Another thick silence passes between us. My mind is whirring so loudly, I wonder if he can hear it. Is it possible Falkenberg’s attracted to me? Surely not, not when he can have his pick of women between LA and Stockholm and probably everywhere in between. I’m a troll in a human suit compared to the women in his league. But then how do I explain whatever this is?
A flash of white on the water derails that train of thought. “Is that a swan?”
“Looks like it,” he says, disinterested.
“Holy shit. I need footage,” I say, starting off towards the water’s edge—only for him to grab me by the back of my collar and stop me in my tracks. His fingertips brush the base of my neck, making me shiver.
“Don’t run into the bicycle lane. You’ll get mauled,” he admonishes, dragging me back down onto the bench next to him.
Heat creeps up my cheeks. “Oh. Sorry.”
He scoffs. “Don’t apologize tome, Hearst.”
“Get a load of that fucker. It’s huge.” I point my camera towards the bird, watching it glide effortlessly over the water.
“Of course you like swans,” he mutters.
“They’re gorgeous,” I retort.
“They’re assholes. Have you ever been in a fight with one?” he asks.
I snort. “No. And you have?”
He raises a brow at me and I laugh.
“Did you know the term “swan song” came from a myth that swans sing when they die?”
He sighs. “Why do you know things like that, Hearst?”
I grin, lowering my camera. There’s something striking about him in his knee-length wool coat, his straw blond hair curving perfectly over his forehead. The autumn air has nipped the skin of his high cheekbones,turning them pink, and his eyes reflect the grayness of the sky.
“Because I’m determined to find the beauty in the horrors, Falkenberg. Otherwise, what’s the point of any of this?” I finally say.
His expression turns contemplative for a moment, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his wool coat. He looks like he’s thinking about something, then hesitates before saying, “Why were you crying on the flight?” he asks, with all the tact and delicacy of Ash Williams inThe Evil Dead.
“I wasn’t,” I say roughly, then lift my camera back to my eye. I get up and walk to the water to shoot a few closer stills of the swans. I don’t want him to think I’m weak and I don’t want to talk about this right now, orever—not with him at least. Still, I’m so aware of him that I feel the moment he comes to stand beside me.
“You’re a bad liar,” he says, taking one of those asphalt-flavored candies out of his pocket and popping it between his lips. I frown at that, because growing up with a dad like mine, I’ve unfortunately come to think of myself as a good one. Good thing I don’t believe in Hell, 'cause I’d be waltzing through those gates.
I look at Falkenberg through my lens, snapping a few candid flicks of him. “And since when are you a shoulder to cry on?” I say.
He comforted me in his own way when he sat next to me on the flight—whether he realized it or not, though I’m not going to tell him that.
“Did the team do something?” He sounds genuinely concerned. I lower my camera, chewing the inside of my lip.
“No, it wasn’t them.”
“Sam, then? I could get him fired. I’ve thought about it.”
I almost laugh, but then I realize that for all I know, Sam might be part of that twenty percent being laid off anyway and my heart sinks. I try not to wince at the thought.
“It had nothing to do with the Monarchs,” I reply. He looks skeptical, and I realize if I don’t explain myself, I might incriminate the rest of the team.
“It was a rejection email,” I sigh. He looks at me strangely, so I explain. “From a directors’ agency. They rejected my request for representation, and they were kind of my last shot. Everybody else has rejected me, too.”
I scrub my hand over my face to disengage my tear ducts. Already, I can feel them stinging again.
“Doyouthink it’s not good enough?”
