Page 41 of Over & Out

I blink, rapidly. “I—uh—I think I have something in my eye. An eyelash.” I actually do, suddenly, thanks to my aggressive blinking. Damn it. It’s never hot to be rubbing one’s eye, pulling at an eyelid to clear it. I was hoping by cursing and doing that, I could get him to quit looking at me like that. To distract myself from the very bad sudden realization that no, I don’t hate Hopper at all. I get irritated with him, yes. A lot. But hate is not the feeling that makes my stomach spin like a whirlpool when he’s near me. It’s not the driving force that gets me out of bed each morning and sends me practically skipping to my car to get to work.

It’s something else entirely.

But this plan was incredibly stupid. Because Hopper does the worst possible thing. He reaches out and touches me. Like cups the side of my face with two hands and tilts my head up toward him. Almost like he’s going to kissme.

My lips part all on their own, my heart thudding. I inhale sage and eucalyptus. I feel the press of his hard body against nearly the whole length of mine, and this time, every cell in my body seems to melt like burning wax at the contact.

Hopper dips his face low—low enough I can feel the warmth of his breath on my lips.

Then he brings his hands up higher and presses his thumbs against my eye, pulling it open. “Hey!” I say. I go to slap his hands away, but he grabs me round the wrists with his free hand.

“Hold still. I’ve got you.”

Something tickles over my skin at that. There’s an air of familiarity to those words. But then Hopper angles his face this way and that, half making me laugh as he plays ham-fisted doctor and half making me warm with heat as his breath dances over my cheek, then my neck, his gorgeous eyes peering into mine. He still holds my wrists easily bound with one of his hands, and the fact that I’m at his mercy is almost pornographic. In my body’s opinion, anyway. My nipples pebble against him, heat warming my core. And when Hopper’s free hand crawls behind my neck and grips my hair, I swear I let out something a little like a moan.

But he’s only tipping my head back, looking for an eyelash. His face splits in a grin and he lets me go, bringing a thumb up and brushing it under my eye. “Got it.”

“Great,” I squeak. “Thanks.”

“You want to make a wish?”

“What?”

“When you find an eyelash, you’re supposed to make a wish,” he says to me as if I’m an alien new to the planet.

“No. I’m fine.” I usually never give up the opportunity to make a wish on anything. I’m not superstitious, but I live for little moments of magic. But mortification has made my body a tense, throbbing mess. “How about that Margaret, though, huh?” I say awkwardly as I grip him by the shoulders to practically shove him out of the doorway. “She’s the president of your fan club. She thinks the world of you for some reason.” I hope I’ve layered enough sarcasm in my voice to cover up the turmoil in my body.

Hopper’s expression grows tight. He’s like this when people pay him compliments. Like it hurts him.

“Hop? Are we doing this?” a voice calls from inside the room. “What’s the holdup?”

But he’s still looking down at me.

“What?” I say, trying to calm the heat still burning inside me. Does he not believe me about Margaret? “She said all this?—”

“It’s not real, Chris,” Hopper says. His voice is gruff. “Never forget that I’m a shit.” Then he turns and leads me inside.

Does he really believe that? After worrying over my eyelash and telling me to make a wish? After all the things I’ve been learning about him that are so contrary to what the world thinks? Because it’s clear now that I do not believe Hopper Donnach is a shit the way he does. I think not even a little.

Chapter 13

Hopper

The meeting, which is to prepare for shooting next week, goes long enough that we go through two pots of coffee and all the snacks. I’m pretty sure Chris burned through the bowl of mandarin oranges almost entirely on her own. Three hours in, and we’re all cranky, me most of all because being back at this hotel is messing me up. I’ve been here enough times that I no longer have flashbacks of that terrible fucking night when I visit. But with Chris knowing what I did, I’m reminded of what an asshole I really am.

Things take a particularly bad turn when Charlene, my costar, breaks down in tears, thanks to the assistant director, Chad. I never really took notice of him before, but he’s spent the whole meeting watching Chris a little too close for my liking, his eyes tracking the way she licks her lips each time she pops an orange section into her mouth. I’m about to yell at him to avert his fucking gaze when he abruptly leans over while someone else isspeaking and asks Charlene if she’s gained a few pounds. Charlene’s been vocal for years about her history with eating disorders.

That’s the last straw.

“Get out!” I shout at him.

Everyone startles, but Chad looks truly shocked by my outburst. “What did I do?”

“Get the fuck out!” I yell at him.

“But—”

“Just go,” Toni, the director, says, sighing wearily and rubbing her temples. She heard him too, and she sees Charlene’s face, so she knows I didn’t just yell at him out of nowhere.

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