whips down the sidewalk, and I snuggle deeper into my puffy red coat, pulling it closed at my neck a second too late. The chill rushes through me, sending goosebumps across every inch of my skin.

“Come on, dude.” With my toe, I give Bronco a little nudge to his rear end, but he’s obsessed with the greenery in the hedgerow. His brown nose fully disappears into it at the exact moment the homeowner of the quaint white house opens the front door and sticks her head out.

I jerk my black ball cap a bit lower over my face, a futile attempt to be less conspicuous.

Yeah, I pretty much blew that when I picked out this coat, which is basically the equivalent of an all-points bulletin.

“Everything all right there?” the woman calls, her hooded gaze narrowing even more on me. She clutches a blue cardigan under her chin, keeping watch as I stand on her stretch of sidewalk.

Holding up the leash to the dog she probably can’t see from that angle, I nod. “Fine. He’s just interested in your shrubs.”

“You better not let him poop in my yard.”

The premature accusation in her voice makes me laugh out loud, which draws a deep scowl.

“I’m not joking. I have the cops on speed dial.”

Well, wouldn’t that just give the paps a field day? First Marissa slapping me. Then Grant carrying me. Then me in handcuffs.

“We’re moving along. I promise.” I tug. Bronco lays down on the sidewalk. “Come on,” I whisper-shout.

Nothing.

The lady with the head of gray curls steps onto her stoop. “You look familiar. Have you been snooping around here before?”

My gaze whips toward her before I tuck my chin into my coat and move to scoop up my disobedient companion. Grant made this look easy, but carrying this hunk of dead weight threatens to topple me. Especially when he begins to wriggle.

“I know I’ve seen you before.” The disgruntled homeowner is marching toward me now, waving an old-school cordless phone in her hand.

I used the same model in an indie movie I did a few years ago that was set in the ’90s.

But now is not the time to reminisce about that movie. Or where she might know me from. Instead, I try to run, basset ears flopping against my arm as I begin wheezing.

Stupid altitude. Shouldn’t I be used to this by now?

The woman is still yelling at me, threatening me with her phone, jabbing the antenna in my general direction. But I can’t run another step.

Embarrassing.

I blame Bronco.

Mostly.

Gasping for another breath, I set him back on all fours. Maybe he recognizes danger. Or maybe he’s just ornery. Either way, he immediately begins his best waddle, towing me over the sidewalk cracked by hundred-year-old tree roots.

I’m still huffing and puffing when my phone rings and I answer it without even checking to see who’s called. “Hel-lo.”

“Zo? You okay?”

Grant.

Fine now. A smile spreads, warming me from deep inside.

“Yeah. Just out walking Bronco.”

“Bronco really giving you a workout today?” He doesn’t even pretend to hold back his laugh.

“There was this woman, and she thought I was going to let Bronco poop in her yard. Then she started chasing me with her phone. And Bronco wouldn’t move. And I had to pick him up. And . . .”

I can’t believe I got all of that out in one breath. Because now my lungs feel like they’re completely deflated.

“Never mind,” I finish after along breath.

“You’re okay now? Don’t need me to send the police to do a well check or anything?”

“No! No police. I’ve already gotten that threat today.”

His laugh continues deep and long, like it’s coming from low in his belly. “Tell me about it tonight?”

“Fine.” I don’t have another option. He’ll goad me until I give him all the details. “Tonight, huh?”

“Yeah. I thought maybe I could take you out. Kenna is staying at a friend’s for the weekend. One of the girls from drama club.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands up, and I glance over my shoulder to make sure that woman hasn’t followed me. No sign of her. Which means my concern has everything to do with going out with Grant in public again.

Before I can tell him that, he keeps going. “We’ll keep it low-key. I’ve already reserved a private room at my favorite restaurant.”

“You sound pretty confident there.”

“I have a road game Sunday night. We fly out tomorrow, and I won’t be back until Monday. I figured you’d want to see me before I was gone for so long.”

“Why would you think that?” Though my brain is already conjuring memories of being in his arms. And I have to bite my tongue to keep from admitting that I had checked his schedule and was already missing him.

“Was I wrong?” I can practically see the smug glimmer in his eye.

Though the guy has a point.

“Red, get in here! The meeting can’t start without you.” That sounds a lot like Ja’maar’s voice echoing down the hallway at the facility.

“I gotta run. I’ll pick you up at your grandma’s at seven.”

By the time he hangs up, I’ve all-but forgiven Bronco for his bad behavior and fully moved on to daydreams of what I’ll wear on a real date with the Teeners’ QB1. I’m so lost in thought that I almost miss another chime from my phone.

I answer before checking the screen for the second time today. “Can’t wait until tonight?”

“Tonight, eh?” The husky voice on the other end of the line is definitely not Grant. “Big plans in the Rockies? You are still in Colorado, yes?”

“Cyndi?”

“Of course, doll face. Who else would be calling you from LA?”

That’s supposed to be a joke, but the truth in it hits a lot harder than I’d like to admit. Especially since I’ve been waiting for a call back from Knight.

My stomach drops to the cement sidewalk, my breath catching as I stumble to a stop. Bronco tugs on his end of the leash for once, but I’ve completely lost the ability to move.

“Knight called you, didn’t he?”

Cyndi takes a long pause. “I’m really sorry. Cortez is a big movie for the studio. They can’t take the risk.”

Risk? Risk?

I used to be a sure thing, a box-office draw.

Now I’m nothing more than a risk no one is willing to take.

“You couldn’t manage to stay out of the tabloids for even a few weeks?”

“But I didn’t do anything wrong. I was just hiking. And Grant is . . . Grant is . . . no one’s business.”

Cyndi’s laugh is more of a bark. “I know you’re not that na?ve, sweetie. You made yourself—and anyone you date—everyone’s business the minute you hooked up with a married man.”

Tears burn at the back of my eyes, but no amount of blinking helps. “I didn’t hook up with him.”

If that disgruntled homeowner is still watching me through her open door, she’s definitely getting a show.

Tough cookies.

I’m tired of everyone assuming the worst about me. I’m sick of people expecting the worst from me.

Everyone except maybe Grant. And Kenna.

”I did not know he was married! And I didn’t sleep with him!”

“Honey,” Cyndi drags the word out, filling it with pounds of condescension. “The truth ceased to matter a long time ago. No one cares what really happened. They only care what they can sell. Reality is whatever the headlines declare it to be.”

A lump the size of Pikes Peak lodges in my throat. I can’t swallow it away, and I can’t breathe around it.

“I think it’s time we both face that. I can’t keep pitching you, or you’ll tank my reputation too.” Cyndi clears her throat, maybe trying to wipe away the harshness of her comment. “This movie isn’t going to happen. And it’ll be a long time before anyone else is willing to give you a chance. Maybe we should part ways and get back together down the road. If you can stay out of the headlines and away from the drama.”

Drama.

Oh, the irony.

Drama is the only thing I loved as a kid—watching every production I could get to, then being on the stage myself, performing to anyone who would watch.

Now, drama that I never wanted to be part of is costing me my agent and keeping me from doing what I love.

Less than a block from Nan’s place, my knees buckle, and I melt to the sidewalk. Though Bronco licks my face and tries to boost me up, I’m stuck.

I have no idea where to go from here.

When Grant rings Nan’s doorbell at exactly 7:01, I trudge through the living room to answer it. Grant’s bright smile slowly fades as he takes in my attire. Gray sweats, fuzzy purple slippers, and a tie-dye sweatshirt he’s seen on more than one morning jog. My hair is up in a messy topknot, and whatever makeup I put on earlier this morning has been cried off. I probably look like a rabid raccoon.

“Am I early?” He glances at the techy watch on his wrist. “I thought I said seven. Our reservation is at 7:30.”

“I’m sorry.” I can’t meet his gaze. “I texted you that I couldn’t make it.”

“I . . . I’ve been in meetings and at practice all day.” He glances over his shoulder, toward where I’m sure his truck is parked along the street. “I came right from the facility. I didn’t get a chance to check . . .” He stops, ticking his head to the side and studying me. The weight of his gaze is everything. Warm and comforting and safe.

Since the beginning. Even when he didn’t want to help me, he was safe. Never rude. Never assuming.

Suddenly I need more than his gaze. Throwing myself against him, I’m immediately wrapped in his embrace as I burrow into his warmth. His gray button-up is soft against my cheek, and I squeeze my eyes closed, trying to hold all of him as close as I can. Beneath my ear, his heart beats loudly, increasing in speed as his arms tighten around me.

I feel so small next to him like this. Like he could protect me from the world.

But he can’t protect me from the twisted truths tabloid readers are so quick to welcome.

I can feel him start to speak—that quick intake of breath. But then he lets it out slowly, his handmaking a slow figure eight on my back.

And all of a sudden, I’m crying. Again.

I sound like a six-year-old sniffling hard so I won’t make even more of a mess of his clean shirt. He doesn’t seem to care, pressing my head closer to his heart with his free hand.

How can he be so stinking sweet and expect me to hold it together? That’s just not fair.

But the longer he holds me, the more I’m sure I’m morphing from a raccoon into a full-on honey badger. Not exactly the date-night look I was hoping for when he called this morning.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper into his sternum. “You don’t need this right before a game. You should probably go home and get some rest.”

“Are you alone? Is your Nan here?”

“She’s playing Bingo with some friends at the Catholic church.”

“Did she leave you like—”

I shake my head hard. If Nan knew what Cyndi had done . . . Well, she’d start an avalanche that wouldn’t end until my agent was seated solidly on the outskirts of Hollywood.

Not that anyone would know it had started with all five-foot-nothing of my white-haired Nan. But the woman is the widow of a billionaire—mother of another. And before she married my grandfather, she was something of a muse among the directors of the silver screen.

She’d never admit it to anyone who didn’t already know, but the name Agatha Peebles still holds sway among the Beverly Hills elite.

And she’d never use her influence for self-gain. Not even for mine.

I may have asked her once—when I was sixteen and stupid—if she’d put in a good word for me with a producer.

“No.”

Simple as that. There had been no explanation. No real need for one either.

I knew in that moment that I was going to have to earn this career, this job I had wanted so badly. And I did.

Nan had never pulled strings for me. And she wouldn’t start now.

Neither would she abandon me when I need her most. Which is exactly what Cyndi has done.

Just thinking about how much Nan has done for me makes my eyes burn again, and I hiccup on an unexpected sob. Grant tenses around me, his movements jerky and uncertain for a split second. Suddenly, he lifts me off my feet, just long enough to shut the door and swing me over to the tiny sofa in front of three big windows. Before he can deposit me there, he spins so that I fall into his lap.

I press my face into his neck and breathe deeply. He smells clean. Fresh. Like soap and some sort of cologne. It’s far from overpowering, just a touch of musk that reminds me of him. As I wiggle a little closer, I realize too that he’s recently shaved. His jaw and neck are sleek and smooth, and my fingers find the fresh skin, curling into it.

“Zo . . .” He places a firm hand on my back, his fingers splayed from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. And I hear something in his voice. Part longing. Part warning. Like he wants to skip dinner and make out on my grandma’s couch.

Me, too, man. Me, too.

But also like he wants me to unload everything that’s brought me right up to this moment.

While I’d much rather enjoy the former, the latter is pressing against my lungs, begging for release. And Grant is my safe place.

“What happened? Is it something new with the tabloids.”

I shake my head slowly. “Not new. Same drama, different day.”

“All right then.” He scoots back putting just enough space between us so that he can look directly into my eyes. “Lay it on me.”

He probably wants me to laugh at that. But I can’t even crack a smile as I blink eyelids that feel like sandpaper. “I’m not going to get the role. I’m not even going to get an audition.”

“Oh, Zo—I’m so sorry. There will be other parts.”

My bottom lip begins to quiver, and I bite into it. Hard. Taking a deep and noisy breath through my nose, I shake my head. “No. My agent dropped me.”

“What?” Grant nearly explodes, pushing me off my seat on his lap and jumping up. He stomps across the old hardwood floor, eating up the distance to the far wall in four quick steps. When he turns, his eyes are wild. “Why would she—how could she—”

“I’m too much drama,” I manage without a quiver in my voice. Way to hold it together, Zoe.

“That’s ridiculous.” He stabs his hand through his hair. “You’re too talented to sit on the bench.”

“Yeah, well . . . apparently I’m also a production risk. One no one is willing to take.” I pull my knees up to my chin and wrap my arms around my shins. “And here I thought I was going to show them I was already putting in the work for the role.”

“You have been. You’re getting . . . better.”

I chuckle dryly. We both know I didn’t have anywhere to go but up. And I’m still not great. But at least I can throw a ten-yard pass now.

Of course, I wouldn’t be anywhere without Grant’s help. But I’ve been showing up. Putting in the work.

But someone in some office in Santa Monica or Burbank or Paducah has decided I’m no more than the headlines they so want to believe. Maybe I’ll never be more than that.

My eyes still trained on the top of my knees, I sigh. “I don’t know what I was thinking coming here. They’re still going to believe whatever they want to. This was all such a waste.”

“Seriously?” I look up just in time to catch a flash of fire in his eyes.

“Well, I mean . . .” Yeah.

I don’t know what he wants me to say though. Because there’s no other word for it. He’s wasted his time on me, trying to teach me something that I’ll never get to use. All this work. All this time.

It hasn’t made a difference.

His lips pinch together in a thin line, and a muscle in his jaw jumps. The weight of his gaze makes me shiver, and I hug my legs even tighter.

“You’re kidding, right, Zoe? Because this . . .” He waves a finger back and forth between us. “This sure doesn’t feel like a waste to me.”

Maybe it’s the burning acid in the pit of my stomach or Cyndi’s voice on repeat in my mind, but suddenly I’m spitting out words—and even I don’t know if they’re lies. “Come on. This was never going to work out. It couldn’t ever be anything real. I’m a mess, and I’m just going to drag you down with me.”

As soon as they hit the air, I know they’re a twisted version of reality—half-truths and partial lies.

Because I can’t protect him from the tabloids. I can’t protect him from my dad’s rage. I can’t protect him from nasty stories that will only make his life hard. I’m basically exactly like his ex—a distraction he doesn’t need.

Oh, I wish I wasn’t. I wish I could be everything he needs. That being with me would only ever bring rainbows and sunshine. That my life would be free of drama. That I could be a stay-at-home wife who makes him breakfast and sends him off to work every morning with a sweet kiss and a warm hug.

But that’s not me.

And it’s not fair to him for me to pretend otherwise.

He scrubs his hand down his face and over the chin I’m certain he shaved just for me. What I’ve said has lost me any chance to enjoy it tonight.

From my spot on the couch, curled up as small as I can get, I risk another push. “My dad would hate it if we were together.”

“I don’t care.” Raking a hand through his hair, he sighs, his gaze falling somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes. “I thought you wanted this, too.”

I do. So much.

I want to see what we can be. What our life together could look like. How many dogs we can walk and how often we can make each other laugh. I want to hike the Incline—actually, no. I don’t want to do that again, ever. But I want to meet him for pancakes after he hikes it.

But maybe Cyndi is right. The truth is immaterial. The truth is only what I can make someone else believe—what I can make Grant believe.

“I’m really sorry.” Taking a stabilizing breath, I whisper, “I let it get out of hand. I should have . . . I wasn’t being fair to you. I’m really sorry you wasted your time on me. But I’d like for us to be friends.”

Ha! Friends . Right. Like that won’t tear my heart out every minute I’m in his presence.

At least pain is a reminder that I’m alive.

Keep telling yourself that, Zoe.

I see the moment that my words really hit him. The light in his eyes flickers and then vanishes as color drains from his face. He clearly wants to argue with me, but this isn’t one of our playful banter sessions. No one is going to win in this debate.

Instead, he drops his chin, his fist pressed against his chest. “I have to go. We leave for Seattle tomorrow.”