I gave him a wave—Disney-princess-on-a-float style—and bolted.
Once the door closed behind me, I let out a massive breath. Trying to calm down. That interview had been even more awkward than the last.
Why did I have this sinking feeling that they were only going to get more awkward as the season wore on?
Yikes.
Chapter XXVII
Roman
You’reanidiot.You’rean idiot. You’re an idiot.
I repeated it like a mantra as I jogged toward Demi’s place in the early-morning light. No doubt she was annoyed with me. Possibly livid after how our interview had gone last night. I was hoping to catch her on her morning run. Explain myself. Try to fix whatever damage I’d done.
The thought of her being upset with me didn’t sit right. And—if I was being honest—I just needed to see her. Spend time with her. Even if it was just a few stolen minutes.
Watching her play softball with the cast had nearly done me in. Sure, she’d looked adorably sexy in that jersey and those shorts—but it was more than that. It was the way she encouraged everyone, lifted them up, made them feel seen and appreciated.
I wanted to be the one she cheered for. The one she high-fived. The one she pulled into a hug after sliding into home just in time.
I hated that I couldn’t be the one to patch up the scrapes on her beautiful legs.
But more than anything? I hated that I could never kiss her again.
At least it was my lucky day. As I rounded the path to Demi’s cabin, she stepped out the front door.
Lady Goldy perched on the porch railing like a feathered sentinel. The golden eagle spotted me instantly and launched into the air, gliding toward me before landing on my shoulder like we were old friends.
That, of course, alerted Demi.
Even from a distance, I caught the eye roll. Hard to say if she was more annoyed that her eagle liked me—or just with my general existence. Probably both.
I stroked Lady Goldy’s feathers. “Hey, girl. Thanks for not gouging my eyes out.”
Demi called out, voice dry as ever. “I told you your eyes are too pretty for that. But, had I known you were coming, I would’ve asked her for a surface-level scratch.”
I laughed and closed the distance between us. “I suppose I deserve that.”
She descended the steps in athletic shorts and a matching hoodie, legs on full display—sculpted, sun-kissed, and entirely unfair.
I tried not to ogle.
Tried not to imagine kissing her again.
Tried not to picture my hands in that messy bun.
Failed on all counts.
She shrugged. “I get it. You answer to the studio. You need drama. Blah, blah, blah. And I’m sure your crew hates me, so why not pit everyone against me?”
“That’s not what I was doing.”
She gave me a look—chin tilted, eyes narrowed. “Really? Then why show everyone clips of me?”
“I was trying to help the audience make sense of your . . . let’s say, one-eighty.” I held her gaze. “You have to admit—it’s a stark change. You don’t think people won’t question it? We’re fielding calls nonstop. Every reporter from here to Hong Kong wants to interview you. And I figured your ‘besties’ would come to your defense.”
Her posture softened, and she grinned. “So you were trying to play hero? Is that what I’m hearing?”
