Page 4 of Lone Spy

Or turn on her if given the order.

At my knock, Hannah opens the door of her suite. She grins at me, her smile wide, lips painted crimson red. Her skin is a delicate, creamy hue. There is a flush across her cheeks and charcoal outlining her hazel eyes.

Hannah's wearing a pair of wide-leg, black ribbed pants and a flowy blouse that hangs off one sculpted shoulder. Her salt and pepper pixie haircut glints in the low light.

"Angela," she says, her tone implying how happy she is to see me, how hard it's been since we last laid eyes on each other, and how important it is that we're together again. Her arms open and I step into them, relaxing into Hannah's embrace.

"Those fuck-heads," she says. "Fuck them." She leans away from me, holding my shoulders. "Thank fuck everyone's okay."

"Yes," I agree. "Thank fuck.” I am truly grateful no one was hurt by the gunman and he was easily subdued and arrested.

"The premiere could have continued," Hannah says, "if he hadn't made that stupid bomb threat. But of course, he knew that. Fucking fear tactics," she mutters, looking over my shoulder. “Hi, Ash, Chris," she says with a tilt of her chin.

I glance back to see them nod. "Evening, Hannah," Ash says.

"Let me get you a drink.” Hannah loops her arm through mine.

"Yes, please," I reply as we walk down the steps into the suite.

There's a small gathering of cast and crew on the couches. Jeremy lifts his hand from where he's standing by the window, holding a martini glass. I wave back. "Julian is stopping by," Hannah says, pulling my focus.

"He is?" I ask, surprised. "I didn't know he was in town." My voice is choked and my cheeks heat.

"Oh god.” Her eyes are pinched with worry. “Is this going to be weird? I thought it was all fine.” Julian and Hannah are good friends. She's directed him several times, and they seem to have an older sister-younger brother dynamic. I suspect he's told her about our relationship, but Hannah isn't the type to gossip.

If they've spoken about us, it would have been about his struggles with my emotional unavailability, not anything torrid or gross. He's ridiculously mature and rational. It's infuriating and deeply attractive, and I may need to feign a headache to get out of here before he arrives.

"Of course it's fine,” I say. “It’s just been a day.” I let out a short laugh.

We reach the kitchen, where the counter separating it from the sitting area has been set up as a bar. "Champagne?" Hannah asks. "Let's not let that asshole ruin our celebration." I nod. She pours two flutes. "We made a great film, and I'm proud of you." She holds the flute out to me.

My throat burns with emotion as I take it.

"Thank you," I say, feeling gratitude for not just the role and her direction, but also for her friendship.

ChapterThree

I wakeup the next morning, my mouth sandpapery, dry, cottony, unpleasant. It wasn't the light spearing through the curtains that woke me or the sound of the shower, but rather the pounding behind my eyes.

Groaning, I pull the covers over my head, but there is no escaping my overindulgence from the night before.

The shower turns off, and, moments later, the sound of the bathroom door swinging open reaches me under the thick duvet. Footsteps circle the bed and the mattress depresses before a large hand cups my hip through the covers.

"You okay, honey?" Julian's British accent makes me cringe. Fuck. I should have faked that headache last night and saved myself from the one trying to crash through my skull this morning. I also could have avoided sleeping with Julian. Not that I didn't enjoy myself, just that…it's complicated.

"Do you want to come out and have some coffee?" Julian asks, his voice tender, caring, sweet. Why can't the man be an asshole? I groan and curl more tightly into the fetal position. "Should I take that as a no?" he says with a laugh that would be charming if it wasn't so loud.

"Leave me," I say, like a hiker with a broken leg high on Mount Everest as a snowstorm closes in.

Julian laughs again. "I do have to get going." He rubs my hip, bringing his hand down to my thigh and back up again. "My flight to Fiji is in five hours. Need to stop by my house before I head to the airport."

"Fiji?" I ask, my voice a croak. His hand stills, and I realize he told me all about why he was going to Fiji last night.

The reason seeps through my champagne-infused memories, bubbling to the surface. Julian told me he'd been cast in the lead role of a thriller. If things went well, it could be another franchise, something like James Bond. But modern, of course.

What was modern anymore? Time seemed to be folding back on itself, realigning mistakes from the past and nailing them into the present.

I poke my head out from underneath the covers and meet Julian's soft gaze. Worry lines crease his broad brow. "You'll be gone for three months," I say, showing him I remember.

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