Page 97 of Falling Like Stars

Inside, we’re ushered to a private room where several other high-caliber celebrities are dining at various tables. They smile and acknowledge Zach as we come in, and I have to remind myself that to me, he’s just Zach. The kind, funny, generous man I’m ridiculously in love with. To everyone else, he’s Zachary Butler, currently the world’s hottest movie star, ranked number one on the IMDb StarMeter. The world is in love with him too, just in a different way.

“How did they know you’d be here?” I ask as we’re seated at a window table with a glittering view of Los Angeles—like a field strewn with a million lights.

“Who? The paparazzi?” Zach asks. “They don’t know we’re coming; they just hope for somebody and stake out until they get them.”

“They don’t know that we’re coming,” I say with a smile. “You’re so cute.”

The waiter, in black and white with a black vest and tie, arrives to take our drink order.

“Let’s do a bottle of the 2018 Chateau Lafite-Rothschild,” Zach says.

“Very good, sir.”

The waiter departs and I give Zach a look. “Isn’t that the wine that I jokingly thought you brought me at the hot tub? And isn’t said wine like thousands of dollars?”

“Yes and yes,” Zach says, taking my hands from across the intimate table. “Not something I’d normally splurge on, but I feel like celebrating.”

“What are we celebrating?”

“You,” he says, and his hazel eyes are so beautiful in the dim candlelight. “Us.”

Oh, Zach.

Love for this man floods every pore and cell in my body. “Stop it. I put on actual makeup tonight.”

“Come here.”

We both lean over the table and share a kiss. Chris Evans is at the table on our right, Taraji P. Henson is on our left, but the world tends to fade out when I’m kissing Zachary.

“I’m afraid I don’t have much to celebrate tonight,” I say when we settle back into our chairs.

His expression morphs into concern. “Tell me about this something horrible that happened at work.”

I relay the whole sordid mess from earlier, and Zach grows angrier and angrier as I go.

“But it’s fine,” I say. “Or, it’s not fine, but I don’t know what I can do that won’t cause more problems than it solves.”

Zach doesn’t seem to have heard me. “Laurent Moreau. Fucking hell.”

“You know him?”

“I know of him. He’s Eva’s best friend. Or lover. Or I don’t know what.”

My jaw unhinges most ungracefully as the waiter returns with the wine. When he’s finally done with the presentation, Zach spits a curse under his breath.

“Do you think it’s connected?” I ask. “Laurent and Eva? No…the speed in which Laurent appropriated my work didn’t seem like he’s acting on orders. In fact, I think he’s done this before.”

“Maybe, but I’m sure Eva saw us in the latest Scandal Sheet.” Zach says. “She eats that shit up like popcorn. I wouldn’t put it past her to ensure that Laurent ruins your career.” He scrubs his hand through his hair, mussing it up. “I can’t believe this. After everything… I can’t fucking believe this.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say, taking his hand again. “I’ll get another job. I’ll start initialing my work. I won’t be so careless next time.”

“And when Avignon releases and your designs are paraded onscreen with his name on them? That’s bullshit. I need to fix this.” He shakes his head, jaw clenched. “Goddamn Eva. I’ll talk to Laurent. I’ll—”

“No.” I give his hand in mine a squeeze. “All it takes is one Scandal Sheet article accusing me and I’m screwed for life. I’ll figure it out. And I don’t want you swooping in and getting involved as if I can’t fight my own battles. You’ll just wind up with negative press when you have this dream project coming up. I don’t want to mess that up for you.”

“You won’t,” he says, cradling my hand in both of his. “But I can’t let Laurent—or Eva—hurt your career.”

“I’ll handle it,” I say, and offer a smile. “I’ll outsource the problem to my therapist. She’ll tell me what I need to do.”

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