Total pages in book: 171
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 164705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 824(@200wpm)___ 659(@250wpm)___ 549(@300wpm)
Not yet, at least.
Truly, the woman lacked the basic ability to hear anything that didn’t exit her own mouth. It didn’t help that I spent every waking minute keeping busy, trying to push Cooper and Oliver from my mind. (Emphasis on waking. I didn’t stand a chance against my dreams.)
I missed Ollie. A lot.
Last week, I’d even managed to put aside five hours to make the hike up and down the mountain for cell service, but production put a halt to that with a last-minute schedule change, courtesy of Hailey’s three-hour on-set meltdown over a scene she couldn’t quite execute.
As for Cooper … I couldn’t stomach the fact that our separation had led to his death. It simply refused to register. If I focused on my tasks, busied myself with extra hours scheming positioning and scenes, I thought about it less. So, I did just that, sinking myself into work with a vengeance.
Hailey followed me down the buffet line. “You know, for an engaged couple, you two never hang out.”
“Because we’re no longer engaged.”
“Does he even like you?”
“You’ll have to ask him.” I stacked half a vegetarian banh mi onto my plate. The catering staff had gone all out, sending a fleet of chefs to the island.
“Can I get his number?”
That did it. I spun to her, discarding my food on the table. “You’re asking me for my ex-fiancé’s phone number?”
“Well, it’s not like you want him anymore.”
I sighed, not bothering to explain to her – yet again – that calling off the engagement didn’t mean we’d called off our relationship. Though, to be fair, after nineteen days without contact, it didn’t even feel like a relationship.
This was everything I’d feared when I’d tried to break up. Love would transform into longing and longing into doubt.
Hailey blinked back at me, waiting for a response. Instead, I stomped back to my trailer, where I planned on hiding out until someone needed me.
Fae’s words on the way to the airport lingered over my head like a guillotine.
The past is a chapter, not the entire story. Stop letting it decide the next pages.
Around me, actors baked under hot lights, ready to burst into character at action. Makeup artists hovered nearby with powder brushes. Production assistants scurried back and forth with coffee orders and annotated scripts. The director and cinematographer exchanged words behind a monitor, their eyes locked on the perfect frame.
My Hollywood dream pulsed through my veins, alive and vibrant.
But it no longer thrilled me.
Chapter Ninety-Three
Oliver
Trial Day Twenty-Four.
Today’s heavy dose of sedatives came courtesy of Jack Daniels. (Eli, asshole that he was, hid the Macallan two nights ago in hopes that I wouldn’t lower myself to the bottom shelf stuff.)
I didn’t normally seek solace in alcohol, but I needed it to stop me from doing something drastic like ditching my responsibilities and moving to LA with Briar.
The fog lifted from my brain long enough for me to register the thump-thump of shoes thudding across my carpet. A cap-toed Oxford entered my line of vision, mingling with the empty bottles of whiskey around me.
“Christ, Oliver.”
I blinked up at him from my spot on the floor, my cheek still smashed against the rug. “Dad?”
This had to be a hallucination. He hadn’t entered this building in over fifteen years.
“Unfortunately.” He waved a hand across his scrunched-up nose, a vintage guilloche Patek winking at me from his wrist. “Quite frankly, Oliver, I’m ashamed to admit I had a part in creating …” He nudged my ankle with his toe. “… this.”
“Why are you here?”
And why are you wearing a suit?
The closest he’d gotten to one in the past fifteen years was his birthday suit. And only because showers required those.
He lifted my arm over his shoulder and hauled me up, discarding me onto the leather chair behind my desk. “Sebastian sent me.”
That couldn’t be right. He still held a grudge over the plastic surgery incident. I’d spent our last three Days of Our Lives binges in silence, nursing a bottle of booze as he gaped over the devil possessing Marlena without me. On some unspoken agreement, we refused to acknowledge one another’s existence, save for Sebastian retching whenever I passed.
Now I knew I’d hallucinated my dad.
I slumped against the leather backrest, aware my office – usually pristine and orderly – resembled a battlefield. Loose paper scattered across the mahogany desk, some tumbling to the carpet. The partially drawn blinds casted shadows over the room in dizzying slats.
Was this normal? I tried to remember the states Romeo and Zach had been reduced to during their separations from their wives. Romeo lasted three days. Zach lasted thirty. Neither achieved it sober.
Dad began piling empty bottles into a trash bag. “Are you ignoring me?”
“Are you really even here?”
“Excuse me?”
“Where did Eli go?”
“To plant a tree for you to hug. His words, not mine. You let him speak to you like that?”