I’m not sure what Ronan sees in my face, or if it’s in my sigh, but he leans toward me. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head and laugh, trying to surreptitiously wipe away a tear that I’m surprised to find is making its way down my cheek. I’m not usually a crier. Not at all.
“It’s nothing. Really. It’s just been a long day. A long few months.”
He’s quiet for long minutes. I don’t say anything either.
“Go on.”
I bite my lip. I haven’t unburdened myself to anyone. My sister lives in New York and just came back home to get married, so I wasn’t going to ruin her happy vibe by complaining to her. My parents have been so focused on preparing for the wedding I haven’t wanted to distract them. Plus, I hate to bother people with my problems. I’m the one people go to for advice. Not the other way around.
There is no way Ronan Masters wants to hear about my woes. But there must be something about him because I find myself unraveling more in his strong presence. Maybe it’s his broad shoulders. He seems big enough to carry any load.
I open my mouth to tell him how I lost my job teaching art before the new school year started due to a lack of funding. I was dumped by my fiancé two weeks after that. And since we lived together in the house we rented, I had nowhere to go, so I moved back in with my parents. The words are there, wanting to flow out of me, but they stick in my throat.
I’ve worked so hard to pretend to be upbeat, to not complain, to act as if I’m fine. And it’s mostly worked. Another tear slips down my cheek and, frustrated, I swipe it away. Why won’t these tears understand that I’m not a crier? I don’t want the first celebrity I’ve ever met to think I’m unhinged.
He keeps watching me steadily, and somehow that intense gaze draws the words out.
“I kinda lost my job, my fiancé, and my house all pretty close together,” I say as lightly as I can. “But it’s fine. It really is. It just feels like my life has unraveled, and I need to figure out how to tie it back up. In a bow, of course.”
“That’s shitty,” he says eventually.
“Yeah.” I take a deep breath. “Yeah, it is shitty,” I acknowledge for the first time. What a relief, not having to deny that it does, indeed, suck. “Don’t feel too sorry for me, though. I really liked my job. But I’m not sure I liked the house. It was in a development where all the houses look the same. It had no character. I always imagined living somewhere historic, with charm—you know? So that probably wasn’t too much of a loss.”
“What about the guy?”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“How big of a loss was he?”
“The jury is still out on the guy,” I say with an awkward laugh.
Another pause. He slides a glance at me. I can’t read it. His face is a smooth mask, as it’s been for most of the short time I’ve known him. I look away.
We don’t say anything for long minutes, and the only sounds in the elevator are Belle’s quiet snores and the rustle my tulle makes when I shift positions slightly.
“Belle is wonderful.” His perusal makes me as uncomfortable as my uncharacteristic self-disclosure, so I change the subject. I want him to talk, not me.
His face softens in the dim light of the glow sticks.
“She is.” He hesitates, but I keep watching, willing him to say more, to tell me the things I’m too shy to ask. Like, why didn’t I know you had a daughter? How long has she lived with you? Why does she have a slight English accent when you don’t?
“Go on,” I tease, parroting his earlier words.
“She’s spending a few months with me,” he volunteers. Hurrah. It’s not much, but my prolonged silence trick works again. I use it whenever I need children to admit to minor wrongdoings, and I have a ninety-five-percent success rate.
“You’re filmingThe Wanderersaround here, right? Some teachers at school are fans.” Some teachers, as in some teachers and I, but I’m not sharing that.The Wanderersis one of the most popular franchises in the world. It’s a time-travel adventure story with action, comedy, and romance. Part of why the movies are so popular is this Viking god sitting next to me, as well as his other costars. The movie’s hot quotient is off the charts.
He nods. “Yes.”
He doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t want to pry further.
Though we’re strangers and he’s not exactly the chatty type, I still have an odd feeling of familiarity. I wonder how much of it is because I’ve spent hours watching him on a big screen, building a connection that’s not actually there. It must be weird to walk around with people imagining they know you, imagining they have this one-sided relationship with you.
Which makes me wonder, whatisthe etiquette for being trapped in an elevator with last year’s Sexiest Man Alive?
I can’t figure it out, so I give up trying and use one more trick of the kindergarten-teacher trade. It’s to be used only in cases of extreme emergencies. I reach into my bag and pull out two more treats.
