Page 52 of The Fangirl and the Playboy

“And what about when you leave Evening Shade? You have to get back to Los Angeles eventually, right?” he asks, and that’s the million dollar question.

“Eventually,” I murmur, hedging.

And I do, if I ever want to work again.

I actually have to fly back for a couple of auditions next week. The plan is to come right back here when I’m done, and I should only be gone a few days.

One is an indie film I have a decent chance to nab, but the other is a television series that has a lot of promise. I’d be playing a werewolf again, and as much as I don’t really want to do that, the series has potential to be popular and long-lasting, giving me a steady gig, possibly foryears.

I could continue to work without having to keep auditioning for more serious roles. I’m not sure what I really want in that respect, anymore. I’ve always gone for meatier parts in movies that have award-season potential, eager to shed the teenage heartthrob-slash-paranormal romance typecasting I fell into after the Cursed series hit it big.

But this role in the werewolf television series? It could give me stability.

And stability is what I need if I have a snowball’s chance in hell of making things work with Willow.

And right now, that matters more to me than anything else, including little gold statues or accolades in the press.

Willow matters most of all, and I aim to make her see it.

ChapterTwenty-Seven

Willow

At the sound of my doorbell, I grab my wallet and rush for the door. The pizza is here, and if Gavin doesn’t hurry up, I may start without him. My stomach grumbles at the thought, and a smile curves my lips as I open the door, ready for that first bite of greasy deliciousness.

I stumble back a step when Gavin’s smiling face greets me, a pizza in one hand and a six pack of beer in the other.

“Hey,” I say, stepping aside and waving him in. “You deliver pizzas now?”

“I have to do something to make ends meet between roles,” he quips, pausing to press a kiss to my cheek as he passes by. “But seriously, I caught the delivery guy out in the parking lot and told him I’d take care of it.”

“And he just handed over my pizza? What if you were a thief?”

“Well, I paid for it, so that discounts that theory,” he says as he sets the pie and the beer on the coffee table in front of the couch. Straightening, he adds, “And don’t you know who I am?”

“Blech,” I spit, fake gagging. “Cocky much?”

“I’m Gavin Reese,” he goes on, ignoring my outburst. “Hollywood darling with millions of fans. No one denies me pizza.”

“Do those millions of fans know how corny you are?” I ask as I approach, and he lunges forward, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me against him.

“No. And you’re not going to tell them, either.”

His mouth finds mine before I can respond, then all words fly from my mind as I melt against his chest. There’s nothing rushed or aggressive about the kiss. It’s soft and sweet, telling me Gavin missed me today and is happy to be here.

“Hi,” I say when we finally break apart.

“Hi,” he whispers back, then releases me. “Ready to eat?”

“Beyond ready,” I say, moving around him to plop down onto the couch.

I flip open the box, and steam rises up from the gooey, cheesy pie loaded down with pepperoni and mushrooms. Grabbing the two paper plates resting on the table beside it, Gavin holds them out while I pluck a piece of pizza for each of us from the pie and set one on each plate.

“Want a beer?” he asks when I settle in and take a big bite.

“Sure,” I say, holding my hand up to hide my full mouth.

He laughs and twists the tops off two beers before handing one over to me. I take a long drink to wash down the bite, then exhale audibly.

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