The Reunion by Kayla Olson(72)
“But?” My heartbeat picks up, driving spikes through my confidence.
She hums noncommittally. “How do I say this?” she says. “There’s no doubt he’s talented—but now that I know you’re in a relationship, it makes me nervous to cast him opposite you. I don’t want to say it, but what if you break up? It could cause problems, Liv, and as talented as you both are—even if we could technically still pull off the love story if you’re not feeling it at all—I’m not eager to invite that kind of tension onto my set. And if I’m honest, the insinuation in some of what’s been written is off-putting, that he’s only using you to gain consideration for a role like this.” She lets out a long exhale. “I really hope that’s not the case. But I’m sure you can understand where I’m coming from.”
I blink back tears, focus on not smashing into the taillights in front of me.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Yeah, I get it.”
And I do.
I want to defend him—defend us—but the truth is, whether what we have is real or he’s just trying to make it look that way, it sounds like neither option will land us in a place where this project works out for Ransom. Vienna’s given voice to all the things I’ve been too afraid to even think.
“I do appreciate you putting him on my radar, though,” she says. “If anyone else comes to mind, don’t hesitate to call, okay?”
She mentions she’d love to have another brainstorming session soon, goes off on a tangent about some locations she’s torn between, and takes another looping detour that somehow touches on ceramic teapots, polka (both dots and music), and llamas all in one go. By the time I’m outside Ransom’s gate, ready to buzz for entry, I at least feel lighter than before—I didn’t spend the entire drive angsting over the conversation I’m about to have, and that’s a good thing—until we end the call.
“It’s me,” I announce into the speaker, because I don’t know the gate code.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spy movement in the honeysuckle bushes that line his fence—a photographer, no doubt. Not a surprise; I’m only surprised there aren’t more. I prepared for this, putting on a bright persimmon dress with blinding-white Adidas. It feels happy and bold, even if I don’t.
A moment later, the gates open, and with them, so does the pit in my stomach.
I pull around the circle drive and park in front of the trio of steps leading to Ransom’s front door. Just last night, when Jimmy dropped me off (technically a business trip, as far as he was concerned), my body buzzed for a different reason. Now, I have no idea what to expect.
I hear the faint click of a shutter behind me as I climb the steps; Ransom opens the door before I even make it to the top. The porch lamps cast shadows under his angular cheekbones, on the curves of his biceps, and he smells fresh, like he’s just climbed out of the shower.
Focus, Liv.
“Thanks for coming,” he says quietly, eyes searching mine, his face difficult to read. I get the feeling he wants to kiss me but knows better than to try right now.
“Photographer in your honeysuckle,” I murmur when he leans in for a side hug instead.
We slip inside his house. It’s dark in the foyer, dark in his living room except for a pair of lamps. I spot a book facedown on the couch and an empty container of Chinese takeout on his end table.
I bite my lip, hovering awkwardly behind the couch. “Should we—”
“Here, let’s sit,” he says at the same time. “Sorry. Yeah.” He runs a hand through his hair, and it sticks up, not completely dry from his shower; the thought sends a flush of heat coursing throughout my body, because my body is a traitor.
I curl up in a wide leather armchair by the window, turn my head so I don’t have such a clear view of the backyard. He sits across from me, on the couch—I hope the sight of the pool gives him searing memories of all the details from last night, everything I’m trying not to think about right now.
“So those articles,” I begin. “That photo of us on the roof—” I suck in a sharp breath.
I want him to say something. Anything.
“Ransom?” I try to catch his eye, but can’t get him to look at me. “You were just as surprised as I was by that photo—right?”
A moment passes, and then another.
His silence says everything.
“I hate that this is happening,” he says, finally meeting my eyes. “I wasn’t the one who leaked our news, I swear. And that snapshot—I fought hard for them not to go to the press with it.” His voice rises, more heated with every word.
“For who not to go to the press?” I ask, even though I have a pretty good guess. I want to hear him say it.
“My dad,” he says. “And Andrea.”
“And they knew about the photo how, exactly?”
“Dad admitted that he’d hired someone to keep an eye out, offered wads of cash for any pictures they might get.” He shakes his head, jaw tight. Bre’s theory was spot-on. “I should know by now that he can’t be trusted with anything important—he knew something was up between us when I canceled dinner to come to your house that day.”
My anger spikes, I can’t help it. “Why, though? Why couldn’t he just let us enjoy it?”