Page 75 of Fool's Gold

The odds are good that Marcus will be at his office or his apartment this time of day. I can’t even look at him.

No one gave a flying fuck what I thought. Not Marcus, not Jacob. Half of me wonders if the driver will even go to my house or if he’ll dump me on the apartment’s doorstep instead.

It’s time for me to take his words at face value because this time, he backed them up with action and left me floundering in confusion.

TWENTY-FOUR

We’ve got the premiere in two days.

Details for the event have kept me sequestered in my office with my cell permanently attached to the side of my head since filming wrapped. The outside world disappears into the periphery, another distraction.

My office has turned into a fucking pigsty without Sherry here to practically beat my ass for me. I haven’t allowed the cleaning crew to step through the doors.

I go from my tiny little office at the studio to my one downtown, transferring one dull set of four walls for something with a view. Even the view doesn’t help me get the details figured out. Between marketing and distribution, I’m creatively tapped out.

Once this is done, I’m taking at least a week of vacation, and no one is going to stop me.

A vacation that would be made a hell of a lot better on a beach somewhere with a basically naked Empire on my lap and a cold drink in my hand. The image is strong enough to make my cock throb.

I lean back in the chair far enough to get the front two wheels off the ground, teetering precariously. One more call, and then I’m breaking for lunch.

My stomach gives an ominous rumble the second I acknowledge its emptiness.

Olivia used to send me little snacks during the day, always by courier or meal delivery service, and always unexpected. She knew exactly what I liked and had worked with me long enough to memorize my schedule of overwork.

All work and no play makes Marcus a piece of shit.

I glance at the door, almost expecting it to open and a delivery person to hold out a greasy bag of burgers and fries. Enough to keep me going through the day.

I’d loved Olivia in a way I had no business loving her. Bennett was my best friend, and I respected both of them far too much to ever say anything about my feelings.

Then came Empire. Growing, beautiful even as a child, and her laughter was like the first breath of spring. As she came of age, I looked sideways at her more than I should have.

The unimaginable happened, and we lost them, her parents and my best friends, the universe granting me a boon and a burden at the same time: a guardianship. The object of my desire close enough for me to taste her.

An email alert pings on my laptop. Rather than ignoring it, as I’ve done for the past several days, I click to bring up the screen.

The second I recognize the name, a groan rips through my throat and my head drops back hard enough to hit the chair. Fucking Brian from the LA Times. At least he paid attention to my threats. He’s tapped me as his private source of knowledge, and any article he writes about Empire since the day he called has been attached to an email and sent to me before it goes to press.

This one, I’m dismayed to see, comes with a photo.

Dread numbs the tips of my fingers as I click on the email, the attachment popping up in devilish color. Empire and Jacob stand side by side, her delicate frame dwarfed by his much larger one when she’s no doubt wearing her normal flip-flops rather than heels. Her arm is looped through his elbow, and her hand rests demurely on his forearm.

No, not rests. Her knuckles are white, and her nails curve against his skin. Anxiety.

Her eyes are covered by a pair of vintage sunglasses, but her cheeks are pulled tight and her lips are thin despite her smile. Jacob, on the other hand, is all grins and peaches and fucking cream. Looking like the tanned, golden-boy poster child for a surfing competition as he panders to the crowd.

The commentary beneath the picture says, “New couple Jacob Kessler and Empire Stone caught on their way out of the studio after signing a mega deal together.”

Vomit churns in my gut, rising and scalding my esophagus on its way up. I clamp down on it before slamming the laptop shut and pushing it away.

It’s bad enough that my mind torments me. I don’t need an actual reminder of Empire moving on. The way I want her to move on. The way she needs to, deserves to, all that garbage.

I’d just rather not see it.

On second thought, I silence notifications because if Brian, or any one of his cohorts, managed to snap a picture of the new couple, then surely other news outlets have as well, and the image will be splashed across social media in a matter of hours.

I grab my cell and dial the number programmed into my contacts. I have no idea how Stanic managed it, but Celeste is right there at the top of my list of favorites.

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