There was that word again—fine. Hank had hired Pamela because, unlike Elizabeth, she didn’t ask questions or let her personal feelings show. Most of the time, it was what he wanted, but not now—now he needed color. “Fine, how?”
“She was worried something had happened to you. I reassured her you were well. She asked if you’d be in touch.”
She paused, waiting for his acknowledgement. He didn’t give her one.
“Well, if there’s nothing more, I’m going home now.” Pamela’s voice moved away from him, heading toward the door. He wanted to yell at her to stay and commiserate with him but what would be the point? It wouldn’t change anything. Bethany would still be two thousand miles away in Tremont, and he would still be at his home in Los Angeles, saving her from his lustful self.
“I’ve updated your electronic calendar with the rest of your schedule for the week. Blackie asked me to remind you—you have dinner at Antonio’s with your lawyers and the producers tomorrow at seven. He doesn’t want you to be late. I believe they want to hammer out the finer details of your contract. And Elizabeth has you committed to the awards show for Sunday. It’s at the Palace Theatre.”
Hank grunted, and Pamela must have taken the sound for an acceptable response because he heard her open the door. “Good night, Hank.”
Then the door clicked shut and silence reigned. But even that seemed too much. His thoughts circled likescreeching gulls to the phone call. He couldn’t handle talking to Bethany himself, so he’d taken the coward’s way out and made Pamela do it. He knew from the one-sided conversation that Bethany had asked Pamela whether he would return to Cleveland.
Hank opened his eyes and threw the script on the shiny glass coffee table. The motion interrupted Woodrow, who napped by Hank’s feet, his head over his paws. He looked up, but when Hank didn’t stir to give the black Lab his normal pat on the head, he closed his eyes for another snooze.
Could he ever return? He didn’t know, but he suspected the answer must be no. The place held too many memories now. Too many aching, precious, soul-stirring memories. He couldn’t even get excited about staying at his grandparents’ house, which he now owned. If he did, he would be sorely tempted to see Bethany. He would need to fight his attraction to her all over again. Far better to sell the Parker building and break things off now while her heart was still intact, and he had enough self-control and honor to do the right thing.
He stood and headed to his well-stocked bar, which housed sparkling crystal glasses, copper shakers, and large amounts of liquor. Woodrow followed him, his paws clicking on the hardwood floor.
Hank would memorize his lines later. What he needed now was a stiff drink—maybe more than one. Maybe he would get so drunk he would pass out.
He filled a glass with ice crystals so clear he could see through them and poured himself a measure of whiskey. It seemed as if he’d left his happiness behind when he’d made the decision to leave town after talking to Elizabeth. Buthe’d needed to cut Bethany free before he destroyed her life. Before he broke her heart.
He held the glass up to the light and studied the golden liquid. Elizabeth was right. He was not marriage material. And Bethany deserved the whole shebang—diamond ring, fiancé, big wedding, honeymoon in an exotic locale. She deserved someone who could love her like she deserved to be loved—someone who didn’t have the press hounding them twenty-four hours a day. She deserved someone who would stay by her side and support her dreams and let her shine without stealing the spotlight for his own selfish needs. She deserved someone who could give her children one day—a family.
He downed the drink in one healthy swallow, enjoying the familiar burn in his throat. Maybe he would go out tonight—anything to forget a pair of gray-green eyes. Maybe he would enjoy all that the city of dreams had to offer.
He hurled the glass across the room, where it hit the wall and shattered into a zillion pieces, startling Woodrow, who barked and ran in circles.
If only his well of dreams hadn’t run dry.
How she managedto make it home in one piece, Bethany wasn’t sure. Perhaps her guardian angels decided to do their job for once and guide her. Maybe she relied on muscle memory and drove on autopilot. She didn’t recall how she pulled into her driveway and made it inside the house and to her bedroom. She only knew that she found herself lying on her bed, hugging her pillow, and crying buckets of tears.
Bethany plucked a tissue from the box on hernightstand and blew her nose. Why would Hank cancel the trip to Los Angeles after he’d spent so much time convincing her to come with him? She must have done something to offend him. Had he thought about Desmond’s barb about her being a liar and believed him?
Or was she jumping to conclusions? Would Hank return to Cleveland and renew his invitation? Maybe he really did have to leave town early and cancel their plans abruptly. But if that were the case, wouldn’t he have told her himself? Having his assistant call had been so unlike him—so cold and impersonal.
Pride came to her rescue, and she drew herself up and tossed the tissue in the trash can. As her dad used to say, no sense crying over something she couldn’t change. But what an idiot she had been, believing Hank cared for her.
She swung her feet over the side of the bed. She would not fall apart because she had been gullible and believed his line about wanting to show her a side of himself the public didn’t get to see. She had believed there was more to the man than the superstar mantle he wore like a badge of honor—believed his lies about giving her time, not wanting to rush her, and wanting her friendship.
She padded over to the dresser and pulled out her softest pajamas, contemplating her reflection in the mirror. Her eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, and the tip of her nose was pink.
Once again, the girl in the mirror had trusted a man who didn’t deserve her trust.
This time, though, she had lost more than her foolish pride. This time she feared she had lost a piece of her foolish heart.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Hank put on his tuxedo and straightened his bow tie. Elizabeth had insisted he wear a lavender shirt to match his date, who happened to be hisApollocostar, Heather. She was sweet and pretty and wore a lavender dress, but she wasn’t Bethany.
He rubbed his temples, but it didn’t lessen the pounding headache—probably brought on by a guilty conscience. He scrounged in the medicine cabinet for two aspirin, which he tossed down with a glass of water.
He picked Heather up in the limo, traveled with her to the Palace Theatre, and exchanged boring pleasantries. Hank was grateful that Heather liked to talk, and that she only required him to say yes or no or the occasional maybe. The moment they got out of the limo, she threw her arms around his shoulders and kissed him at the same moment a photographer snapped their picture. Hank knew the embrace was purposeful on her part, since it was good for their careers if fans thought they were an item. And then they were admitted to the auditorium and seated at the front of the stage.
She leaned toward him and whispered, “Do you think you’ll win best actor?”
“Maybe.” His answer seemed to satisfy her.
