Same lesson. Different scars.
My breath trembles. “I don’t want you torturing yourself trying to work with me. Not when you’re this upset. Not when it's obvious, you can't stand to be near me.”
I'm barely a step away when he grabs my hand. “Don't go, Pix.” The way this man makes my heart slam against my chest has emotions rushing in faster than I can sort them.
It’s too much.
Especially when he's thinking of another woman, when he's this close to me.
I pull my hands free. “I’ll let the team know we will need to wait for Pierce.” I don't say it to be hateful. But the reality is Pierce was supposed to be here, and Harrison wasn’t.
And as much as I detest the idea of any part of Pierce Maddox touching any part of me, I'm backed into a corner, and I don’t have a choice.
I suck in a breath and bite back a tear. “Yes. That's what I want.” Oscar-winning performance, at your service.
He hurls the pebbles into the lake all at once, and I flinch as the splash explodes across the surface.
He scoffs. “Suit yourself, Pix.”
Suit myself.
Jesus. My teeth snap tight; I'm so angry with him. Angry with myself is more like it.
I whip around and march back to the church, my skin crawling every time I think of Pierce touching me.
But this is what I signed up for.
And Harrison Evans isn't.
When I return, the photographer and the priest are chatting like old friends.
That’s how this industry works. Strangers one minute. Inseparable the next.
And then it’s over.
The acoustics in this place are unforgiving. I hear every syllable the photographer says.
“I wonder if he left her, too. She can’t seem to hold a guy. Look at the shit show with Pierce. Pardon my French.”
So much for my biggest fan.
My throat tightens. I want to vanish. Just fold myself into a corner and stop existing for a while.
I want an excuse. Something tidy enough to explain why a man walked out on me on set.
With the Pierce cheating headlines still fresh, the rumors would spread fast. Probably on social media by morning.
But whatever excuse I would make up would be a lie, because Harrison is neither unprofessional nor a lackey.
If anything, he’s steadfast.
And I want to anchor myself to him.
“Hey, guys,” I say, forcing myself forward, humiliation catching hard in my throat. “We’re going to need to wait this out.”
“Where’s the groom?” the priest asks. The photographer lifts a hand, a quiet told you written all over it.
I swallow my pride. Again. Ready to be the professional I am and assure them Pierce will be here shortly.
