“Moved on.”
I laugh at him because it’s absurd to think the guy who literally slept with me and then got right back together with his girlfriend hasn’t moved on.
“Yeah, I can tell. All the letters, texts, and phone calls have been too much.” I’m joking with him because I can’t even get into this. I don’t want him to think I’m not over it—or that it affected me as much as it did. And I’m definitely not talking about this with him.
“I couldn’t,” Wyatt says.
“Couldn’t what?” I ask, truly confused about what that is supposed to mean. Couldn’t call me? Couldn’t make contact at all? I go from angry to hurt to confused in a matter of seconds.
“Nothing. You’re right. It’s in the past.”
I look over and watch his shoulders stiffen. I think the thing that bothers me most is how I was so wrong about him. About us. I want to know what happened. He treated me with such care and patience, and I believed we both wanted to be together. What changed? Why wasn’t I enough?
“I’m sorry, Blair.”
I wait for him to say something more, but he doesn’t. Then his comfort shifts to detachment. I just stare and push my lips together in a tight smile. I don’t want him to know how much he hurt me. Thankfully, perfect timing means we’ve arrived at my house.
“Thank you so much for the ride home.” I open the door to get away from this completely awkward conversation, but he jumps out and rushes to help me out of the car. I hesitate because, while I don’t need his help, I seem to want to torture myself.
When I go to stand, my heel catches in my dress, and I fall right into him. One hand lands on his bicep, and the other slams into his chest. I feel his muscles flex as he grabs me, and my stomach drops. I can feel the outline of his pecks under his shirt, and it takes all my willpower not to run my hand down his chest to his abdomen.
“Careful. You ok?” His face is so close to mine that I can feel his breath on my lips. I look up, but he’s staring at my lips, and the memories rush back and make it seem as if no time has passed. I lean in, and so does he.
I feel his hands adjust around my waist, and that’s all it takes for me to snap out of it. My hands pull away like I’ve beenburned, and I step back, making sure my dress is clear of my shoes.
“Thanks for the ride, Wyatt. Have a good night.”
I run up the steps to my front door as fast as possible to get away from whatever that was. After rushing through the front door, I close it and immediately look out the peephole.
He’s standing with his hands in his pockets, staring at my house. After a minute, he turns to get back into his car, and I swear I see a smile take over his lips. I turn around and slide down my front door until I’m sitting on the floor.
Thanks for the ride? Smooth, Blair. Jesus.
twelve
. . .
BLAIR
“To women ruling the world!”Jess yells as she raises her glass. It’s been a week since the almost lip slip with Wyatt, and I needed a distraction so I’d stop thinking about it. Drinks with the ladies seemed like a perfect idea.
We ran into Brandon at the bar, so we invited him to join our little group. It seems I was the last one to meet him. He lives in the same building as Jess and Stella, so no introductions were needed.
“No offense, Brandon!” Stella quickly adds in. She’s always so good about making sure everyone feels loved and included.
“None taken. I love women, and even more when they are ruling my world.” He winks back at Stella, and she blushes. He’s good.
“Ok, so now what?” Jess asks me, pulling the olives out of her martini glass. I don’t know why she orders them when she’ll never touch one.
“Well, off the record,” I say pointedly to my journalist friend, “I just read a script from Edie Lang. It’s a passion project for her that TWA won’t look at or doesn’t want to shop—I’m not sure what the full story is yet.”
I caught up with Edie while getting coffee yesterday morning. She keeps pushing more female-forward stories to her agent, Brian, but he keeps pushing back on her for more traditional box-office stories. Edie made her name in the business writing your favorite sci-fi movies.
“So, what does that mean?” Brandon asks.
Everyone looks knowingly at each other and then at me to explain.
“That he’d rather have her keep writing sci-fi. There’s a level of comfort and history of success.” I explain that, technically, Edie’s agent should shop all her scripts around to producers or studios, but in this business, agents are just as likely to sweep work aside to focus on the bigger ideas. I give Brandon the 101 on agency life and explain that one of my colleagues, Brian, represents Edie. Since we work for the same agency, I could offer ideas or possibly even mention in passing to a producer that she’s looking to sell a project. But “agency code” says Brian would need to approve.
