I can’t tell if she’s angry or just tired. I prop myself up on one arm. “What, the alpha-male thing?”
Her shoulders tense. “Always a game. Always trying to get a reaction.”
“Did it work?” I want to take it back as soon as it’s out of my mouth, but I don’t.
Emma turns, finally, eyes sharp as mirrors. “You tell me. Who actually got jealous tonight?”
I sit up straight. “Yeah, well, I’m not going to apologize for wanting you all to myself.”
She stares at me, as if she’s weighing a million possible responses, then shakes her head in disbelief. “You wanted to piss on me in front of half the fucking Spanish press.”
I bark a short laugh. “Come on, I barely did anything.”
“That’s the problem, Ash. You don’t even know when you’re doing it.” She moves away from the window, pacing in that tight, animal way she gets when she’s upset. “You could have just ignored him. You could have played it cool, let it roll off you. But instead, you had to match him. One-upping and marking your territory.”
The words are sharper than I expected. “So what? I’m not supposed to care? Are you fucking kidding—Emma, he was practically undressing you with his eyes all night.”
She stops pacing. Her tone drops, steely. “I’ve dealt with men like him my entire life. But you? I thought maybe you’d be different. Or at least try.”
This last part stings worse than the rest. My chest goes tight, and my voice ratchets up. “Different how? Explain it to me.”
She shakes her head again, slower. “You’re smart enough to figure that out. If you even wanted to.”
And then she disappears into the hotel bathroom, shutting the door with a soft but absolute click.
I stand, unsure what to do with my hands, and stare at the pale rectangle of light under the door.
After a while, I slip into the hallway, find my phone, and text Craig. He replies at once, because of course he’s still up—it’s only four in the afternoon back in L.A. I say I want to meet, now, which is the kind of code that even Craig, after three years, actually respects.
We rendezvous at the lobby bar, which smells like expensive sanitizer and old cigar smoke. Craig orders a Coke and hands me a glass of neat whiskey.
“What’s up, man?” he asks. “You looked great out there tonight. All the right people are talking.”
“Is that a good thing?”
He smirks. “With your hair? It’s a very fucking good thing.”
I swirl my drink, watching the ice cube melt in real time.
Craig leans in, dropping the act. “Talk to me, Ash.”
I tell him about Antonio, the vibes, the way Emma looked at me like I’d morphed into something ugly—but I don’t tell him everything. That would mean admitting how little I actually know about the woman I’m supposedly in love with. Or how much of this—her, us, the entire weird fantasy—is balanced on some invisible tightrope that could snap at any moment.
Craig is silent for a long time, listening. Then: “You ever think maybe you like her so much you want to ruin it before somebody else does?”
I glare. “That’s not what happened.”
He shrugs, not unkindly. “It’s basic reptile brain stuff, Ash. The more you want something, the more you try to break it on your terms. You’re not the first guy in this industry to get weird about a beautiful woman.”
Somehow, that’s less comforting than he intended.
He grins, anyway. “So what are you gonna do?”
“Make it up to her, I guess.”
Craig considers this, then holds up one finger. “Do not, under any circumstances, do a grand romantic gesture. She’ll see through that shit so fast you’ll snap your own neck.”
I finish the whiskey and set the empty glass back on its coaster. “Got it.”
