“We were super close growing up and just took separate paths when the show ended.”
“Okay? But there were reports you both had a big falling out? Got into a fight on the last day on set…”
“Graham is a wonderful guy. I wish him the best. No bad blood there.”
He is answering the question evenly, but his neutral expression has flipped to having hardened eyes. Feeling bold, I grab a bottle of tequila and pour a good amount into a shot glass. Sliding him the glass across the table, reading off a red question.
“What was worse: losing your career or losing your mom as your manager?”
He sucks in a breath and grabs the shot I just passed him. His jaw tightening as the tequila slides down his throat. He pauses to answer which he never does with a question.
“I don’t think my career is lost because you are sitting here interviewing me. As for my mom, situations evolve and we grow into different roles. She is very happy with where she is in life.”
His answer makes me want to dig deeper like any interviewer would.
“Which direction did she go in?” I ask.
“She took a job away from the spotlight. She is happy to have her privacy now.”
I track every tell, the subtle shifts in tone and expressions that feel second nature to dissect for me.
Holden shifts in his seat before standing up, approaching me slowly and ripping the cards from me.
“Give that back. I am not playing this game again.”
“Oh, we are playing a game.”
He gives me a sly smirk and somehow this switches something inside of me. The pulsing in my chest is beating at an unstoppable rate. If he gets any closer, I might…
I take several steps back, refusing to participate in this new game.
“My turn now,” he says.
All the air in the room is depleted. My mouth is dry and my hands are sweating, waiting for his question.
“How do you feel about me?” He says firmly.
“I think you are too good at this game. Scary good at answering questions about your personal life.”
“C’mon. Your real answer.”
A tightness pulls at my throat, constricting my airways.
I think this stopped being a game for me on the flight back to LA. But there are no words in the English language to drown out the feeling nagging on my shoulder. As far as I know, this is all in my head and he is probing me. Trying to get me to surrender to his charm.
My brows pull together as he takes a step closer. We do a box-step dance where he takes two steps forward and all I can do is move two steps back.
“Aren’t we supposed to be preparing for the interview?”
“Yes,” he says. “But we haven’t prepped ourselves. We need to look legit.”
“Us?”
“Yes. Think of it like the acting class you took me to. A game of yes, and?”
I cross my arms.
“I don’t even know your middle name.”
