Total pages in book: 151
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145746 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 729(@200wpm)___ 583(@250wpm)___ 486(@300wpm)
“It’s great. One of my friends from film school wrote the script. Wanted to support her.” I study him curiously. “What about you? You write a song or something for the score?”
“Nah. Actually a girl I used to date is in it. We’re still cool and she invited me. Same. Wanted to support.”
Of course I know he’s dated other people. He’s not the kind of famous where all the details of his private life are documented by the tabloids, but occasionally I’ve seen him at awards shows or events on TV, in magazines, with someone on his arm. I’ve always tried to ignore the tiny nick to my heart it causes, but tonight, confronted with the reality of him moving on when had things been different… had I been different…
“That’s great,” I say, studying my bare feet, unsure where to go from here. Things used to be so easy between us. The few times we’ve seen each other since our breakup, we’ve snapped and snarled. I’m not sure how to negotiate this dynamic now that it isn’t intimacy or enmity, but some uncharted in-between.
“So you did finish film school when you got out here, huh?” he asks, filling the silence I wasn’t sure what to do with.
“I did, yeah. I won my fellowship, which paid for a lot when I first came, but I did all kinds of stuff to support myself while I was in my starving artist phase.”
“Oh yeah? What was your favorite job?”
“I did a stint as a hand model.” I chuckle, spreading my fingers.
He grabs my hand, holding it up to the light as if inspecting.
“I can see that.” He smiles faintly, but when our eyes catch, he doesn’t let go.
It was nothing for me to hold his hand when we were dating. We touched each other compulsively, constantly, like it might be stripped from us if we didn’t take full advantage of every moment we were within reach. Now his hand, so much larger than mine, swallows my fingers whole, and a lick of flame spreads from the point where our skin connects to my entire body. He and I wordlessly stare at our joined hands. He traces the faint scars like vines on my wrist and arm, a question in his eyes. I hold my breath, braced for him to ask how I got them, about the tattoo, about what happened.
“Monk, there you are!” a beautiful woman squeals, bounding over with a smile.
I gratefully watch her approach, relieved and unsure what I would have said, had Monk asked about my scars. The woman is nearly as tall as Monk in her heels, her body slim and willowy. Auburn extensions pour over her shoulders and back. Her skin is a gorgeous shade of deep mahogany. Her smile dims when she notices our hands still joined. I disengage from Monk’s grip and stare at my bare feet and the shoes set neatly beside them.
“You were great.” He pulls her close, his affection for her obvious in his voice and indulgent smile.
“It was a small part,” she says, half-heartedly deflecting his praise.
Something is familiar about her, but I can’t quite…
“You were the cashier!” I blurt, genuine excitement making me momentarily forget her connection to Monk. “You were so good.”
“Oh, wow.” Her smile, uncertain at first, progresses to pleased. “Thank you. And you are…”
“Verity Hill,” Monk introduces smoothly. “Verity, Meekah Frank.”
“Ms. Hill!” Meekah’s eyes widen. “Oh, I’m a huge fan of your work.”
“Thanks.” I cross my toes, still unaccustomed to people recognizing my name or knowing me from a can of beans.
“Verity and I were at Finley together,” Monk offers.
“Briefly,” I clarify. Why? Who knows.
“Right.” Monk’s brows lift and he twists his mouth into a cynical slant. “Briefly.”
An awkward silence follows his comment, but Desiree approaches before either of us has to say more.
Thank God.
She eyes Monk and Meekah speculatively, probably wondering which one of them I’m into.
“Sorry about that,” Desiree says. “Industry shit.”
“My agent wishes I did more of that,” I mumble, sipping the last of my ginger ale.
“Having seen you at parties,” Monk says, “I could tell her good luck with that.”
“Rude, but also valid.” I roll my eyes and find my manners. “Desiree, this is Monk Bellamy.”
“Of course,” Desiree replies. “An honor to meet you. Love your music.”
“And this is Meekah Frank,” I continue introductions. “Meekah is—”
“The cashier,” Desiree squeals. “Girl, you owned that scene.”
Meekah beams. “Thank you. It’s a great script.”
“Well, thank you,” Desiree replies and bats her lashes. “I wrote it.”
“You’re the writer?” Meekah asks. “That’s so cool.”
“You guys haven’t met?” I ask.
“I was never on set,” Desiree says. “Or involved in casting. I actually didn’t see the final cut till right before release!”
Monk and I fall silent as our friends connect over the movie they’re both here for. I focus really hard on not feeling the heat of his body on the wall beside me and on not breathing in the intoxicating alchemy of his cologne mixed with his… him.