Page 8 of Falling Like Stars

I roll my eyes. Greetings and salutations to you too, Clay.

Not tonight, I type.

A reply comes quick. When?

My thumbs fly. Desperation isn’t attractive.

Can’t help it. I’m bored. And horny LOL

“What a poet,” I mutter.

Not tonight, I type. Busy. I’ll let you know.

I tuck my phone away and look to the living room. Zachary Butler is still talking with Sam and Javier. His face lights up when he sees me, and he raises a hand to call me over. The ache comes back with a vengeance, this time creeping up to my heart.

I pretend not to see him and slip around the front of the house toward the back, to the gate at the rear of the property. The contract stipulates this area is off limits to cast and crew, but I’d noticed on day one of this location shoot that the gate’s padlock was left ajar. I slip through and quietly close it behind me. The path in front of me is dark—this house is so big it has its own forest—but I know my way.

It’s risky—I could get fired if anyone sees me, and my rep as a dependable PA would be down the toilet. As I walk over the stone path, now covered with leaves, I examine my feelings. Do I care? Not really. I have to take my relief anywhere I can.

Just a little more, Boyd told Hugo. Lucky him.

For me, there’s a lot more. An infinite amount of grief and guilt, and it won't end, not until I take my last breath in what—forty? Fifty years? God help me. It’s been ten years, and each one has felt like its own lifetime. But I’m not brave enough to do anything rash or final. Probably because I know Josh would hate that. He’d be so pissed, wherever he is. He’s probably already pissed that I’m not making anything real out of this life. Just biding my time.

Well, whatever. He’s the one who left me.

I arrive at my little sanctuary. The guest house looms in the dark but it’s the hot tub tucked in the side where I’ve made my nest. Someone—the same dude who left the padlock open, probably—also neglected to turn off the power to the hot tub. I hit the button to get the hot water burbling, then change into my bathing suit from the bag I’ve stashed in the bushes. I exchange my black skinny jeans and T-shirt for a black bikini.

Low lamps light the periphery of the property—just enough to see by. I grab my book and fill my glass from the half bottle of cabernet leftover from last night and slide into the water.

The heat and bubbles soothe the ache. The wine lets me take a step back from reality, and my book will put me somewhere else entirely. It’s stupid to be out here when I could just as easily take a bath in the hotel. But risking being fired from my menial job and hooking up with losers are just things I do now. Playing chicken with life, I guess.

I’ve just settled into my book and the wine is warm in my stomach when I hear footsteps crunching over the leaves. I sigh. The jig is up. Too bad; I had a nice thing going here.

But instead of a security guard coming to kick me out, Zachary Butler steps into a shaft of silvery moonlight. The low lamps throw amber light up at him. A spotlight and stage lights, both.

The star has made his entrance.

Chapter Three

I DIDN’T KNOW what I expected when I ventured out into the farthest reaches of the property, but Rowan casually relaxing in a hot tub wasn’t it. She’s got a book in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. She cocks her head, her blue gaze direct. Unintimidated. She’s not surprised to see me but not exactly thrilled either.

“You followed me.”

“I saw you heading out here after the shoot and…well, yeah. I wanted to thank you for—”

“It’s fine,” she says sharply and sets her book down. “I get it. I shouldn’t be here. Production liability and all that.”

“Hey, no worries. I’m not going to say anything.” I nod at her bag, the wine, the book. “Come here often?”

She gives me a pointed half-smile. “It’s a good place to unwind after watching emotional carnage play out in front of me, night after night.”

“That’s what I wanted to thank you for—”

“I didn’t do anything,” she says, her voice hard. “I said ‘scarf.’ You did the rest.”

I’m about to protest, but I’m distracted by how the light in the tub illuminates her skin from above, giving her a glow. Under the straight line of her bangs, her clear blue eyes watch me with shrewd intelligence. Not to mention, she’s in a tiny bikini, the triangles of black material covering her small breasts.

And I’m standing here fully clothed.

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