“Wow. Congratulations,” I say, trying to sound excited for him. And I am. It’s the role of a lifetime. “That’s amazing.”
“It’s not official,” he says. “It’s hush-hush, but they’re getting close to a decision. It’s between me and one other actor. They think he might be too old for the direction they’re going, though, which is lucky for me. My agent thinks I’ll get it.”
He’s so close to me, I can smell the whiskey on his breath and the familiar sandalwood of his cologne and something potent that is all Chase.
“Do you want to know a secret?” he asks.
I’m mesmerized by how handsome he looks sitting there on the couch, those famous cheekbones illuminated, his hair mussed, and his strong body showcased by his T-shirt.
“Yes,” I say, my breath quickening at the fallen angel look he’s giving me through slitted eyes.
“A part of me would be relieved if I don’t get it. I haven’t told anyone else that. Hell, I’m not even supposed to tell anyone I’m in the running for it.”
“You wouldn’t want to play Max Thunder?”
“It’s not the kind of part anyone turns down. But if I get it, my life will become even more out of control.”
“We only have one life, Chase. We have to live it in a way that makes us happy.”
He leans down, picks up the whiskey bottle from the floor, and takes a swig straight from it.
“Easy,” I say, staying his hand. “You’ve been sick. That will hit you hard.”
“Maybe I want to get drunk,” he says lightly.
“Why?” I pull the bottle from his grasp.
He runs a hand over his face. “Because it will keep me from thinking about leaving tomorrow. Keep me from thinking about what I want versus doing what’s right.”
I’m not sure whether he’s reminding himself or reminding me. We have one night left, and then that’s it. He’ll disappear from my life as fast as he appeared in it. Something sharp twists in my chest.
He wraps his hand around mine, engulfing my fingers in his, making my nerve endings tingle all the way to my core. At first, I think he’s trying to hold my hand, but he gently takes the bottle I hold and takes another deep swig of the whiskey, trapping my gaze while he drinks. I watch his throat work.
When he finally puts the bottle down, he asks, “Do you understand?”
My answer is barely audible. A soft “Yes” for only him to hear.
But it’s a lie.
I don’t understand. Not what he means. Not why, even though it’s only drizzling now and I could have left hours ago, I’m still here. And especially not why someone as gorgeous and famous and rich as him is paying attention to an ordinary girl like me.
The delicious tension is laced with the promise of pain to come when he leaves tomorrow, because I know with the certainty of my next breath that he isn’t coming back, at least not for me.
But I need his lips on mine.
I lean into him, shocked at my boldness. Despite all my insecurities, I force myself to move past the fear of rejection. I reach into myself for a lesson I’m trying to learn—that it’s regret that hurts the most, not only of what you’ve done, but of what you haven’t.
I don’t want to live with the knowledge that I had this moment, and I squandered it. So, I lean into him, into that hard body, with my soft one.
I press my lips to his. It’s soft and fleeting, more a question than a statement.
When it’s over, I lift my head a fraction and stare into his eyes, trying to gauge his reaction, but his eyes are hooded. Did he like it?
“You don’t want—” I say, embarrassed now.
“Oh, Olivia, but I do want,” he murmurs silkily. “I want so much. It’s fucking killing me to hold back.” He raises an eyebrow, challenging me.
Our faces are still inches apart. Our mouths a breath away. I look down at his lips, so tempting, and then back at his eyes.
“Come on, Olivia,” he gently mocks. “What are you waiting for?”
“I’m not sure what to do,” I admit in a whisper.
“Whatever you feel like,” he breathes back.
Whatever I feel like.
An elation I’ve never known flows through me. I close my eyes and let pure instinct and raw desire take over.
My lips press against his again, but this time firmer, deeper, as I memorize the shape, the softness, and the taste of him. His lips part, a whiskey-flavored invitation to all the best things.