Page 10 of Well, Actually
Aida offers a skeptical shrug. Her phone dings, and her frown grows as she scans the message. “Rylie’s on his way down,” she says with a sigh, then levels a look at me. “I know Landry and William want drama, but I’m begging you to do that in the most drama-free way possible.”
“I have no idea what you mean,” I say, studying my nails. I painted them black to match the lace of my bra.
Aida ducks her head, forcing me to meet her stern expression. “You know exactly what that means, you little shit-stirrer. This is not a public execution or WWE smackdown. You’re representing Soundbites here and he’s trying to save hisown sponsored ass, so keep it funny but civil, get the job done, and, for the love of god, stick to the script.”
The “script” is a loose outline of a mutually-agreed-upon flow for the conversation. A few opening quips from me, banter, banter, hot dogs, banter, wrap it up on a high note with just enough zing and a hint of hope to keep tongues wagging and begging for another episode… which I refuse to even consider, but I’ll cross that minefield when I get to it.
It’s sterile and whittled down in a way that theoretically will not make this man cry using only my words and an artfully arched eyebrow on a live stream, but I’m not making any promises.
I open my mouth to say something sarcastic and not at all reassuring when the double doors behind Aida swing open.
And in walks Rylie fucking Cooper.
My heart lurches as my focus hooks on him—the loose, goofy confidence he exudes as he scans the room, absorbing all the energy and radiating it back like he’s the goddamn sun. He smiles and nods at the people milling about, then his gray eyes lock with mine, something sparking in them as our gazes hold, his lopsided smile creasing his cheeks to reveal a single dimple.
To my absolute horror, my eyes take on a mind of their own, skimming down his body, bouncing first to the ground and then slowly making their way up. He’s wearing dark jeans that are clearly infatuated with his ass and thighs, which have developed defined muscles over the years, and a navy crewneck sweatshirt that readsYALE GRANDMA. The hem of it lifts as he raises a hand to his hair—raking his fingers through the perfectly mussed locks—revealing a sliver of skin above hiswaistband, a faint line of hair centered between the ridges of his hip bones.
My breath catches, a sudden, frustrating heat sparking across my skin. It’s only when his smile grows that I realize my damn mouth is hanging open. I slam it shut so hard I give myself a headache.
No. Absolutely not. I willnotbe undone by an ironic sweatshirt and an endearing smile. I fix my face into a brutal scowl.
He walks toward me with the confidence of a man who… Honestly, a metaphor is kind of superfluous. He walks forward with the confidence of a man, parking himself in front of me, hands shoved in his pockets and smile fading into a look that’s nearly bashful as he searches my face. I pray my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.
“Hi,” he says. His voice is softer than it is in his videos, still low and rough, but lacking the sharp edge. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Cooper,” I respond with a brisk nod, laying brick after brick of coldness in front of me until there’s a sturdy wall of ice. “Wish I could say it’s good to see you, but…” I gesture vaguely.
The corner of his mouth twitches up toward a smile, but my glare scolds it back into a straight line.
He clears his throat, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose before ducking his head and dragging a hand across the back of his neck. “The feeling might not be mutual”—his gray eyes flick back to mine, a reckless spark glinting there that makes me furious—“but I genuinely am glad to seeyou.” He rocks back on his heels, letting his tripwire grin win out.
My heart stutters, then kicks into overdrive. It must be therage that’s making my pulse pound and heat lick along my skin. I make a show of looking over my shoulders, then lift out of my seat to glance over his before fixing him with a bland expression. “Don’t think any cameras are rolling yet, Cooper. You can cut the simp act.”
He laughs—a big, bold sound that vibrates through me, and my fingers grip the edge of my chair like I’ll float away without something to hang on to.
“You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?” he says, humor roaming free across his face.
“Not for a second.”
“Let’s get a move on,” William says with a raised voice, entering the room with effortless authority. He claps his hands, and the already bustling crew picks up the pace.
Cooper’s expression shifts, jaw working like he has something important to say to me and he needs to taste different words before deciding which are right. I look away, attention landing on Aida, my safe spot.
“Let’s get to places and setup,” she says, ushering us over to the shiny chrome table.
I pull out one of the chairs, its hairpin legs creating a shrill sound along the tile that makes Cooper flinch. Satisfied at catching a whiff of weakness from him, I settle into the tufted vinyl seat, crossing my legs and situating myself on the sparkly green cushion.
Aida goes through a quick run of show, and I diligently ignore Cooper despite feeling his eyes on me. When an assistant sets down the hot dogs, I accidentally spare him a glance, and the intensity of his gaze makes my breath scrape my throat. I purse my lips, looking away again with an air of boredomthat’s the complete opposite of the swelling nerves popping in my chest.
“Any questions, Rylie?” Aida asks. “Do you feel all set? I’m sure you’ve done interviews like this before, so it’s probably second nature.”
I make a mental note to call her a traitor later for speaking to him with a voice of kindness and respect.
“I’m great, thank you so much,” he replies, flashing that dimple. It prods at something feral in me, making me want to scratch it off his face.
“Great. Places, everyone,” Aida calls.
“Glad the princess is settled. I’m all good too, thanks for asking,” I grumble. Aida at least rolls her eyes instead of ignoring me. I’m surprised by the bark of laughter from across the table.
