“So,” I say, nudging a carrot around my bowl. “I need you to know, I take my craft seriously. I’m a professional.”
Harrison looks at me for a beat, then gives a small, patient smile. “You’re one of the most celebrated actresses in the world,” he says. “I doubt there’s a soul alive who would call you anything else.”
“Up until a few days ago, you didn’t,” I point out.
“I’m a quick study.” He lifts his phone proudly. “And Connor let me borrow his Instagram account.”
I line the carrots up along the rim of the bowl, buying myself time.
I need to start dancing around this and just say it already.
“It’s just that tomorrow, maybe you and I could start later in the day. After this thing I have to do. For work.”
“I thought you were on vacation,” Gabe says, reaching for another tortilla.
“I am. But when I bolted to New York, apparently I skipped out on some photo shoot I forgot about. Some wedding teaser.” I grimace. “Kali offered to bring a rack of dresses, but I have one that will do. Just a quick, low-key commitment Myra signed me up for. I have to do it.”
Gabe’s spoon clanks against the bowl as he lets it drop. “I don’t even know why you stay with this woman. She makes you crazy.”
“It’s literally her job to make me crazy.” I manage a weak smile. “I can’t drop her. She’s the one who negotiated the deal that got me Princess Luna.”
“Where?” Harrison asks.
“Huh?”
“Where is it going to be?”
“Oh, some church,” I say, aiming for casual. “Myra told me the address. It’ll be early, though. And I’d hate to disturb your beauty sleep.”
He blinks. Once. Then again.
“I’m a former SEAL and a father of three,” he says mildly. “Sleep didn’t make the cut.”
“Great…” I scramble for an excuse, any excuse. “Who’s going to watch the kids?”
“My sister,” he says without hesitation. “She covers most days when they’re not in school. Or when I don’t have the day off, which is rare.” He leans in, hands clasped on the table. “So, what time should I pick you up?”
“Seven,” I say, hoping that’s what Myra said. Then, in a last-ditch effort to keep Harrison from coming, I grasp at one last straw.
And somehow, make it so much worse.
“You’d have to dress accordingly.”
I wince the second the words leave my mouth.
Clearly, that was the beer talking.
“You don’t like my wardrobe?” One brow lifts, lazy and suggestive.
Oh. God.
Is he about to tell Gabe we’ve been together?
No. He wouldn’t.
…Would he?
“I love your wardrobe,” I rush out quickly. Especially his jeans.
