Page 9 of Romance Is Dead

“Thanks.” He hopped up the stairs, twisting sideways so he could fit his broad shoulders through the narrow doorway.

“Do you want a seltzer or something?” I was still annoyed with him, but if he was trying to be nice, I could at least offer a snack. “Or some. . . Cheetos?” I cringed inwardly. Holey leggings and cheese-covered extruded cornmeal—so classy.

Teddy waved away the offer. “I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for completely screwing up those shots. I know I got defensive, but. . . you were right. Everything you said.”

I couldn’t help but soften a bit. Music to my ears. “Thanks for saying that. In that case, I’m sorry for calling you cocky and selfish.”

He tipped his head in appreciation. “You weren’t one hundred percent wrong. I could probably do the bare minimum from now on and actually learn my lines.” He chuckled. “Shouldn’t be too hard, I suppose.”

Cue the record scratch.

“Excuse me?”

“What?” He looked genuinely confused, as though he hadn’t just been totally condescending. Again.

“You’ll do ‘the bare minimum’? Why are you doing this movie if you don’t give a shit?”

He stared at me flatly, like the answer was obvious.

“Ah,” I said. “Money. Or is it just the fame?”

Teddy wearily ran a hand through his hair, causing a stray lock to flop over his forehead. “You’re awfully uptight about a movie you don’t even care about. It’s not exactly high art.”

“I. . . Where’d you get the idea that I don’t care?”

“Doesn’t take a genius—you looked miserable all day.”

I flinched. He wasn’t wrong, but I hadn’t realized it’d been so obvious. “I don’t owe you smiles. I was just concentrating on my work. Something you might want to try.”

“You know, I came here to apologize and you’re just—”

“I dare you to finish that sentence.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “I’m not one of your girls of the week that’s going to fall over with gratitude just because you threw a half-assed apology my way.”

He yawned, gazing lazily around my trailer. “Are you done?”

For the second time that day, I found myself toe to toe with Teddy, furious and fuming and trying to stop staring at the way his muscles were straining the sleeves of his shirt long enough to come up with a satisfying retort. But before I could, Teddy’s eyes strayed to the TV, and a moment later, they lit up with delight. A satisfied grin spread across his face.

Irritated, I followed his gaze to see what was so amusing. And then—oh no. Oh, no.

No, no, no.

He was staring at the TV, which had been paused in the middle ofPleasure Island Paradise. But it hadn’t stopped on, say, the ocean. Or the beach. Or even a nice view of the contestants talking.

No. It had paused on a close-up of a giant tongue about to lick whipped cream off a nipple that filled the entire screen. And it wasn’t just any nipple. It was Teddy’s nipple.

“Well, well, well,” he said, leaning back to admire the scene. “I didn’t know you were such a fan.”

“Don’t flatter yourself. I was. . .” I frantically searched my brain for an excuse, but nothing came. “There was nothing else on.”

“Nothing else on streaming? Isn’t that famously full of more content than you could ever possibly watch?”

Cheeks burning, I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. How much more humiliation could I endure for the day? And so much of it nipple-related.

“I’m going back to the hotel. You need to leave.”

“I’ll walk you out.”

“I’ll pass.”

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