She quickly turned to Ethan, her back blocking both of them from view.
“Fuck,” she muttered. Of course he would be here; practically the whole cast was here. She took a long swig of the champagne and closed her eyes, concentrating on the feeling of the chilled fizz sliding down her throat, the bubbles working their way up to soothe her frazzled brain.
She’d been prepared to return toPoison Paradise’s fifth season with her head held high and her lips sealed about how unenthused she was to be working with Callum every day for the next nine months, only to discover after receiving the script for the premiere that his character would be suffering a tragic (and fatal) accidentinvolving his motorcycle and a not-quite-frozen lake in the opening scene. She felt a little guilty about letting her personal life spill over into her work—but not guilty enough to stop her from sending anextremelyexpensive gift basket to the writers’ room the next day.
Callum had made it clear that he blamed her for getting him written off the show, and his fans had harassed her online for months. Never mind that his increasingly difficult behavior over the previous two seasons had already made him unpopular with the producers. In a fitting bookend to their first meeting, the last time she’d seen him was at the table read for his final episode, pretending not to notice him glaring daggers at her over their scripts.
Grey opened her eyes again and saw Ethan was watching her. He extended a hand to her.
“Should we go to our seats?”
She took it gratefully.
“Yes, please.”
—
ETHAN COULDN’T SITstill. He’d spent approximately half of the 110-minute runtime fidgeting, squirming, and sighing in his seat. His internal battle over whether to slip out to the bar for another drink, or respect Grey’s wishes and sober up a little, was spilling out through his tapping fingers and restless feet. He could tell Grey was ready to murder him. By the time the movie was nearing its end, she’d clamped her hand firmly over his and anchored it to the armrest between them. Surprisingly, it worked. Something stilled inside him at the pressure of her forearm covering his, her attention never straying from the screen.
He snuck a look over at her, the flickering light of the screen casting shadows across her elegant profile, her long neck bared by her ponytail. He couldn’t remember the last time he had foundsomething as innocent as a woman’s neck so profoundly erotic. But it wasn’t just any woman’s neck: it was Grey’s neck. He imagined leaning over and touching his lips to the tender spot just below where her jaw met her ear. Ethan already knew how she would react; her eyes would widen, her breath would hitch. He would part his lips to taste her racing pulse and maybe she would moan a little in the back of her throat, the same noise she’d made when she’d tasted the wine at dinner. He shifted again in his seat, for a different reason this time.
As if she could feel the heat of his gaze burning into her, she turned to look at him, her eyes narrowing. He quickly turned back to look at the screen. The movie wasn’t half bad, actually, when he was able to focus on it. However, his renewed attention was too little, too late, as the credits began to roll and the audience applauded.
Ethan let out a sigh of relief. He made it. Now all he had to do was deposit Grey and her provocative neck safely back at her house, go home, jerk off, and drink himself to sleep without disappointing anyone. Another successful evening.
His well-laid plans were immediately disrupted when Grey turned to him and said with steely determination, “We’re going to the after-party.”
“No fucking way,” he murmured as they stood up and started to make their way through the slow-moving mass of people trying to exit the theater.
“We need tonetwork,” she whispered through a smile, low enough that only he could hear it. “We can shut ourselves in your little depression cave the rest of the month if you want. Tonight we need totalkto people.”
“You go, then. I’m going home.”
“Fine. I hope you’re working on what you’re going to say to Audrey tomorrow when she sees the pictures of me there alone.”
They were back in the lobby now. He grabbed her arm and pulled her into another secluded corner so they could talk more freely.
“It’s not a breach of contract.”
“No, it just makes you look like a dick.”
“Iama dick; you haven’t figured that out yet?”
She looked up at him, her eyes impossibly blue. “I don’t think you’re a dick. I think you’re afraid.”
He flinched. As usual, she was right. Was she that observant, or was he just completely transparent? He wasn’t sure which one unnerved him more.
“Thirty minutes. Forty-five, max. Then I’m leaving.”
Grey seemed to realize that their body language at the moment didn’t exactly scream “true love,” so she reached out and took both his hands in hers, drawing him closer.
“Thank you,” she murmured, leaning up and brushing her lips to his cheek. She smelled fresh and sweet, like a garden after a summer storm. He tightened his grip on her hands, willing them to behave and not break free to traverse her body, her hair, her face. He had to touch her, it was part of the deal. But he couldn’t touch her the way he wanted to. It was fucking torture. She looked up at him with a questioning glance, and he released her hands before he broke her fingers. He shoved one traitorous hand into his pocket and dug out his phone with the other, turning his body away from her.
“I’ll have Ozzy bring the car around.”
—
THE AFTER-PARTY WASaround the corner at a trendy art deco cocktail bar, decorated with plush pink velvet booths and gold hardware. The party was already in full swing when the two of them arrived. After posing for photographs at the entrance, Ethanpeeled off from Grey and made a beeline for the bar. Grey grabbed a skewer of something colorful and complicated off a waiter’s tray and surveyed the room. She spotted Mia in a corner booth, surrounded by fawning admirers.
