Page 20 of Official

I fall into step beside Sam and realize I’m still holding her phone. Handing it back to her, I ask, “Do you want to check the pictures to make sure they’re okay?”

“I trust you.” She tucks it away inside her tiny purse and shifts it around so that the dainty strap is draped across her chest, nestling deeper in the valley of her breasts with each step.

Once we reach the restaurant, the hostess shows us to our table, and along the way, we pass tall windows, through which the water of the sea is barely visible. Flickers of moonlight dance across the top, then disappear with each wave. The linen-clad tables are decorated with votive candles that cast a pinkish glow. It’s such a simple accent to pull the ambience all together, and the view does the rest.

After we’re seated in a corner booth with a view of the ocean in front of us, I lean in and say, “You’re very good in front of the camera. Have you ever thought about acting? You’d be perfect for this screenplay idea I have. A suspenseful thriller of a young woman who accidentally kills her father, but when she tries to hide her trail, she discovers her father’s really—”

“Ah!Spoiler.” Sam glares at me, her mouth open.

“Like you’re ever going to watch it.”

“Then why would you ask me to be in it?” she challenges.

“Being in it and watching it are two different things.”

“Okay, but why would you think I wouldn’t watch it? I like… some… of those kinds of movies.” She shifts in her seat, amusement brightening her features as she toys with the ends of the silverware in front of her.

I smirk. “You hate anything that doesn’t make you laugh or swoon.”

“Swoon? Seriously?”

“Tell me you don’t swoon overThe Notebookevery time you watch it, and I’ll buy the most expensive bottle of wine this place has to offer—hell, I’ll buy a barrel of it.”

She chews the inside of her reddening cheek. I’d think she’s blushing, but we’ve gotten a lot of sun the last couple days. It could easily be a sunburn, or a trick of the pink glow from the candle.

But I’d bet she’s blushing because it’s obvious I’m right.

“Exactly. You swoon over romantic bullshit. Take it from me—screenwriters know all the right ways to make women fall in love with movies. They play into those emotions and tug at them like puppeteers. It’s comical, really.”

“There’s nothing wrong with liking romantic comedies or romance, in general, for that matter. It’s nice to watch a hopeful movie, where no one dies in a horrifyingly gruesome murder.” She stares pointedly at me.

“How do you know the woman kills her father in a violent murder? I didn’t say that.”

“I’ve read some of your stuff. You’re twisted.”

“It’s art.” I fight a smile. “I want to be the next Stephen King, but instead of writing long-ass books first, I’m going straight to the screen.”

“I thought your TV show would be more likeLaw and Orderand other detective dramas.” She peers questioningly at me.

“That show is, but it’s not the only thing I want to do with my life.” I drag my tongue across my bottom lip, then sigh. “I’ve been shopping a few screenplays around town to see who bites, but Hollywood moves slower than a turtle crossing the street. It took two years to land the TV job, no matter how many favors and connections my mother called on.”

Thankfully, my debacle with Zoey hasn’t been as damning as I feared. Since Ronald fired me, the only text I’ve received was from one of the other writers, and it was just a GIF of Leonardo DiCaprio laughing hysterically.

All in good fun—that’s basically Brian’s life motto.

“Aloha.” Our server comes by with a pitcher of water and fills our empty glasses. He then places two wineglasses in front of us and retrieves a bottle of white from the tray. “Would you like to try our specialty wine made right here on Maui? It’s a fruity sparkling pineapple wine that will impress your taste buds more than Makani will impress you two with his fire dance.”

I exchange an intrigued glance with Sam, and we both nod at the same time.

“My pleasure.” Once our glasses are full, he whisks off toward the bar.

“How are you doing with the breakup?” I squeeze Sam’s arm across the table.

She offers me a small smile, but it’s sad—nothing like the one she gave me on the way here.

We haven’t mentioned the drama she left behind. As far as I know, she hasn’t taken her phone off airplane mode, and I haven’t checked her platforms for any comments on my own phone, either. Every time I’ve started to, I stop because I don’t want to intrude or cross any lines.

When she’s ready, she’ll handle it herself, but I bring it up now just so she knows she can talk to me. That I am her friend, and I care. There’s an urge in my chest to make sure she knows.

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