Method(55)

“Thank God you’re home,” she says, stopping a few feet away from me.

I go to speak when she lifts her finger. “Yeah, I’ve got her. She looks pretty smoking,” Nova says with a smile which has some of the fear lifting.

“Is that Lucas? He’s okay?” I ask hoarsely. I’m a basket case of emotion, the last few hours alone with my mind, wine, and pride have proved to be a lethal combination. I’m on the verge of tears as Nova eyes me and sees the battle scars which make up my expression.

“She’s decked out. What? Oh, sure.”

She lifts her phone and takes a photo.

“Hey!” I bark.

“On its way. She looks pretty pissed off, boss. Yeah, well everyone needs time off. Okay, chill out. Here she is.”

She holds out her cell phone to me. “Told you he likes you.”

Taking it, I raise it to my ear. “Hello?”

“Fuck, baby, I’m so sorry. I lost my phone on set, and I didn’t have your number! I’ve been going out of my fucking mind trying to get in touch with Nova. I forgot she took a few vacation days.”

As the truth sinks in, I realize I’m certifiable.

My voice is barely a whisper. “You lost it?”

“Yeah. Someone tried to reach you at your house yesterday, but you weren’t home.”

“Oh,” I say, utterly perplexed. Nova eyes me as I try to mask a relieved tear that falls.

“Where were you going?”

Thrown by his question, I realize I have no idea. “What?”

“Nova said you were dressed to kill. Where were you going?”

“I was…” I trail off knowing the truth is ridiculous. What was I supposed to say? That I was trying to gain some semblance of life after being wooed and dumped by Lucas Walker? That I had talked myself into trying to forget him?

“I thought…” I walk off to give myself some privacy from Nova’s prying eyes, “well, I thought maybe—”

“Never mind, the picture just came through.” His disappointment bleeds through the line. “You look beautiful.” His tone turns to ice. “Who for?”

“Sorry?” I ask as the blood drains from my face.

“Who are you dressed like that for?”

“For?” I’m stuttering out, terrified at what he must think and the fact that I might have ruined it by thinking the same way.

“For me,” I say truthfully. “I wanted to feel better because I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” he cuts me off sharply. “Don’t even think about doing what you were about to do.” His voice lacks warmth, ringing through detached which only makes it worse.

It’s then I let some of my weakness show. “I suck at this. I don’t know what I was doing.”

“You aren’t meeting anyone?”

“No,” I sigh, “I was trying to talk myself into it.”

He lets out a long breath.

“I know it seems like a lot to ask, and it is. But I want us to happen. And if you do too, we can’t second-guess each other like this.”

Hating how much I’ve already let myself care, I nod in agreement.

“Mila. You there?”

“Yes, yes, Lucas, yes. I just…I didn’t hear from you and I started thinking—”

“Too much. Too fucking much. You can’t do that. I miss you, still. Don’t forget a second of what we have. I sure as hell haven’t.”

That was the problem. I couldn’t forget any of it, drunk, sober, or sedated wearing a second-skin dress or a robe and rollers. “I better not regret this.”

“I’m gonna get the girl,” he says in an aggravated whisper, “even if she’s trying to give me a fucking heart attack.”

I sniff through my laugh and nod because exhaustion and a headache have set in.

“Mila,” he whispers.

“Yeah?”

“I hate Egypt without you.”





Mila



My phone rang exactly three days after Lucas’s call, and I answer eagerly, with renewed faith.

“Hi,” I say, sipping a new red. “How did it go today?”

“I’m exhausted. What are you doing?”

“Cooking dinner.”

“What’s on the menu?”

“Chicken Marsala? It’s my specialty. Do you like pasta?”

“Love it. Sounds amazing.”

“I’ll cook it for you when you get home.”

“And then?”

“And then what? You want the whole night laid out?”

“Why not?”

Grinning I pour more wine. “Okay, well if we’re doing a date my way, we’ll take dessert out into my rose garden.”

“Okay.”

“And then, I’ll give you a massage.”

“Please God, no,” he rasps out.

“Shut up, Walker. And then we’ll sleep.”

“That’s it?” he prods. “Sounds pretty anti-climactic.”

“Oh, yeah, that massage is actually a blow job. Another specialty.”

“Mila,” he growls.

“Hey, I tried to keep it PG.”