Irritation flickered over Rusty’s tired face. Then he took a drink and it was replaced by a tight smile.
“Sure,” he said. “Let me know by tomorrow, alright, bud? We need to get photos before filming shuts down. Makeup chair shots, and you two eating together between takes, goofing off. All that fun shit. We’ll have to say it started pretty late in the game since there are those photos of you and your ex making out. Have any paparazzi been bothering you?”
“No.” Most of the photos that had ended up online, including the ones of him and Emma kissing during the tour, had been taken by opportunistic tourists. Claw Haven was a long way to travel for most paparazzi.
Rusty clapped his shoulder. “Glad to hear it, bud.”
Arthur watched him finish off his glass. He’d heard Rusty talking to paparazzi on the phone earlier today, trying to make them come up to Claw Haven. Arthur wasn’t mad—it was good for Rusty’s career, forboththeir careers. But it made Arthur think back to that time Rusty had admitted he was surprised Arthur didn’t like paparazzi since he got along with them so well.
I thought you thrived on the attention,Rusty had told him over his at-home bar.Sure,they’re pushy. But I thought you didn’t care about that. Anything for a spotlight, or whatever.
Arthur had smiled and laughed and said all the right things. But it had rankled him in some deep-down place he tried not to look at.Anything for a spotlight.Was that what people thought of him? Was that still whatRustythought?
He watched Rusty texting away and tried to think of a conversation they’d had that didn’t eventually circle back to work. He couldn’t. Which was…fine. Arthur liked talking about work. He enjoyed it. He didn’t talk about personal stuff very much, anyway. Neither did Rusty. Actually, Arthur couldn’t come up with much about Rusty’s personal life. He had a wife, he didn’t work out, he’d failed out of boarding school…and that was it.
Arthur’s tail flicked again. He stilled it. It had been happening too much since he came to Claw Haven; he’d have to sort that out before he went back to LA. He couldn’t walk around telegraphing what he was feeling all the time.
Was Rusty a friend or a coworker? Scratch that. Was everyone in Arthur’s life—his agent, his LA flying crew, his gym instructor, the old coworkers he got brunch with every eight months that never ended without a photo op—were theyalljust coworkers? He couldn’t think of a truly personal conversation he’d had with any of them. Nor with his parents. The only genuine connection he had was with Emma Curt.
He almost wanted to laugh. It would be better than bursting into tears, which was feeling horrifyingly like a real option as he sat there at the bar, ignored by his coworker, stared at by bar patrons and fairy waitresses who wanted an autograph, and ignored by the one person who truly saw him.
Arthur stood up so fast he nearly knocked over the barstool with his wings.
“I have to go,” he announced.
Rusty watched him, bewildered. “You’re gonna get back to me about that thing we talked about, right?”
“On it,” Arthur called back. He stumbled out of the bar, heart thumping, the future warping in front of him in a way it hadn’t done in a long, long time.
* * *
He dug his blunt claws into his hands, tail twitching as he waited on her ramp. He should’ve brought flowers. He should’ve shown up at her house days ago, no matter what Joshua said about letting things lie. He should’ve done a lot of things.
The door creaked warily open, revealing Emma in all her sweatpants and sleep-shirt glory. Her hair was oily like it hadn’t been washed in a few days, and she was wearing fuzzy socks as slippers. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
“They want me to date my costar,” Arthur said, too loud. Then he stopped. “Is that my shirt?”
For a second, Arthur thought she would slam the door in his face, or maybe take the wreath off the door and throw it at him. She seemed like she was considering it.
“I found it in my parents’ garage a few years ago,” Emma said slowly, like she had to force it out. “It’s comfy.”
“Looks comfy,” Arthur said determinedly. “I mean, good. It looks really good on you.”
Emma’s lips tightened. Arthur braced himself for a snarky comment, Emma’s go-to defense when she felt like the other person had the upper hand.
“I threw it in the trash,” she admitted. “Then, um, dug it out. What were you saying about Jennifer?”
“Nothing is happening,” Arthur hurried to say. “I swear. They just want me to date her for the publicity.”
He glanced around, trying to spot any werewolves or vampires who might be lingering down the street with their super hearing. The street was empty, and he couldn’t smell anyone hiding in the bushes. Just snow and Emma’s berry deodorant buried under dried sweat. It made him want to follow her inside and lick it off her. Wrap her in a blanket when they were done. He’d never seen the inside of her house, and he wanted to know how she lived. If she still organized her bookshelf by color, kept DVDs, or left the cupboard doors hanging open even though she always dinged her head on them. He knew her to her bones, but he didn’t know what her bedroom looked like. He wanted to.
Emma waited. “And?”
“It would be fake,” Arthur continued, forcing his thoughts back on track. “At least while we’re in Claw Haven. Like I said, I don’t date coworkers until after shooting wraps. Maybe after. I wanted to run it by you first.”
Emma’s jaw ticked. She folded her arms, and his heart sank.
“Again, why would I care?” she asked.
