“I love you.”
He says it softly, as if he’s as surprised and overwhelmed as I am at the words.
I open my mouth to say something, I don’t even know what, and he puts a finger over my lips. Like some Pavlovian response, my tongue reaches out and touches his finger for a taste. I feel his indrawn breath in tandem with mine at the spark of that small, sensual tongue-to-skin touch.
He clears his throat. “Before you tell me to get the hell out of here, that I’m too late, or any of the thousand things I’m afraid of but probably deserve, let me just say this. Let me explain,” he says in a rush. He reluctantly draws his finger away from my mouth, as he brushes the hair back from my face.
I have to will myself not to nestle into that big, callused hand. His touch feels amazing. I missed it so much. I missed him.
“I’m sorry, Olivia. I’m so fucking sorry that I was such an idiot for so long. You were the strong one. God, you humble me with your ability to put yourself out there. You risked your heart with me. You were willing to put up with me and all my baggage. But I was too afraid to take the most beautiful gift I’ve ever been given. I was afraid to trust it. After my mom died, I tried to trust in other people, trust in love, but each time, I was left crushed. I guess I started to feel that there was something broken in me, that I didn’t deserve love. I was afraid to hope that it was something I’d ever have because it hurt so fucking much when it was ripped away. And then when all that shit went down with Daisy, I just decided that opening myself up wasn’t worth it, that it would only lead to hurting myself and the people I cared about.”
He cups his hands around my face, and his eyes burn into mine, passionate, sincere, and I’ve never felt more loved, more seen. It’s as if he can see into the whole of me and he miraculously likes it all, the good and bad and insecure and uncertain, and it’s all fine. And I feel the same. He’s opening his heart, and I can see all the parts of him, the incredibly charismatic movie star whose mere presence ignites the world, but I can also see Remington, the lonely, quirky, funny guy who gets my nerdy jokes and who needed someone to reach out to him as much as I did.
And I can see the beautiful, complex man I’ve gotten to know here in San Francisco and Los Angeles, the man who is kind and gives his jacket to a homeless man without making him feel lesser. The man who tries to protect the people he loves, even if he thinks it means giving them up. The loyal friend and the caring brother. He has a painful past that makes him a little broken and a turbulent life that makes him a little jaded. He isn’t perfect, but I’m glad of that, because I’m not perfect myself.
I’m not cut out for the glamorous, fucked-up world of super celebrity he occupies, but I suspect he’s not either. So maybe, together, we can figure it out.
“What about all your reasons for staying away? What about the new project? And the fans? And the travel? All those things that you swore meant we would never work.” I have to ask, because if I let the walls back down and he does another 180 on me, I’m not sure I can survive it.
“I turned down Max Thunder.”
I gasp. “W-what? You can’t do that, Chase! That’s the biggest job in Hollywood. Even I know that no one would say no to something so iconic.”
“I can and did.”
“What job did he turn down?” I recognize Mr. Jensen’s voice. I look up and see my dinner party crowding around the kitchen doorway, their heads sticking in, watching us like we’re a K-drama on television.
“He was supposed to be the next Max Thunder,” Daisy says to the rest of the audience.
“And he turned it down for Olivia!” Audrey exclaims.
“How romantic.” Mrs. Maples sighs.
“Max Thunder! Olivia Evans, did you make this young man turn down Max Thunder?” Mr. Jensen glares in accusation.
“Wow. I’ve never seen you fired up before, Mr. J. You must really like those movies,” Daisy says.
“Everyone likes those movies!” Mr. Jensen exclaims. “You can’t make him turn it down.”
“I didn’t make him turn it down!” I shoot Chase a fierce glance. “We need to talk. In private,” I say pointedly to my dinner guests.
I take a small step away from Chase just so I can think, but he grabs my hand and twines his fingers with mine. Warmth shoots up from where our skin touches.
“Okay, everyone, back to the table,” I shoo everyone toward the dining room with my hands. “We’ll be back when we’re done talking.” I look at Chase. “My room?” I ask. He raises an eyebrow but nods.