Page 67 of Falling Like Stars

“No, I mean he literally stinks. He smells terrible. I don’t know if he doesn’t wear deodorant or what, but a friend of mine worked with him on a three-film franchise and she said it was like a test of human endurance just being around him.”

Rowan stifles a laugh behind her hand. “This is quite the education I’m getting. Hollywood 101.”

“Yeah well, I shouldn’t talk shit,” I say. “Not very polite.”

“Do you want to know what the general public says about you?” Rowan asks. “To even the score?”

“I don’t know. Do I?”

“They call you the ‘Internet’s Boyfriend.’”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means that you’re universally loved. There’s something about you that everyone wants to protect.”

“I don’t need protecting.”

“Hm,” Rowan says noncommittally. “Even so, they’ve got your back. I found that out the hard way. After that Scandal Sheet came out…” She waves a hand. “Doesn’t matter. Maybe I’m a tad tipsy, so I’m being extra honest, but it’s true. You’re a good guy, Zach. And that means something.”

“It means something to me, hearing it from you.”

She smiles softly, softer than I’ve ever seen, and I feel warmer too. Looser. As if the tension of the last month is sliding off me. It would be nothing to lean over and kiss her. The urge—the need—is strong. And Rowan looks as if she wants that too, to pick things up where we left them.

Are we ready for that?

The thought is a cold shower on the warm moment, so I ignore it. Stick to the topic at hand. “I suppose good is better than boring. My agent, Chase, is always telling me that boring is the kiss of death.”

“Who says you’re boring?”

“I did Jimmy Kimmel’s ‘Mean Tweets’ once. That was eye-opening.”

Rowan props herself on her elbow. “Oh my God, this I gotta hear.”

“My favorite was, Zachary Butler is what happens when a loaf of Wonder Bread becomes sentient and gets an agent.”

Rowan bursts out in laughter, nearly spilling champagne on her dress. She coughs into the back of her hand. “I’m sorry but that is the best thing ever.”

“I know,” I say, laughing with her. “Runner up: Zachary Butler is so bland, I’ll bet he goes home every night, eats a bowl of spaghetti, and talks about his day.”

“Oh, the horror,” Rowan says, wiping her eyes.

“That’s not far from the truth,” I say. “I don’t mind boring. No drama. No chaos. I think I’d be perfectly happy coming home, eating a bowl of spaghetti, and talking about my day.”

“I know you would,” Rowan says, her blue eyes soft on me. “I would too. To just…”

“Be.”

She rests her head on the lounger. “Yeah. Just be.”

The moment grows thick and warm again. I feel the urge to kiss her again. To restart my life. Because it used to be that acting was how I lived—processing emotion through someone else’s words, being other people and living other lives. But now I just want one life—mine—and I want Rowan in it.

“Rowan,” I say.

“Zachary.”

“You want to get out of here?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask me that.”

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