Only the main players are mentioned in the articles—the accuser and accused. Their names leap from the screen, stirring up a storm of anger and regret.
Despite the unwelcome feelings, I read every article I can find. I’m in the middle of a blogger’s conspiracy theory, when there’s a knock on my door.
My first thought is of Alice, that she found a way inside the fence. My second guess is someone from the family, maybe Vincent or Chantal come to evict me.
Cautiously, I creep to the foyer. But it’s not anyone from the main house.
It’s Noah.
Relieved, I open the door. “Hey,” I say, somewhat hesitant. “They haven’t sent you to throw me out, have they?”
He grins but doesn’t ask what I mean. He doesn’t have to. He had front-row seats for the whole ugly scene.
“No. Don’t worry about Alice. None of that is your fault.”
He knows Alice? I don’t know why this surprises me, but the feeling is swiftly overtaken by a kick of guilt.
Because today’s dramawasmy fault. At least partly.
Noah glances over to the front gate. “Looked like you had a rough day, so I thought you might need some down time. Maybe come to my place for dinner and a movie?”
I lean on the door jamb with a heavy sigh. “You have no idea how good that sounds. I tried to work the television here, but everything’s in French. The remote, the channels, everything.”
“I have a solution to the TV problem, so there’s only one question left.” He pauses dramatically. “Pizza? Burgers? Vegan? I know the best places, and they all deliver.”
“How good is the pizza?”
“Just like home.” He steps back and holds out his hands. “You hungry now?”
I glance at the sky, realizing the storm has passed. “Starved,” I say, slipping on my shoes and joining him outside.
I’ve been glued to my computer since I returned, so fixated on the articles I forgot to eat. And it would do me good to have some company, to get my mind off of Alice and the tabloids.
Noah and I make the short walk across the courtyard to his apartment. Inside, he takes me to a living room, or what theFrench would call asalon. The modern aesthetic bleeds over from the rest of the rooms, but the American in Noah has left its mark. A big leather couch faces an even bigger television.
He steps to the coffee table and picks up a remote control. “I found a movie you might like.” He hits a button, and the screen comes to life.
I don’t need to read the title. All I need is a glimpse of the crisscrossed surfboards and the girl beside them.
A girl with my much-younger face.
Groaning, I put my hands on my cheeks. “Nooo. Where did you find that?” My very first movie. A coming-of-age teen comedy with more budget than directing talent.
“I looked you up on IMDB.”
Nervous laughter escapes as I shake my head. “I was only seventeen. I’m sorry, but I can’t let this be the first movie of mine that you watch.”
“Who says it will be?” He lifts his brows, teasing me. “I saw another one years ago. It was listed in your projects, and I remembered the title. Then I remembered you.” He steps closer, his voice warming. “You were good.”
“Thank you,” I say, almost a whisper. I’ve been an actress for years, dealing with all manner of insults and praise.
But one compliment from Noah, and I melt inside.
“Always nice to hear.” Ignoring the flutter in my voice, I gesture to the screen and my teenage grin. “But this has got to go.”
“No problem.” He laughs good-naturedly. “I just wanted to see your reaction, but we can watch something else, something you haven’t seen. Or acted in,” he adds with a wink.
“I’d appreciate it.”
