Page 94 of Relationship Goals

“What’s wrong?”

“I should tell you something…” He rubs a big hand over his face, suddenly so serious that a pit opens up in my stomach.

It was too good to be true, I should have known it was too good tobe true. One week in and I’m already entertaining fan-generated baby names. Stupid.

I shouldprobablytalk to my therapist about my codependent tendencies.

“What?” I ask. “Is this where you tell me you have a girlfriend in Vegas? In every city?” I try to keep my tone light and joking, but I feel like I might cry.

Ahhhhh, the joys of being a sensitive weirdo.

“No, Jesus, nothing like that.” He frowns at me, and I wish I could reach through the screen and touch him. “I don’t cheat. Don’t tell me that last douche you dated did.”

“Maybe,” I say. “He hurt me enough in other ways. Tell me your thing.”

“I just…really care about you already.” It’s so quiet that it takes me a minute to register. “I’m afraid of hurting you.”

Pressure spikes in my chest, a sort of bubble of happiness that expands the longer I process what he’s said.

“I care about you too,” I tell him. “And you won’t.” I pause, trying to be careful with my words for once, trying not to…freak him out. “You make me feel safe,” I finally manage.

He doesn’t look better, though, no, instead, he looks…angry. Thick brows furrowed, blue eyes icing over as his mouth forms a thin, pinched line.

“I better go,” he says curtly.

“Okay. Have a good day,” I manage, totally thrown.

He hangs up without another word, and I stare at my own face on the phone for a long while, trying to make sense of what the hell just happened.

Who goes from announcing their affection to being angry about it?

I sigh and shake my head, cupping my tea in my hands, letting the warmth leach into my palms before I drink the rest.

Luke Wolfe, the grumpy soccer star, would get annoyed with himself about showing any sign of vulnerability.

That must be all it is.

Still, the incongruity of it dogs my thoughts all through the car ride to the table read at the studio. I’m distracted as the assistants offer me a variety of beverages, and I take more hot tea and water.

I slip into the leather office chair at the large wooden table where a mic and my name written on a place card denote my spot.

There’s a leather folder embossed with the title of the film on the cover, and I run my fingertips on it, excitement and a fresh bout of nerves starting to drown out my concerns over Luke’s strange behavior this morning.

I did this. I landed this role, and now I get to finally sit with the rest of the cast and read the part I’ve been prepping for with Michelle and over long nights with the script.

A faint smile wipes away my frown, and I open up the thick folder to find a newly revised script, a pen with the studio’s logo on it. A creamy envelope juts out of one of the pockets, and I lift it out carefully, my smile broadening at the pretty script my name’s written in.

People are streaming through the door, the rest of the cast getting settled around, and part of me knows I should be greeting everyone and making small talk, but this expensive stationery has my full attention.

I pull out the card inside, printed on some kind of cloth-paper compound, the fibers soft and boasting rainbow flecks against the eggshell.

Dear Miss Hunt,

I am beyond pleased to have you join our production of THE ADVANTAGE GAME. Your audition was truly a standout for me, and I have full confidence you areready to step into the limelight on your own terms. You bring the sort of earnest innocence edged with toughness and steel this role requires, and I know that nuance will be evident in your every moment on-screen.

Yours,

Richard Grace

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