We stand like that for what feels like forever. When she finally pulls away, her eyes are a little bloodshot as she quickly blinks away the shine.
With a tilt of her head, she grabs my hand. Lacing her fingers with mine, we start walking back to our cars. “Feel up to getting some ice cream?”
Heart squeezing, I suck in a cleansing breath. “Yeah. That sounds great.”
thirty-four
For some fucked up reason,I’ve let myself fall down an endless, online, Rowan Cole rabbit hole. I can’t seem to tear my eyes away from my laptop. What started as a quick Google search has turned into a three-hour deep dive into Rowan’s hook up history as I click through image after image.
“Fuck my life,” I mutter, scrolling through yet another set of photos of Rowan with a stunning blonde on his arm at some red carpet event. “Carrie freaking Southern.”
The supermodel’s perfect face smiles back at me from dozens of photos—her arm linked through Rowan’s, her body pressed against his side, her lips occasionally brushing his cheek. In every single one, they look... comfortable. Intimate, even.
“Just friends, my ass,” I growl, clicking to the next photo.
It’s one from last year’s Golden Globes afterparty. Rowan is wearing a perfectly tailored tux, arm wrapped around Carrie’s waist, her red gown plunging indecently low. And the caption?
ROWAN COLE AND HIS ALLEGED EX-GIRLFRIEND CARRIE SOUTHERN SHARE A LAUGH AT THE GOLDEN GLOBES
I narrow my eyes at the screen. Logan specifically told me Rowan and Carrie are just friends.
But the evidence staring back at me tells a much different story. There are dozens of photos spanning the last few years—premieres, charity galas, casual outings. In one particularly infuriating photo, they’re leaving a restaurant together, his hand resting possessively at the small of her back.
I scroll to another set of images. Rowan is with an actress I vaguely recognize from some popular Netflix show. They’re walking on a beach, holding hands. The next photo shows them kissing.
I look at the date. Even though it’s from five years ago, my stomach still twists.
“Why are you doing this to yourself, babes?” I mutter, clicking through to yet another gallery of photos.
The evidence of Rowan’s playboy ways is overwhelming. There are literally hundreds, if not thousands, of photos of him with different women—actresses, models, singers. Each one just as, if not more beautiful than the last. All of them looking up at him like he hung the motherfucking moon.
Then there’s all the photos of us from our outings here in Lakeside.
Draining the last of my wine, I let out an exasperated sigh.
Over the last few days, we’ve made appearances around town. Holding hands, Rowan leaning in to whisper in my ear, hug me or kiss my cheek whenever he’d spot paparazzi. He even took me to the movie set to meet everyone. But the more we “fake it”, the more real it’s starting to feel. I’m finding it hard to separate past from present. Finding myself wishing: What if?
As I quickly squash that thought way the fuck down into the abyss of my past, the sound of the buildings outer door closing echoes through the hallway outside.
Why the hell do I feel like I’ve been caught doing somethingillegal? My fingers hover over the keys as I listen to the heavy footsteps make their way down the hall before I quickly slam my laptop shut.
What the hell am Idoing? I’ve just spent the last few hours cyberstalking my famous childhood bestie online, cataloging his romantic history like some obsessed teenager. And for what? To torture myself?
Pretty sure I’ve invented a new meaning to the saying, “a glutton for punishment.”
Before I can fully process my own ridiculousness, there’s a soft knock at my door.
I freeze, wondering if I can get away with pretending I’m not home. But then I remember Rowan literally lives across the hall. He probably saw my Jeep parked outside. He knows my schedule by now.
With a resigned sigh, I uncurl my legs, push myself up from the couch, and rub my now sweaty palms over my jeans in a feeble attempt to get them dry before running them through my tousled hair.
When I pull open the door, Rowan is standing there looking unfairly handsome in dark jeans and a simple gray Henley, his hair slightly mussed from a long day on set.
“Hi.” He gives me a soft smile, making my traitorous heart flutter. “Wanna go for a walk? Maybe get something to eat?”
I blink up at him, momentarily thrown by how normal this all feels with him showing up at my door, asking me if I want to hang out like we used to when we were kids.
“Um. Sure. Let me just grab a jacket.”
