Page 64 of Over & Out

Adrian is staring at me with an eyebrow raised, so I force a smile.

“I’m fine, seriously. Filming started this week, so things are quiet around here for now.” Quiet is an understatement. With Hopper on set for upward of twelve hours almost every day, I don’t have much to do that isn’t busywork. I even feel like I’ve done all of that. I’ve organized the whole office, confirmed every event on Hopper’s calendar for the next year, and even alphabetized the books on the bookshelves—which belong to the house and not to Hopper.

Considering what happened—and that the actual work part of the job has dried up so much during filming downtime—it’s taken everything in me not to quit. But once again, I think of Tru. She’s four days overdue and texted me last night that she was going out of her mind with boredom. She even asked if I had any work forher. I sent her a meditation recording, and she responded witha picture of her side-eyeing me, which at least made me laugh.

“Enjoy the downtime,” she told me. “Go get a massage. A new outfit. Take the time to recover from whatever shit he’s handed you the past few weeks.”

The shit he’s handed me.

Thank God that was a text so she didn’t have to see me throw my phone across the room with a little scream. If only she knew how little shit he gave me. How much I loved being with him until it all went to hell. That stupidfuckingasshole.

Adrian peers at me sympathetically now. “Not getting along with Mr. Forearms, huh?”

I blink, realizing Adrian’s let me stare off into space for the past several minutes.

“Forearms?” I say dully.

“You’ve never noticed his forearms? Come on. They’ve been on magazine covers. Whole blog posts have been written about them. I think someone even wrote a poem about them.”

I have, actually, admired Hopper’s forearms. Just like every other part of him, they’re beautiful. And sexy. And full of absolute shit.

I grit my teeth. “Adrian, aren’t we supposed to be talking about the Iggies?”

He smiles, as if he’s the one with the focus problem. Bless him for being so kind to me. Maybe I’m not the first girl he’s had to navigate through this.

“Of course,” he says, while I quietly sink lower with that doomsday thought.

Luckily, Adrian’s not easily bothered by my mood. He understands how difficult it can be working with Hopper. Even if it’s not for the reasons he thinks.

“So what do you think?” Adrian asks. “The hunter green? Or wine?”

Len is a designer, so we’re talking clothes for next month’s event, which will be right at the end of my term. The meeting is fun enough that I’m mostly distracted from Hopper for the next half hour. That is, until I hear the front door open, and voices trail in from the foyer.

Male voices.

My stomach plunges. I sit up straight on the bar stool. I think about those days at the amateur dirt bike competitions, when the mostly male competition would heckle me as I walked to my bike. I always walked tall, chin up, sometimes scratching my cheek with a middle finger.

That helps a little.

“So we’re set for Mabel’s accessories, then?” Adrian asks, clearly sensing the shift in me.

“Mm-hmm.” Blood rushes in my ears as I see Hopper’s form appear on the screen. He’s behind me. It’s the closest he’s been to me since that night, but he only remains there for a moment. He doesn’t even bother looking at me. Aziz does, though. He glances up at Hopper’s back as he heads to his room. The minute the door shuts, he leans in.

“Who pissed in that guy’s Cheerios this week?” he whispers to me and Adrian.

Adrian sighs. “It’s been bad? Chris hasn’t given me any details, like the very good assistant she is.”

I scoff. Hardly.

“It’s the worst I’ve ever seen it,” Aziz says. “He’s a fucking bear. Chris, you have to know what’s going on.”

“You know what? I don’t, actually.” That’s the truth. I was there for what happened, but I don’t know why he reacted the way he did. Is he squeamish? Shallow? Did he never really care about me and only wanted me for my looks? None of it really sits right, least of all that part. He did want to explain himself that night. But when I ignored him, he stopped trying. So I’ll add petty to the list of his terrible traits.

“I’m done with trying to understand him,” I say.

I was sure the comment would sound strong and aloof, but it comes out kind of sad, like I’ve been trying and failing to do just that.

“I don’t think anyone really gets him,” Aziz says sympathetically.

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