Page 6 of Falling Like Stars

I move closer, waiting for an inconspicuous moment to grab the bottle, but my gaze snags on Zachary. I’m drawn to him against my will, which is weird since he’s not my type—not that a mega star like him would ever look my way if he was. He’s a movie god and I’m a mere mortal and never the twain shall meet.

But Zachary reminds me of Josh. They look nothing alike—Zach has thick, dark hair whereas Josh was blond. Zach is more than six feet of lean muscle while Josh was beanpole tall and skinny…

Because Josh never got to grow into his body. He didn’t make it that far—

I cut the thought off. Both guys are good people; that’s the resemblance. I don’t know Zachary but from watching him work, and I see how he smiles at everyone when he’s not drowning in angst for a scene. He chats with the crew and listens with genuine interest. He’s sincere and kind and…no thanks.

I had my shot with a good guy, and I blew it.

“I don’t want to delay the shoot, but I don’t want to quit tonight,” Zach is telling Sam. “It’s not there yet.”

The director frowns. “If you think so. I’m happy with what we have but if you need another go, we can do that.”

Of course, they can. They have Zachary Butler in their production which guarantees eyeballs on the screen. They could reshoot the entire series in Pig Latin, and it’d still be a hit.

But Christ, they’re going to run this heinous scene again? I can’t imagine it. Watching Zachary let loose like that… He’s got to be tapping into something deep. My chest feels heavy. And jealous. Like it wants relief from the shit I’m carrying around too.

Hell no.

What I’m carrying is a black abyss. A hole in my heart. There’s no fucking way I’m diving into that; I’ll go crazy.

Sam gives Zachary a final thump on the shoulder and shouts, “Okay, get ready, people. We’re going again.”

The crew moves into action.

I hurry over and grab the water bottle. Zachary leans his hip against the couch, staring absently at the floor, brows furrowed, broad mouth turned down. The guy is ridiculously good-looking, I’ll give him that. Even as scuzzy Boyd Shelton, with a dorky haircut, khaki pants and maroon sweater, his innate beauty—can you call a guy beautiful?—shines all the way through. It emanates from him like an aura. Or charisma. The “It” factor that makes him such a compelling movie star. You can’t take your eyes off of him.

Like me, just now, in that living room.

I offer the water one last time. “Before we go again?”

Zachary jolts from his thoughts. “Sorry?”

“It’s important to stay hydrated.”

“Oh, right. Thanks.” He manages a smile and takes the bottle. “Rowan, right?”

“Yes…” I frown. “How’d you know?”

“Seems like I should know who my co-workers are.”

Co-workers? I search him for signs that he’s fucking with me—my own sarcasm game is strong. But the guy seems genuine.

“Co-workers,” I say. “Is that what we are?”

“Yep.” He offers his hand. “Zach Butler.”

I smirk. “You don’t say.”

He laughs. “I do say. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Soft, hazel eyes—like crushed crystals in copper and green—hold mine and I put my hand in his.

“It’s nice to meet you, Rowan.”

His grip is strong, and he gives a warm, firm squeeze that completely messes with my head because I instantly imagine that if I fell down, this is the hand I’d want pulling me back up.

I withdraw quickly. Talking to the talent is verboten, and Zachary Butler is Talent with a capital T. But the haunted look in his eyes is familiar. I see it in the mirror every damn day of my life.

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