Page 135 of Out of the Gold

As we finish, she mentions that Mark’s texted her a couple of times. “Really?”

She toys with her collar. “Yeah.”

“Are you two going to go out?”

“He’s in Florida.”

“He’ll be in LA soon, though.” I take a few more steps. “Have you heard from Thomas?” My use of Chase’s PA’s name causes a pain to slice through me. Because she was so into him on set, I maintain control of my neutral expression. By a thread.

“No.” Sophia points to an outdoor café. “Want to grab a bite?”

I sigh. “I’d love to, you know that, but I’m not up to it. I’m so sorry.”

Walking next to me, she says, “I get it. I’m sorry, too. If I could get five minutes alone with that Charles, I’d give him a huge piece of my mind.”

Her defense makes me tip my lips upward. “He’s not worth it,” I say softly.

She stops and turns to me. “When I’m back in town, I’m not going to be giving you any more breaks. We’re going to hang out for hours. Do each other’s hair. Go out. Get drunk.”

“That sounds like fun.”

“Pinky swear?” She holds up her little finger, into which I hook mine.

I give her a heartfelt hug and head back to my condo. On my way, I pass a magazine stand where a photo of Chase stares at me. Before I can stop myself, the magazine’s in my hand. In my condo, I toss my keys and the magazine on the kitchen island. His stupid, smiling face stares back at me. Taunts me. I reach over to crumple it, but step away. Removing my knitting needles from my hair, I head to the bathroom for a shower.

Back in my kitchen, I make a snack of crackers and cheese and sit down. Next to the magazine. “You’re an asshole!”

I plunk my plate on top of his lying face. Laying a piece of cheese on top of a cracker, I take a bite. And chew.

I take another bite. And chew.

I finish the cracker.

I look down at the rest of the items on my plate and push away from the table. Standing up, I walk around my kitchen and then the rest of the condo. I find myself standing in front of the violin. Annoyed at myself, I turn and end up at the island where I move the plate and pick up the magazine.

Above Chase’s head is the headline, “What’s Next for Chase Wright?”

“Jerk!”

Despite my knuckles turning white, I flip the pages to the article. I’m greeted by a photo of Chase standing in front of a pool, soaking wet, wearing an equally wet white, button-down shirt that’s molded to his defined torso. My heart stutters. “Fuck.”

My eyes bounce from the photo to the article. I try to stop myself from reading it, but my damned eyes betray me. The article talks about his wrapping up his role as Doctor Manipul8 and shows a promo photo of him in the new superhero costume. I sewed him into that outfit. Objectively, the suit looks good. Subjectively, though . . .

I force myself to look at the rest of the photos, which show him out with Cherie Adams, after the red carpet premiere ofI Was Made for Her. God, they look so good together. With her gorgeous figure and perfect blond hair, she’s his exact opposite—his perfect compliment. It’s likehewas made forher.

Drowning a tortured sob, I give up and skim the rest of the article, which concludes with a discussion of his next role. Playing Braxton Hunte in the upcoming rockumentary.

My stomach lurches. “He did it. He took the role.” Of course he did.

Tears threaten, but I slam my eyes shut. “I haven’t shed a tear for you yet, and I’m not going to now.” I take several deep breaths, which are interrupted by a knocking at my door.

Without thought, I fling open the door.

Chase stands before me.

Everything freezes.

The air.

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