Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 87933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 440(@200wpm)___ 352(@250wpm)___ 293(@300wpm)
“You’ve been having sex dreams about me?”
“Every damn night.” He laughs, but it sounds humorless. “I know it was smart not to go there, but it hasn’t stopped me from thinking about it. Or imagining it. Or fantasizing about it.”
I groan. “Blaaaaake.”
“Damn, or thinking about you saying my name like that.”
I pull back. “You imagine me whining during sex?”
“Is that what that sound was? It sounded more frustrated than anything. Needy.”
“You’re torturing me.”
His smile falters. “Sorry. I’ll stop messing with you.”
“Is that really what it is? Just messing with me?”
Blake’s lips purse as if he’s trying to decide to tell me the truth or lie. “It’s … not not the truth, but I know where you stand. I can stop.”
“Please. It’s already hard enough not to randomly pounce on you.”
“I’m going to go put my bags in the car. You going to be okay to pack those last few things?”
“Yup.”
Blake steps closer to me and lowers his voice. “Just so you know? The pouncing thing is okay with me. The offer is there if you want to change your mind.”
I’m so going to change my mind.
All I can say is, I’m thankful the flight home had some of the others on board with us because otherwise, I know I would have caved and punched my mile high club card. Mason and Denver are staying in Montana for a bit longer to be with Mason’s mom, but Brix, Harley, Ryder, and Lyric were good buffers for the flight.
Still, as I get off the plane, I’m as frustrated as I was before we left Montana. If it weren’t for needing to go straight to the set, I’d do something about it because I need to be strong to see Ben again.
I don’t think I’m desperate enough to forgive whatever bullshit story he wants to spew at me, but I might be desperate enough to ignore his words enough to get some release.
Blake Monroe’s sex appeal is driving me to seriously low standards.
“You need to be on set today?” I ask Blake.
There are three cars waiting for us all outside the private charter terminal, and I’m guessing the last one is Blake’s and mine, but then Lyric, Harley, and Ryder get into the one and wave as they drive off.
“You got called in today?” Blake asks. “I thought production didn’t pick up until tomorrow.”
“Ben has called me in for a meeting. I was wondering if it was a crew thing or a me thing.”
“Need me to go with you?”
“What, and flex your Coby Godspeed muscles at him to scare him away? It’s cute you want to defend me, but—”
“It’s not defending. It’s protecting. What if he wants to get back together?”
“I can handle myself. Especially against a manipulative narcissist like Ben.”
“If you’re sure.”
I’m not, but I’ll be fine. Probably. “I’m sure.”
“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow, then?”
“Tomorrow.” The sooner we get this film wrapped, the sooner I can put Ben and Blake behind me.
Maybe I’ll go home to Boston for a while. Find a nice Bostonian gay man who says things like “I’m wicked smaht. Let’s drink some tonic and head down the cape. It’ll be wicked pissa.”
Aww, I miss home.
But as my driver heads toward the studio, I can’t deny the hold LA has over me. This is my home too. It has been for over a decade. A break would be nice, but I don’t see me settling down back in Boston anytime soon.
After dropping my bags at my apartment, the driver takes me to the studio and says he’ll wait for my text to come pick me up.
I’ve been doing LA wrong all these years. I need to do it the boy band way because having a driver is awesome. I don’t have to care about traffic. Only problem is, the less I’m focused on that, the more time I have to overthink.
And I can’t help overthinking Ben and what he’s going to say.
I get out of the car and text Ben that I’m here, and he replies that he’s in my trailer. If this had to do with the movie, he’d at least have the pretense of meeting me on set, so I guess this will be the conversation I’ve been dreading but expecting.
Will he grovel and ask for forgiveness? Will he tell me it will never happen again, and it means nothing?
When I get to my trailer, nothing can prepare me for what he actually says.
“Hey.”
I wait. Nothing else comes. “Hi …”
Still waiting.
He’s leaning against the small kitchen counter with his arms folded, and on the table in the eating area is a box. “All your stuff from my house is in there.”
No groveling, then. Okay. Cool. It’s better this way anyway.
“I sent Jojo to pick it up.”
“I wanted to see you when you got it.”
“Why?”
“To say I’m sorry.”
Here we go.