Page 81 of Beyond the Fame

“Jensen,” I interrupt because he’s rambling.

“Sorry. Um, so my eye caught what was on the screen. I started reading and was immediately hooked. I found your charger, plugged it in, and kept reading and reading and it’s been two hours and I'm probably halfway done now.”

“Really?” My anger fades, replaced with shock. “Is it... What did you... How is it?”

He smiles, and it’s a confusing smile. He looks proud of me, happy for me, but his eyes are so sad and that has my chest in knots.

“It’s amazing, Rebecca.”

“You really think so?”

“I really think so.”

I sit down next to him at the table. “I’m a little behind on my deadline. My first draft was due last week. I didn’t think I'd ever finish, but I only have a few chapters left now.”

“This is going to sell millions of copies.”

I laugh. “Yeah right.”

“I’m serious. It'll be the next Game of Thrones.”

I snort at his over-exaggerated enthusiasm. “I hardly do enough character killing to be on George R. R. Martin’s level.”

His face lights up and he takes my hands in his. “I want to make this into a movie. Or a TV show.”

“What? Jensen, that’s crazy. You haven’t even finished reading it. What if you don’t like it?”

“I will love it. I know I will. You’re extremely talented, Rebecca. Do you know how many times I read Tyler’s Team?”

I suck in a sharp breath. “How many?”

“At least five times.”

My bottom lip trembles and I'm going to cry. I hate fucking crying. I’ve cried too damn much in my lifetime. Yet, these tears are different. They’re happy tears. Because no one has ever believed in me as much as this man. No one since Tyler.

He scoots his chair over so he can hug me. Rubbing my back, he says, “Don’t cry. You deserve this. You deserve the world.”

“What about you? What do you deserve, Jensen?”

I want him to say he deserves me. That he wants to be with me.

Instead of answering right away, he releases me and stands. I accept his offered hand and follow him into the living room to sit on the couch.

“My next directing job is in Hungary. It’s an apocalyptic movie.”

“That sounds awesome, Jensen,” I say quietly, cautiously, waiting for the bomb to drop.

He searches my face, stalling, as if dreading his next words.

“It’s going to take a year to film.”

“Oh.” There it is. The bomb dropping.

“I know I should have told you sooner—”

“Why didn’t you?”

He locks his jaw and his nostrils flare as he carefully words his answer. “Because I didn’t know... I didn’t expect...”

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