Page 8 of Where the Little Birds Go (Little Bird Duet 1)

Pausing when I see a selfie she took with Olivia and a few other cast members on set today, I study the background to figure out when it was taken. I never saw them stop and take pictures together, and I was on set a majority of the day. I’m full on glaring when I see a few more of the sets and a picture someone took of her and Buchannan talking off to the side of the bedroom they put together for tomorrow’s scenes.

“What the fuck is this?” I growl aloud.

“Sir?”

Wincing, I look up at the driver who’s looking at me through the rearview. “Sorry. Just something I saw online.”

He replies with a simple nod before returning his eyes to the traffic we’re stuck in.

Kinley went out of her way to avoid taking a picture with me. When I click through the comments and read them, I notice a few people ask where I am. Her reply? He was busy.

Nose flaring, I’m half-tempted to comment just to see what she’ll say. The post is public, so it wouldn’t be impossible. However, my fake name and passive aggressive remark would probably give me away. My old account had to be deactivated and then deleted when people were hacking into it after my career took off. The alias I use on the downlow is for keeping up with friends and family … and occasionally checking in on Kinley.

Turning my phone off, I stare out the window. They’re tinted, so I can people watch without any chaos ensuing. I learned the hard way what some fans will do for a quick picture. The last thing I want is to be trapped in backed up traffic that’ll take a police escort to get me out of just to see my condo before dawn.

“Want any music on, sir?”

I should probably learn the guy’s name since he was assigned to me for the duration of shooting. It’d probably make Kinley think of me better since our last conversation didn’t end well. For some reason though, I’m unable to conjure the simple question.

So all I say is, “No, thank you.”

Chapter Five

Kinley / Present

My leg bounces as I watch the crew put finishing touches on the set. The vases of artificial flowers lining the dark brown dresser are bright colors that liven up the otherwise plain room, which is exactly what I imagined for Beck. Her simplicity shows in every scene that showcases her home, rivaling the complicated nature of her relationship with Ryker.

Biting down on another Twizzler from my seat, my eyes scope out the remaining sets nearby. Everything they p

ut together exceeds my expectations. Half the furnished rooms make me envy my own décor at home, and they added the slightest details that made Beck and Ryker who they are—the wine, the pictures on the walls, the way Beck has to have every little detail perfected even though Ryker teases her about it.

There’s a playfulness between the two that makes you root for them despite knowing you shouldn’t. When my eyes lock on a picture of Olivia and Corbin off to the side, I hop off my chair and walk over to the display of frames lining the shelf near the bed.

Each one is layered with little knick-knacks and images of different people—some who I met already over the past few days, and some I haven’t seen at all. My fingers trail along the edge of the smooth espresso-colored wood when I stop dead in my tracks at one of the silver frames at the end.

“What the h—”

“I think it fits well,” a familiar voice says from close behind me.

Turning abruptly with the picture in hand, I hold it up between us. “How did they get this picture, Corbin?”

Corbin’s smile doesn’t waver when the cold tone of my voice ices the room. “Come on, Little—” My death glare stops him. “—Kinley. It’s a cute photo. Plus, a lot of authors have little cameo’s in the movies based on their books.”

Nostrils flaring, I shake the frame containing an awkward photo taken by Corbin’s mom a few days after my seventeenth birthday. My hair is in a messy bun, my smile is too big, too fake, and I’m pretty sure I’m looking at Corbin who was making faces behind his mother’s back. At that point, our friendship-turned-more was rocky and awkward.

“Do I look like Stan Lee?” I hiss, gripping the picture tighter in my grasp. “It doesn’t even make sense. It’s a nice gesture, but it shouldn’t be here. It doesn’t go with the others.”

Humor dances in Corbin’s eyes, making them the stupid shade of white I used to get weak-kneed over. “People have pictures of friends in their houses. It fits just fine.”

Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath to calm myself down. “How did they get it?”

When he doesn’t answer, I open my eyes and narrow them at a face I told myself to keep my distance from. His lips draw in, in a telltale sign of guilt. It’s a silent admittance, but one I know all too well.

I’ve studied that look plenty of times since he kissed me goodbye after his graduation party. I didn’t know it at the time, but he had the same expression on his face. How long had he known what his life would turn out to be? How long did he know I wouldn’t be in it?

Tears want to well in my eyes, but I force them back behind the wall I’ve built. It’s cracked and leaking, but strong enough to hold the emotions that want to burst from the seams. Too many defenses have failed me before, and this is all I have—fake hatred mixed with real anger. A deadly combination when silver eyes see right through the façade.

“I just suggested they get a picture or two to display around set,” he finally admits, lifting his shoulders in an easy shrug. “They thought it was a great idea and figured you’d appreciate the random cameos. You know, mixing real with fiction.”

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