Page 73 of The Summer Show

Bless her forehead, it tried its hardest to register confusion, but the Botox had a stronger grip. “Is that what your job is?”

“Yes.”

Her eyes swung around to the others. “I thought she was an actress.”

“Look, I’m not going to have sex with Nick for the ratings, for the fans, for my career, which blissfully doesn’t depend on who I do or don’t sleep with. If I have sex with Nick it will be for me. And for him. Because he’ll be there, too.”

* * *

Once everyone was done expressing their opinions about my love life, or lack thereof, they wandered back to their rooms, leaving me alone with Dora Makri, who was doing her best not to let good food go to waste.

“There are children starving in Albania,” she said. “It would be bad for them if I did not eat this food.”

In solidarity, I sat back down with her and dug in.

“I am going to tell you an interesting thing, yes?” she said, giving me the side-eye.

“Yes?”

“Good! Mairi and the producers want a different show this year. They want love and scandal and drama. Do not listen to her when she says the show is not romance. This was her plan.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Every recipe needs a little more spice, yes?”

Half an hour later I had every intention of burning off a fraction of the extra calories by walking the handful of minutes back to Ana and Thanos’s place. I was fixated on this idea that everyone thought Nick and I were a thing and the show wanted to control the narrative.

They were wrong. First, I was nice to Nick when he was struggling, and after a frosty start he was returning that kindness, in part because I was his sister’s friend. There was no romance, nothing for them to script and control.

My feelings for Nick were wading out into dangerous waters all by themselves. There’s no romance when you’re drowning solo.

I should have had tighter control over my emotions. Now I was stuck with a heart that yearned for someone it couldn’t have.

I was about to nibble on my fingernail out of the stress of it all when I spotted you-know-who approaching the hotel, coming right for me. In his relaxed state, Nick Merrick walked around with a “Don’t F with me” expression. When he noticed me in his path, I would swear his face shifted from “Don’t F with me unless you’re Kathleen Hart, in which case proceed.”

Maybe it was my imagination. Either way, my butterflies fluttered. Little things like that were just encouraging my heart to make bad choices.

He stopped directly in my path. “How was the meeting? Everything go okay?”

“I ate too much, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“That was it?”

“Did you ever stop to consider that they might just like my company?”

“Yes.”

I stopped. “Really?”

“There’s no one I’d rather hang out with. You’re fast becoming my best friend.”

“Wait—you have another best friend?”

“No. I’ve got buddies. They don’t read to me. They’d probably call me an asshole if I asked.”

“You need better friends,” I muttered.

“Why? I’ve got you.”

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