Page 31 of Fallen Starboy

“Uh, thanks,” I mumbled, already on overload. “I’ll look into it. Appreciate the help.”

“The pleasure is all mine.” His hand fell on the doorknob just as it turned, and we both stepped back as a very frazzled-looking Arista strode through the opening, her tablet in hand, phone to her ear, voice tense as she argued with someone who clearly was giving her a run for her money.

“Listen, Ajax, it’s as simple as this. I pay you top dollar to make my clients look good in the press, and you know damn well you’re getting more than the market average. So if I say I wanna reschedule an interview, your first words should be ‘yes, ma’am, what day works best for you,’ not two middle fingers up to me after all I’ve done for you.”

I recognized the name Ajax. It was the interviewer for the daily rag they called a newspaper in this town. He also ran oneof the biggest entertainment blogs in the country, and was active in all the circles that mattered. He was also the man I’d cancelled on the other day because I felt like making things difficult for Arista.

Shit.

As if she could tell I was thinking about her, those piercing eyes cut to me, then to Graham, softening almost instantly as she offered him a smile and her free hand. He took it and fucking bent over it like some fancy lad in a period drama, kissing the edge of her knuckles like a fairytale prince, and damn it if some sort of jealous rage didn’t roll right through my body at the idea of another man kissing her?—

Woah. Full stop, man. You don’t own her. She’s not yours anymore. And you’ve made it perfectly clear you’re not interested in patching things up.

It was easy to tell myself that. It was immensely harder to make myself believe it.

“Ah, Miss Simmons, how lovely it is to be blessed by your beautiful face again.” His charisma dialed up to a twenty, and suddenly Arista was all fluttering lashes and coy smiles, pretending people didn’t flatter her every day.

If they didn’t, they fuckingshould.

“Oh, Graham, flattery will get you everywhere,” she teased, taking her hand back before it became improper in his grip. “How are things?”

They walked off into the kitchen like this washerhome and not mine, chatting like two old friends over his other famous clients and their progress. Meanwhile, still clutching Yejin’s picture, I fumed in place, unaware my daughter had also left me for greener pastures. She sat at the island in the kitchen next to Arista, her pretty curls bouncing around her head as she animatedly told the woman who’d given birth to her about her lessons with Graham and how much fun they were.

Suddenly, it was likeIwas the outsider. Hell, she looked so much like her, you could almost mistake the three of them for a family, if it weren’t for the telltale parts of me woven in between Arista’s genetics.

We made beautiful fucking kids, at least.

I stormed into the kitchen, snarly and a total asshole as I slipped Yejin’s photo on the fridge without even looking at it. Had I spotted it, I might’ve thought twice about displaying it so prominently. I also might’ve avoided the interaction that came immediately after.

“Look, Miss Arista, Daddy’s hanging my picture! Mister Graham says I’m a natural with watercolors.”

As if on cue, all the eyes in the room turned to the painting I’d just released, and a collective gasp slipped from mine and Arista’s lips simultaneously.

Yejin had painted the lake just down the road from the house, but instead of two figures in the painting, there were three. A telltale streak of red hair on the third figure told me exactly what I was looking at, and my heart sank.

She’d drawn herself and I at the lake, and added in Arista.

Unknowingly, she was getting attached, and it’d barely been a few weeks since we moved here and she became entrenched in our lives again.

“It’s the three of us at the lake,” she said proudly, slipping off the stool she sat on. “Maybe sometime we can take Miss Arista to see the ducks, Daddy. I think she’d like that. She works so much.” As an afterthought, she cocked her head and smiled. “You do, too. Uncle Minseo always said time off is important. But you don’t listen to him much.”

Arista’s unladylike snort broke the sudden silence, and soon enough, I was cracking up with her, both of us doubled over at the very well-known fact that, despite Minseo’s unending efforts, I had never been much for taking time off. He hated theworkaholic in me, and never missed an opportunity to admonish me for it.

“Oh my god, remember the time he changed the locks on the studio to keep you from recording over the holidays instead of going home with him?” Her hair slipped slowly from the loose bun at the base of her skull as she giggled at the image I remembered all too well. “You insisted I help you learn to pick locks so you could sneak in and hide from him.”

“You refused to teach me, if I remember correctly,” I mused, remembering the way I’d bent over her shoulder at the computer and practically whined that it was imperative to learn lockpicking to sneak into the damn recording booth. As if two extra days was going to make that much of a difference. “So mean.”

My eyes shot to her tongue as she stuck it out at me, and all the blood rushed from my brain to . . . other areas. I remembered what it felt like to have that tongue against mine, and suddenly the air was too thick for me to breathe. Nostalgia held my tongue, arousal captured my body, and I was powerless to escape either as she sat there and worked her magic on me unwittingly.

Graham looked from her to me, then back again, and sighed, picking up his bag from the counter. “I’ll be going, then. I have an appointment with another client I shouldn’t be late for.” He turned his attention to me with a curt bow. “I’ll see you and Yejin again on Friday, Mr. Kim.”

“See you Friday, Graham,” I shot out, completely stuck on the woman in front of me.

Yejin had abandoned us for the fun she could find in the mini movie theatre, already no doubt queueing up her favorite shows on a screen that was disgustingly oversized. And now it was just the two of us in here, alone with memories of the past, andunresolved emotional damage that threatened to tip the scales in either direction at the slightest provocation.

I didn’t speak, but my eyes were drawn back to the picture on the fridge as Arista cleared her throat and rose from her seat.

I wasn’t ready to let go of the only polite, friendly, not-forced interaction with her in half a week.

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