Page 28 of Ignacio

He had a sudden urge to share his good news with her.

But things were different now, and there was animosity between them instead of friendship and affection.

Would she even care?

Chapter Eleven

The house was much quieter since the movers had gone.

Delta placed her blouses in the dresser and shut the drawer. When she turned around, Ignacio was standing in the doorway, arms folded across his chest.

Her skin prickled under his gaze. “Hey.”

“Don’t you have someone who can do that for you?” he asked, inclining his head toward the rest of the clothes in the open suitcases on the bed.

“I like doing some things myself.”

They hadn’t seen much of each other today. He had been in his office most of the time, leaving once to go out while she worked with the movers. When he returned, he brought back Indian food and explained that his housekeeper, Maria, wouldn’t arrive from California until next Wednesday. Until then, they were on their own.

She studied his face, the neat scruff of hair on his jawline, and the pointed tip of his nose. He wasn’t just handsome. He was charismatic, exuding a confidence that made him even more attractive. What choice did he have but to become a movie star? If he hadn’t, the world would have been robbed of his persona.

“I was thinking, since we’re alone in the house tonight, I’ll sleep in the spare bedroom,” Ignacio said.

“Oh?”

“We don’t need to share a bed until Maria gets here.”

Share a bed.Hearing those words made her nerve endings tingle.

“Makes sense,” Delta said.

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“We’re going to have to learn to live together like normal people and act normal around the staff,” Ignacio said.

“I’ll do my best, but you’re the actor, remember?” She continued putting away her clothes, walking from the bed to the dresser and back again.

“You’re angry,” he said.

Delta tossed the pants she was holding back into the suitcase. “Aren’t you? Don’t you hate putting on this charade when you have a million things to do?”

“Believe me, I don’t like doing this any more than you do.”

It was probably particularly difficult for him, given that his name had been linked with numerous women over the years: models, actresses, socialites, unknowns. He didn’t discriminate, and he was not known for being monogamous.

“What’s going on with your album?” Ignacio asked.

The question surprised her. They didn’t talk much when they were alone or show any interest in each other’s projects, as if conversation was too much of a burden without an audience.

“Dad wants me in the studio tomorrow, so that’s where I’ll be.”

“No rest for the weary.”

“Never,” she said ruefully. “I… I’m having a bit of a hard time. None of the music feels right. The songs the label provided don’t move me.”

Ignacio leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, settling in for the conversation. “Do you still write?”

He was probably remembering her notebooks filled with poetry and love songs she’d shown him when they were teenagers. She had held on to them all, though she never planned for anyone else to see them. Some were good, some were bad, but overall, compared to her work now, her growth as an artist was clear.

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