Page 35 of The Sun & Her Burn

“Only that someone was threatening to out you in the press,” I said quietly even though we were officially the only people left in my corner of the establishment.

Adam nodded curtly, his gaze distant. “Yes. While I have absolutely no issue with anyone’s sexuality, I’m sure you can understand it would have negative repercussions on my career.”

“Like losing the Daventry role,” I said. “I imagine it’s every British actor’s dream to have a shot at playing the iconic spy.”

“Indeed,” he said. “Even if we start immediately, it might be too late to salvage my connection to the film, but it would shore up my defense in case certain things did come to light.”

“I hate that you have to worry about such things in this day and age,” I muttered. “It’s absolutely ridiculous that who someone could love might affect their career. Why should anyone care?”

“Isn’t that the age-old question?” Adam asked wearily, rubbing a hand over his chin. “It has always perplexed me thatpeople are so afraid of anything other when the human mind was meant to be curious about things we do not know. If more people asked questions and were open to learning about the world and themselves, I’m sure we wouldn’t still have problems with racism and homophobia and sexism. Tell me, Linnea, do you have a curious mind?”

It felt like one of the most important questions I would ever answer, so even though my reply was obvious, I took a moment to let the question settle, to look into Adam’s guarded gaze and write the truth on every inch of my face.

“Yes,” I told him. “I’ve always had an inquisitive nature. It’s gotten me into trouble before.”

“And will you let it again?” he quipped with a wry grin, opening his hands to reference himself. “I cannot promise this bargain will not be more trouble than it’s worth. I can offer you money and fame, but it’s a double-edged sword. You will be scrutinized by the public, stalked by paparazzi, and mocked in the media. People will say you are too ugly to be with me, that you are a gold digger or a whore, that I don’t really love you, and I’m having an affair with this or that actress on the side.”

“You don’t really love me,” I pointed out.

Adam leaned forward to brace his elbows on the table and reach over to take my hands in his. They were warm, a shocking ridge of callous under the base of his strong fingers as they curled over mine. I was utterly engulfed in his hold, transfixed by those long-lashed eyes as they seemed to unpeel every layer of my skin and muscle and bone to see through to the fabric of my soul.

“If you agree to this, Linnea,” he said in a low, husky murmur that made my blood thrum. The way one lover spoke to another in the darkest hours of night tangled in sex-warmed sheets, “no one who ever looks at us would imagine that we are anything less than beautifully, wonderfully, incandescently in love with eachother. You will be the sun I revolve around. All the press and the public will ever hear from my lips is that I am the lucky bastard who landed the love of his life.”

I couldn’t breathe.

Perhaps it was just that Adam was such a good actor that he could deliver the lines with heart-stopping poignancy, or that I had always yearned for a love exactly like he was describing.

Or maybe it was something more elemental—a base magic that passed between our clasped hands and locked eyes, a subliminal message that revealed something of both our truths.

Two lonely souls desperate for connection.

“And if I agree to this, Adam,” I mimicked softly, turning my palms up so I could hold his hands right back. “I want you to understand that our love story might be a farce, but our friendship would not. If you want someone to play the part and leave you alone otherwise, I’m not the right girl for you. I can’t pretend to love someone I don’t know, and I won’t defend someone as viciously as I plan to defend you if they won’t tell me about the demons we have to fight against.”

I paused, taking in the way Adam’s lids had shuttered, his mouth a white seam in his tanned face.

“Can you do that?” I asked softly. “Can you be my friend? Or is it too hard to teach an old dog new tricks?”

His eyes flashed as I’d intended them to, and he automatically said, “Thirty-eight isnotold.”

I grinned at him in reply, and he shook his head at me, his mouth softening.

“Why do I have the feeling agreeing to be friends with you is infinitely more dangerous than agreeing to our fake relationship?” he asked warily.

My smile widened. “I can be a lot.”

He surprised me then by lifting our conjoined hands to his lips, brushing them against my knuckles.

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about,” he murmured, not unkindly.

Something in my chest clenched and refused to loosen.

“Just promise me one thing,” he said, dropping our hands back to the table and untwining our fingers. He leaned back to cross his arms, leaving my hands curled like dead bugs on the tablecloth.

“What?”

“Promise me, no matter what happens, you won’t fall in love with me.”

I laughed lightly, but swallowed it down when Adam only leveled me with a cool, somber gaze.