The Reunion by Kayla Olson(82)
He pulls me in tighter. My hands find their way down to his shoulders, to the strong, solid muscles of his lats, to the cut, carved lines of his stomach that earned him every role he’s taken since the last time we did a scene like this.
I’m not hating this.
Not even a little.
I force my mind into silence, trying my best to soak up the kisses he’s now trailing down my neck, the hand at the small of my back. He’s straying a bit from the choreographed plan, but not in a bad way; it’s all very, very good. The duvet is low enough now that the audience will have a good glimpse of skin—all those hours over the years with my personal trainer will finally pay off—and a chill rips through me, possibly related to the lack of duvet, probably not.
On instinct, we both pull back at the same time, searching each other’s eyes—his spark like I’ve never seen before, not even by the pool in his backyard. My heart cracks sharply at the memory, but I push it down. I can’t deal, not now. Not yet. He tilts his head close to mine, one hand buried in my hair in a way that will flatter us both on camera, his hair soft against my forehead.
I want to do so much more.
I want so much more.
“Aaaaaaand cut!” Bryan shouts excitedly. “That was perfect, golden, I love it. Yes.”
The moment comes crashing down around us, but we stay still, locked together until my heart cracks a little more, too much to ignore this time. It’s all too much.
I fumble around for my discarded camisole, feeling flustered when I don’t find it immediately. After what feels like an eternity, Jules hands it to me with a kind smile—it’s not her job description at all, but with a closed set, no one else but Bryan is around to help.
“Thanks,” I manage, my voice muffled as I slip the silky material over my head. And then, half to Ransom and half to Bryan, “I have to go.”
Where, I’m not sure yet—my trailer? Home? Back in time, before everything got so royally fractured? I have to go, and it doesn’t matter where. I just can’t bear to stay.
* * *
I can’t get the shoot out of my head.
It’s been five hours now, our longest day of shooting yet—more filming, some family scenes and a couple of takes to capture Pierre’s one and only cameo in the episode—but I feel like I’ve floated through the entire thing. On the outside, I’ve been Honor St. Croix to perfection.
On the inside, I’m a conflicted mess.
I can’t stop thinking about Ransom. His eyes on mine, the heat of his hands on my bare skin, how very little we were wearing under the thick white bedding—
How much easier all of this would be if I weren’t 100 percent, absolutely, undeniably attracted to him—how I still feel a desire to be near him, despite how tangled things have gotten this week. If I didn’t feel so strongly, I could just brush it off and move on.
I’ve never been able to move on from Ransom, though.
I thought I had, but now I see those deep-rooted feelings never truly died—they were just parched, neglected. Just because you bury something, it doesn’t make it any less real.
Jimmy keeps glancing at me in his rearview mirror, probably because I’ve been quieter than usual ever since I slipped into the back seat. My sunglasses are on, and I’ve stared out the window for most of the drive. It’s been an exercise of discipline to keep my phone tucked in my bag all this time—I almost always use the commute to catch up on email, texts, and calls—but I’m still working my way up to feeling ready for the talk I know Ransom and I need to have. If he’s texted, I’m not sure I want to know.
If he hasn’t, I’m not sure I want to know that, either.
I can’t stand it anymore, though. I pull my phone out of my bag and give the stack of missed notifications the once-over. I’ve missed stuff from all of my usuals—Bre, Mars, Attica, and my mom—and yes, tucked in between, is one from Ransom that immediately sends my pulse into overdrive.
so you don’t have to go digging, is all it says, along with a preview to an article on WestCoastDaily.com, the same one Bre sent in one of her messages with a note saying Did you see this??!?!!????
I click into the article immediately, scan the headline: EXCLUSIVE: RANSOM JOEL PARTS WAYS WITH TEAM DUE TO UNRESOLVED DIFFERENCES.
Wait. What?
I take it in as fast as I can, reading and rereading the quotes Ransom gave, lingering over lines like reached an impasse with my team and I’ve spent far too long allowing my career—and my life—to shift off course from the vision I have for it and I’m eager to surround myself with the sort of smart, supportive minds that are capable of seeing the whole picture of my career and not just the shine of a flashy bottom line. My heart swells at the sight of the writer’s praise for Ransom, the bravery it took to finally do this—and now, of all times, when the offers are pouring in.
Something nags at my memory, something from one of the articles yesterday. Because I am apparently a glutton for pain, I scroll through my phone’s open internet windows and find the one I’m looking for: another West Coast Daily article, the one about all the offers flooding Ransom’s team in the wake of the news about us. When I first read it, I was too caught up in the possibility that Ransom himself had leaked the news—that he was using me as a publicity stunt for his own gain—but now the entire thing hits me from a different angle.