LOL: Laugh Out Loud (After Oscar, #2)(36)

He finally set down his controller and looked at me. We were sprawled out on a big stack of floor pillows and surrounded by bags of snacks. Scotty wore a pair of sweats and a plain T-shirt we’d scrounged in a closet stuffed with clothes of various sizes, all brand-new with tags still on them. Apparently Scotty wasn’t the first guest to arrive at Oscar’s house without an overnight bag.

In response to my question, he pushed himself up straighter, and even though the dim light in the room set his face in shadow, I could still make out the crinkle in his forehead.

“Sorry,” I said, glancing away. “I didn’t mean to spoil the mood.”

Scotty tilted his head to the side, eyes narrowing slightly as he considered me. “If we’re bringing the mood down anyway, tell me what you were running from that day in the park.”

I blinked at him, surprised by the question. We’d told the media that I’d been running from a crowd of aggressive paparazzi, but Scotty would have known that was a lie. He’d been there, after all. He knew there hadn’t been cameras chasing me when I’d first jumped into his carriage.

But I wasn’t sure how much of the truth I was ready to share. Actually, that wasn’t true. I wanted to share it all with him. And that was the problem. As a rule I didn’t trust people, yet I kept wanting to trust Scotty against my better judgment. I was used to keeping so much of myself locked away and out of sight, aware that some people viewed my most personal stories as currency that could be used to their advantage. And because of that, I knew better than to trust someone I barely knew.

I’d been burned before, trusting too easily only to turn around and find my secrets splashed across glossy magazine covers the next week. I didn’t want to make that same mistake again.

When I didn’t immediately respond, he waved a hand. “Never mind. I knew I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business anyway.”

He turned away from me to reach for his Coke, and the movement revealed a sexy strip of skin between the bottom edge of his shirt and the waistband of his pants. Without thinking, I reached out and drew my fingers across it, wanting the reassurance of his physical presence.

Scotty stilled. “That feels good,” he said softly. “I like being touched.”

I ran my full palm up under his shirt and across the narrow expanse of his back. His skin was smooth and warm. “Take off your shirt and lie on your stomach.”

Without hesitation, he put his drink back down and did as I’d said, offering me a pleased grin in the process. My chest fluttered at the sight of it. So did my cock.

As soon as he was settled comfortably on a pillow, I began to rub his back, letting my fingers splay against his muscles. Enjoying the strength and curves of his body.

“You know I was filming Deep Cut that day,” I began, caving to my selfish, emotional desire to confide in him. Maybe there should have been the usual warning bells clanging in my head, but there weren’t. And if I was making a huge mistake by opening up to him, well, then I’d deal with the consequences later just like I had before when old partners and friends had sold my stories to the tabloids.

“Mm-hm,” came his muffled response.

My eyes moved down to his adorable bubble butt sticking up in the gray sweats. Focus, Roman. I wanted to get this story out. I wanted to open up and share this part of myself—to show him I was more than just a face on a movie screen.

So I continued. “That day we were filming a scene where… wait. Do you know how my father died?”

Scotty twisted so he could look up at me over his shoulder. “Wasn’t he killed in some kind of farming accident?”

My chest tightened, remembering. I tried to make sure I took slow, steady breaths. “Not really. We didn’t have a farm. My dad sold insurance.”

He frowned. “Oh. I thought it was something to do with a farm. Sorry.”

I shook my head and ran a hand through his blond locks, messing his hair up again the way I liked it. “It’s fine,” I told him, trying to keep my voice from wobbling. This wasn’t a story I told often. Or at all, really. “And he did die on a farm, but it wasn’t a farming accident. He was struck by lightning while changing a flat tire on the side of the road.”

Scotty’s eyes went wide. “Jesus, Roman.”

“Yeah. We were driving back from a day trip to a nearby town when Dad recognized a neighbor of ours on the side of the road with a flat. I was thirteen and my older sister, Diana, was fifteen. A thunderstorm started and Mom begged Dad to get back in the car and wait out the storm, but he was too stubborn to listen. Said he wanted to get home in time for the baseball game on TV.”

Scotty reached out a hand to squeeze my leg. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you.”

I let out a rueful laugh. “Shitty. Really fucking terrible. I can’t say I was super close to my dad, but being there when it happened…” I had to pause a moment to keep my voice from cracking. Memories of that moment began swimming to the surface, and I forced them away with a shake of my head. “And losing my dad right when I was starting middle school—it was all just awful. I, um, joined the drama club after that because I couldn’t bear to spend too much time at home, you know?”

The concern on Scotty’s face was amazingly sweet. He looked at me the way he looked at Nugget—protectively, affectionately, devotedly. It stirred feelings deep within me, and I basked in the warmth they created in my chest.