I duck my head and take a hesitant bite.
It’s dry.Superdry.
So dry that when I inhale after I think I’ve swallowed it all, a speck of toast dust gets caught in my throat, and it sends me into a coughing fit that I feel in every cell in my body, from my pinky toe to my aching head.
The tabloids would love this.
Jonas Rutherford, former charming star of romantic movies who’s a sexist asshole pig in secret, chokes and dies on a piece of toast.
The woman sitting across from me nudges the ginger ale closer, and I take a swig.
Cough more.
Grimace at the tenderness in my abs.
You’d think I didn’t work with a personal trainer six days a week. One littletoss last night’s bad decisionsmoment, and everything hurts.
Maybe it’s less the ralphing and more the hangover.
“I don’t do this a lot,” I rasp.
“If only you didn’t have to go to work today,” the woman across from me says, her delivery even drier than the toast.
I choke again, this time at recognizing the line.
If I’ve said that line once in a Razzle Dazzle film, I’ve said it fifty times.
Her eyes narrow. “YouareJonas Rutherford.”
“I—”
“Please don’t take this the wrong way—because I love your movies, I truly do—but you need to leave. I’ve hadenoughattention in the world lately, and I amnotup for having you bring more.”
I blink.
Blink again.
Eat another bite of dry toast.
Choke on it again.
Get a sigh from my hostess, who shoves my ginger ale into my hand.
“Guh toe,” I say, not able to enunciategood toastall the way with the toast sucking all of the moisture out of my mouth.
“It’s not gourmet, but it does the trick when you have an upset tummy.” She glances behind me, then rises to shut the curtain on the window overlooking the sunrise over the ocean.
She’s tall. At least five eight, maybe five nine.
Slender. Long arms and legs. Bony shoulders that are hunched in. Prominent collarbones. Big brown eyes over a pixie nose and a pointy chin. Ears just this side of too big holding back her blonde hair. Nearly certain she’s not wearing a bra for the small breasts under that black tank top, and her loose cotton pants are hanging low on her hips.
I take another sip, watching her as she methodically closes the rest of the curtains in the sitting room beside the kitchen.
“You don’t want to be seen with me,” I say.
She grimaces but otherwise doesn’t answer.
“What’s your name?” I’d add my normal smile—tends to come easily, or it did, until my personal life imploded beyond anything I’d ever prepared myself for—but once someone sees you ruin their bushes with the contents of your stomach,smilingfeels insignificant and unnecessary.
