Page 134 of The Hot Shot

“I don’t want to fight, either,” I whisper. Her head hurts, after all. “It’s bullshit, all this worrying.”

She visibly flinches. “I’ve lost everything that is safe and familiar to me. My home, my place of work, my best friend. I’ve replaced it all with you. You ask me to have faith in us while you protect yourself. All I want is one simple thing.”

The stale air of the room presses in on me. “You want me to predict the distant future. I can’t do that. I can barely focus on tomorrow.” What if North and Chess are right? What if I can’t divide my attentions and succeed?

It’s a testament to how well she knows me because it’s clear she sees my fear.

Chess gives me a sad, defeated look. “You can’t give it to me because you’re thinking now about what he said, aren’t you? And the answer isn’t what either of us wants to hear.”

My heart pounds too hard, my body throbbing in time with the rapid beat. Sweat breaks out on my skin. “I’m sorry, Chess. Just...” I swallow past the panic. “Give me a little time...”

Her gown rustles as she moves past me, not looking me in the eye. “I’m going to New York.” She pauses at the threshold of the doorway. “While I think about taking a leap of faith and following my heart, maybe you think about how you’re going to make your life work. With or without me.”

I let her go on ahead to give her some space. It’s a mistake. By the time I return to the party, she’s left it with Meghan. And by the time I get back home, she’s gone.

Twenty-Two

Chess

I left Finn and New Orleans like a thief on the run. I’m not proud of it. I should have said goodbye. But panic took hold, and I needed to see a familiar face that wasn’t Finn’s. I went to New York, my hometown, and to James, my oldest friend, thinking that maybe distance would make it easier to breathe again, and to figure out what the hell just happened.

Finn doesn’t call or come storming after me, demanding we talk things out.

Did I expect him to? I can’t say. It’s horrible to admit that I’d wanted him to maybe show even a little bit of resistance. But he let me go.

A week out, I get a text from Charlie, asking for my address. Since I’m not trying to hide, I give it to him. Charlie sends me the bulk of my clothes.

I cry myself to sleep that night.

I throw myself into work. I guess Finn does, too. He wins one game and then the next. I cry again when I watch him celebrate on the field with his teammates, the sight of his smiling, victorious face too much to bear. But I’m not a total masochist, so when they go to interview him, I turn the TV off.

Two days after they officially announce Finn and his team are in the playoffs, a New Orleans gossip e-mag I subscribe toshows a picture of Britt and Finn walking into a restaurant, Finn’s hand protectively on her arm as they shy away from the camera. Another grainy image of them sitting at a table for two follows.

I cry myself to sleep for a second time.

Do I think he’s with Britt now? My heart says no. My brain keeps flashing to the image of them together, and I am sick with bitter jealousy. Part of me thinks I deserve this. It’s my own fucking fault for leaving. Another far angrier part of me says,Fuck that noise.

Ironically, every other aspect of my life is fantastic. Michael’s SoHo loft is so perfect it makes my bones hurt with envy. I remember that he’s from New York real estate royalty and probably doesn’t have to work a day of his life if he chose not to, and I feel a little better about myself. I’m grateful all over again that he offered me this opportunity.

The project is a dream come true. Every day, I look forward to working. I meet established Oscar-winning actors who flirt shamelessly, and young Hollywood A-listers who act like overgrown boys, which unfortunately reminds me of Finn and his guys.

I keep waiting for someone to throw attitude or be a dick, but it doesn’t happen. It’s as if the stars have aligned and fate is telling me this is exactly where I need to be.

I hate fate.

I’m sitting in the sun-drenched living room of Michael’s loft, curled up on his oversized Italian leather couch and eating a New York bagel with apple cinnamon cream cheese, when Finn calls.

I should have known he’d hunt me down when I was the most content I’d been since leaving him. Face prickling with heat and heart pounding hard, I stare at the phone, his name lit up on the screen, as if it might up and bite me.

I don’t want to pick it up, but the damn phone won’t stop. Itrings and vibrates, making the coffee table rattle. My fingers dig into my thighs. Finn.

Answer it, you weenie. It’s just Finn, for fuck’s sake, not Satan.

Grumbling, I snatch the phone up.

“Hey.” I sound like I’ve been eating glass.

“Hey.” The timbre of his voice, rough and unsure, lodges between my ribs and digs in.