Page 91 of Over & Out

Hopper looks at me with a little smirk.

“I guess Idohave thousands now, thanks to you.”

“It’s not like you’re a kept woman. You earned it, bangles.”

Still the reminder that I’m not living paycheck to paycheck—at least right now—makes me kind of sweaty. “The last time I had more than a few hundred dollars saved up, it was to get laser eye surgery.”

“I’m sorry, you wear glasses?”

“Woreglasses. Try to keep up, Hop.”

He looks positively thirsty. “I need to see you in glasses. Fuck, you’d be sexy. Why’d you have to fix your eyes?”

“Because seeing things is nice! Anyway, I threw them all out, you nerd-pervert.” At his pained expression, I relent and say, “I’ll show you pictures sometime.”

Sometime?That feels very future-based. Not for the first time since the airplane, I catch myself saying things that imply we have a future.

I head through the wide archway to the kitchen, trying desperately to shove away the future thoughts that keep trying to poke up.

Live in the moment,Lana said when I texted her, desperate, a couple of nights ago. I was panicking about how amazing things were with Hopper.

Her advice made sense. And was very generous, considering how unhinged my texts were—in the middle of the night, no less.

What about when my contract is up? What if this is a thing he does with some women? Just makes them feel like they’re the only one he’s ever cared about and then flitters off to his next movie? What if everything he said was bullshit?

“Has he given you any indication that any of that is true?” Lana could have said. “Do you know him and his character?”

But she didn’t. She’s too smart for that.Just enjoy yourself. That’s really all you can control.

Surprisingly, it worked. I’m now mostly avoiding thoughts of the future, refusing to dwell on the what-ifs. I’m just enjoying watching this beautiful man walk around my personal sanctuary as I fix us London fog lattes—a drink Shelby turned me on to. He picks up each little thrift store tchotchke and demands to know the story behind it.

My place is what you’d call maximalist chic. Or at least maximalist. I’ve got colorful throws on all the furniture, which in itself is mismatched and in bright colors. A vintage orange plush couch, a bright red bookshelf, a rainbow knotted rug. An oversized bookshelf chock-full of books, 90 percent of them romance. My paperback collection is admittedly huge, thanks to Lana owning a romance bookstore.

“I don’t really have a story for each of them,” I tell Hopper as he runs a stick over the spiny back of a wooden frog, which makes the thing emit a ribbit sound. “They just make me happy, just like all the colors in here make me happy.”

“This place makesmehappy,” he says, his form duplicated a dozen times in the mirror salon wall next to the hallway. He grins at me in the mirrors. But as our eyes meet, something passes between us. Something hot and sticky that melts all over me, making it difficult to breathe.

“Hope you like these,” I say as I come over with the tray.

Hopper obviously saw what I felt in my eyes, though, because he’s quiet now, no longer like a tourist in a museum, but serious, as he takes the tray from me.

It’s a good thing too, because it was rattling a little in my hands.

“Hey,” he says softly once it’s on the coffee table. “You okay?”

Sure, I should say.All good. Just every time I think I’ve got a handle on this situation, you look at me and my insides feel like they’ve turned to cotton candy.

“No,” I say honestly.

Hopper brushes his hand over my cheek, thumbing away a strand of hair that’s escaped my hastily pulled-up bun. “Tell me.”

I want to speak, but my mouth is suddenly dry. I swallow, the words lodging in my throat.Enjoy the moment, I try to remind myself. But how can I do that when it feels like not everything is out in the open? That’s just how I operate. No bullshit. Everything on the table.

“I think you’re going to break my heart,” I whisper.

Hopper’s eyes fill with an emotion that’s half pain and half something more. Affection maybe. I don’t know. I’m not an eye reader.

“Funny,” he said. “I was thinking something similar.”

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