Page 94 of Play the Part

He says it so quietly, like it’s meant for only him to hear. His words feel like swallowing razors.

I lean into the table and lower my voice.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” I hiss.

He shrugs and shakes his head.

“It’s just the truth.” He licks his lips as if he’s deliberating on his next words. “You know … I was planning to ask you to marry me.”

“Okay well now you’re just pissing me off.” He opens his mouth to talk again, and I cut him off. “I don’t want to talkabout this anymore. If you don’t want me to stand up and leave you alone at this table, change the fucking subject.”

My heart is beating fast. I’ve lost my appetite, but I manage to stay seated. Somehow, I find a way to collect myself after downing all the champagne in my flute.

The server returns to take our order, and I can barely see straight, my heightened emotions wreaking havoc inside of me. Oliver orders for us both, his smile practiced and charismatic.

We spend the rest of our meal skirting around potential landmines. He catches me up on the latest Hollywood insider gossip. And I tell him about the Remington.

When the night is over, he offers to drive me home. I refuseagain. And while we wait for my Uber, I let him press his lips to my cheek. It must be because of the entire bottle of champagne I just drank.

“I’m flying back to LA tomorrow for a meeting, but I’ll be back next week.”

“Don’t come back next week,” I reply dryly.

I avoid eye contact and pretend to look down the street for my ride. Oliver is unbothered by my attitude and grins.

“I’ll be back next week,” he repeats. “Maybe you can show me around the Remington? I can sit in on a rehearsal or something.”

A car pulls up in front of us, and I look back over to my ex. He stares back, waiting for an answer, his expression genuine and expectant.

I give him a half-nod. “Maybe.”

38

CONNIE

It must be past noon judging by how my stomach grumbles, but I’m steadfast in ignoring my hunger until I catch up on the emails I’ve been avoiding all week. Maybe I should make my life easier and hire a personal assistant.

A quick rap on the open door of my office plucks me out of my thoughts. I glance up distractedly. Then do a double-take when I land on blue hair and a heavy scowl. My body moves before I have time to think, springing up from my seat.

“Huxley.” I say his name almost like a question. Or maybe closer to an accusation. Definitely not an invitation. “What are you doing here?”

His expression is cold and impassive, as if he wants to be anywhere but here. He takes one step inside, his hands stuffed deep inside his bomber jacket.

“I’m just here for my last paycheck. Thought I could get it from Whit but …”

He shrugs, letting his words trail off while his gaze skates over me like I’m barely there. I bet he regrets not setting up his direct deposit right about now.

I thought I knew what I would say the next time I saw him,but my mind blanks the longer I stare at him. All that’s left is the conflicting ache of yearning, mixed with a heavy dose of white-hot anger.

“You could at least look at me.”

My commanding words hold more power than I expect, hitting him like a bullet to the forehead, and we lock eyes almost immediately.

Although I’m nowhere near prepared for the animosity I find in his gaze. His jaw muscles are so tense, it’s as if he’s suffering just by sharing space with me.

His guard is up, and mine is too.

“You never gave us a chance,” I say, keeping my voice calm and steady.

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