Page 21 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

I swing the door open.

Unfortunately, there he is again.

The Director.

No, it's Sean. Just Sean in some jeans and a leather jacket. There's another man who is also in jeans but wearing a black polo. He's shorter and has a lot of compact muscles.

My gaze meets Sean's for a fraction of a second, really trying to only seehim. But it's that hair. Same length. Same slicked-back style. Same color.

I look away, focusing instead on the doorframe, the floor, anywhere else. My pulse quickens like I've just run a mile, and I actually really hate running.

No, brain. Don't do this.

It's too late, though. I'm triggered, and it hits me like truck.

Suddenly, I'm no longer in my apartment doorway. I'm on set, nine years ago, gripping my script as I rehearse lines with Trent, my sitcom co-star. We're laughing, working through a difficult comedic beat, when I feel the weight of being watched.

I glance up and catch The Director's gaze from where he sits in his high-backed chair. He's a man who had an easy ascent to the top—having a famous actor for a father will do that. He holds himself with privilege, back straight, limbs at right angles, expecting the entire world around him to agree with anything hedemands. The way he holds himself… he's daring even his body to protest to his will.

He's sitting with one ankle resting on his opposite knee, holding the call sheet in his hands. Hair slicked back. Square jaw. High cheekbones. Handsome in that classic, magazine-cover way.

But it's his eyes, those dark eyes, that grab my full attention. They're normally professional and warm with approval. But this day, this second, I notice something else as his gaze traces my body, and the clingy cut-off shorts and tank top from the costume department. His gaze is possessive. Ravenous. Like I'm not a person but a painting he wants to add to his private collection.

I freeze with the script pages clutched in my hand. Our eyes lock. One heartbeat. Two. Then, as if nothing has happened, his expression shifts, softens, and he calls out, "Ready to shoot the scene when you are, Elle!"

I smile and dismiss it. It was just my imagination, just the pressure of being the lead on a popular TV show. Just the lighting.

Everyone back then adored The Director. They shared stories that characterized him as this great guy who was generous and such a wonderful person to work with.

I was the only one seeing things. I was the outsider in the wrong.

"Londyn?"

Sean's voice yanks me back to the present. I blink rapidly, trying to ground myself and not let my body tremble in a way that's noticeable. Thank God for baggy clothes. Finally, I glance up at my new bodyguard. Those brown eyes are… not The Director's. They're warm and steady. The long top lashes flutter against solid eyebrows. He seems concerned.

The other security guard also looks worried, like he thinks I'm going to faint or something.

Where are my acting skills?

I switch 'on,' flashing them both a welcoming smile before my eyes drop to Sean's feet. He's wearing combat boots. I like combat boots.

"Sorry," I say with an even tone. "Just spaced out for a second. Thinking about… work. Lots of deadlines. Sorry." I almost laugh because my work rarely has 'lots' of deadlines. It's actually 'lots' of dead most days.

Sean gestures to the man beside him. "This is Mike. He'll be helping with your security detail."

Mike offers a friendly smile and extends his meaty hand. "Nice to meet you, Ms. Seever."

As I noticed just before slipping through a crack in reality, Mike is shorter than Sean, stockier, with close-cropped blond hair and kind blue eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles. Nothing about him triggers me, which is a huge relief.

But he's still a stranger.

I don't take his hand, instead pressing my palms against my stomach. "Nice to meet you too. Please, come in." I step back, giving them plenty of space to enter.

Mike doesn't seem offended by my refusal to touch him, and he just smiles warmly as he follows Sean in.

Sean moves past me into the living room and he has that same quiet grace I noticed at the convention. The light from my two street-facing windows is filtered and dim through the closed blinds, but it's enough to see him scanning everything—my carefully positioned furniture, the two generic landscape prints that came with the place, the way I've tucked my desk into the small alcove where I can see the door while I work. He notices my messy bookcase and one of his eyebrows twitches.

Wonder what that's about.

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