Page 49

So I look over my shoulder, and there he is—that American actor.

Impossibly famous. He’s won an Academy Award for the last three years in a row.

He’s outlandishly gorgeous, all golden and everything.

Very blond hair, very golden skin, very golden eyes—and he is, to Richie’s credit, absolutely drinking me in.

I make sure our eyes catch—hold his gaze for a good three seconds—then I turn away, back to the bar.

And I’m about to look back over my shoulder, to go for eye-fucking round two, when I’m rudely interrupted by the most annoying man on the planet.

“You okay?” Mitchell Montrose-Bowes asks me. “You look sad.”

I don’t look sad, I don’t think. He’s probably sad because Joah’s probably fucking Meghan in the bathroom by now.

“Go away, MB.”

He looks offended. “I’m just asking if you’re—”

I give him a sharp look. “I am sad but I’m not sad enough to go home with you, so fuck off.”

“Whoa—” His head pulls back. “Would you believe me if I said I was just worried about you—?”

I give him a dubious look and he elbows me gently.

“You know, once upon a time I loved you.”

I take a sip of my drink as I roll my eyes. “So you say.”

MB stares straight ahead, mouth pressed together, like he’s thinking of what to say.

“Joah Harrigan thinks he’s king fucking shit and everyone knows it.”

I feel a wave of sadness, try to swallow it down. “That’s because he is king shit.”

MB nods a couple of times and puts his hand on my shoulder—which is weird—like, nice, he’s being nice, but it’s weird to me that he’s being nice.

“Ys—” he says. “If he’s king shit, you’re queen shit.” Then he walks away and I’m alone again.

Fuck, I hate alone. I hate alone so much. The world gets so noisy when I’m alone.

I went on this waterslide once, where it was basically just a vertical drop where the floor falls out from under you, and you’re just falling, really…

getting sort of slapped around by the water, but it’s the sound—that rush sound of all the air, all that nothing I was moving through at light speed all around my head—that’s how it feels when I’m by myself.

That’s the sound I hear when I don’t have someone to love me.

I order another drink and drink it too quickly, but I think that’s going to be my vibe for the next little while—I need to take the edge off of how my heart’s feeling.

At least until—“Excuse me,” says an American voice.

I turn to look at the voice, and I don’t know why I’m surprised—but it’s him. The actor.

I sort of forgot about him for a minute there—the drinks helped—don’t know how, not when he looks like that.

He gives me the easiest of smiles to have ever been smiled in the history of time and smiles. “Hey,” he says.

I straighten up, try to look substantially more together than I feel in my body. And heart. And mind.

“Hello.”

“I’m River,” he says, offering me his hand. “Casablancas.”

I take his hand, and he puts his other one on top of mine, shaking it firmly.

All my body goes warm. Again, that could be the alcohol, though.

“Hello, River Casablancas.”

He smiles. “And you are…?”

I give him an amused look. “You know who I am…”

“Yes, I do—” He chuckles. “I do, yeah. You got me.” Then he tilts his head, looking at my face. “Whoa, you’re like—” He shakes his head, speechless.

“—Beautiful.” I nod. “I know.” I give him a glib smile. “It’s riveting stuff.”

His head pulls back, surprised. “You don’t care about being beautiful?”

I shrug. “Not really.”

He looks confused. “Even though it’s gotten you… everything —?”

I stare up at him in defiance. “Do you care about air, River?”

His eyes pinch, curious. “Not particularly.”

“Even though it keeps you alive?”

He nods, sort of getting my point. “I guess I’d only care about it if I was running out of it.”

“So tell me I’m beautiful when I’m sixty and the world is tired of my face,” I tell him, unwavering.

“Yeah, okay.” He nods, smiling. “Deal.”

And there’s something about that that feels a bit like that’s a challenge.

“So how does someone compliment you, then?” he asks, and he’s asking it genuinely. “Properly, I mean.”

Truthfully, that stumps me. “I don’t know, actually.”

“Well.” He gives me this casual smile that feels like he’s a pool on a hot day. “—If you figure it out, I’d really love to give you one.”

“—OI, YS!” Joah suddenly belligerently yells from across the club. “PLAYIN’ OFF EASY AGAIN, ARE YA? SLUT!”

And almost immediately, I see Richie appear and hook an arm around Joah, dragging him away—and I’m standing there—don’t even know what to do, don’t even know how to process what he just said to me—And River? His head’s pulled back, and I can see genuine anger across his face on my behalf.

“What the fuck—” he says, and I see him square up. “Hey—!” he yells back to Joah, and I quickly grab his arm, telling him no.

“Don’t,” I tell him earnestly. “Thank you, but don’t—”

His eyes are locked on Joah, unfazed. “I’m not scared of him—”

“He’s high,” I tell him dismissively. “And the last time he got into a fight, he bottled the person in the head, so, god—please, just leave it.”

He processes that information with a few blinks.

“Fuck,” he says.

I nod back. “Yes.”

His face tugs, uneasy. “Boyfriend?”

I roll my eyes. “Ex. Obviously .”

“A recent one?” he guesses.

I nod carefully.

River tilts his head, shaking it gently. “Listen, I don’t want to get in the middle of anyth—”

“Then, what the fuck are you doing—?” I ask, arms crossed, impatient.

“Lying!” he says quickly, reacting to my tone.

“Fuck—!” He laughs as he starts backtracking.

“That was a lie. That’s what you say—I’m trying to impress you!

” He lets out this strange breath that’s a bit like a laugh.

He looks a bit nervous. It’s cute. “I’ll get in the middle of—fuck—anything for you. I don’t care.”

“Better.” I eye him as though I’m suspicious, but do you know what? Fuck it—I’m all in. Might as well.

He keeps shaking his head, not really acting like the cool American movie star he was a minute ago.

“I’m sweating—literally sweating—just talking to you.

You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen in real life and that isn’t even a compliment to you!

” He looks exasperated. “—Which is—like, fuck—! I’m fucked. ”

“Well.” I give him a very intentional look. “Not yet . But, presumably soon…”

He pauses—smiles a lot, then licks it away. He takes a breath.

“Ysolde Featherstonhaugh, can I take you back to my hotel?”

“No,” I tell him, and the disappointment that spreads over his face is completely fucking adorable. I gaze up at him sweetly. “But I will take you back to mine.”

To be continued in… Part Two

Time of Your Life: Probably Never