Page 29 of Off Script
“As long as you’ll answer some of mine too.”
“Okay,” she breathes out a sigh of relief at my acquiescence. “Are you married or in a relationship?”
I answer quickly, not wanting to give her reason to doubt my veracity. “No, I swear to you that I’m single.”
“Do you have a criminal history?”
“Again, no.”
“Are you gay?”
“Nope.” If only she knew how much I fantasized about her, then she never would have deigned to ask me that. “I think it’s my turn to ask a few questions now, don’t you think?”
“Did that count as your first one?” Her dulcet tone sounding playful for the first time during this conversation.
“Nice try, but no. We’ll even the score—are you in a relationship, have a criminal history, and are you gay?”
“No, no, and no.”
“Okay, now without overthinking it—”
“Oh, jeez,” she mutters.
“You’re already overthinking it,” I tut. “Ifyouhad to put a label on us, what would it be?”
“More than friends, but I’m not sure exactly how much more,” she whispers after a lengthy pause.
“I agree with that assessment.” Hearing confirmation from her that she’s into me, even a little bit, has calmed some of my fears and made me happier than I’ve been all day.
Sounding a little flustered, she says, “This is totally superficial, but what do you look like?”
“I’m tall. I have dark brown hair and hazel eyes. I work out a lot, so I’m physically fit.” Cheekily, I add, “My mom says I’m handsome." I omit what the commenters on my social media accounts say regardingmy appearance because some of them are fucking feral. "What about you? A little quid pro quo.”
“I’m just your typical blonde hair, blue-eyed girl.”
I believe her to be anything but typical, but I don’t have any time to contemplate that thought further because her next question jerks me back to the present.
“Back to you now, Ben. Last question. Are you catfishing me?”
I freeze as my mind goes blank, and I grapple with how to answer that question honestly. Catfishing is when someone conceals their real identity. I can’t deny that, even though I’m not doing it maliciously. “Uh—”
“See? That pause is so telling. It’s a simple yes or no question!” Her agonized tone causes my nerves to recoil. “This is why I didn’t respond earlier, Ben. Anytime I think I’m getting to know the real you, you pull back, and I’m left doubting everything you’ve told me.”
This is the moment that I should come clean and confess who I am, but she already doubts me so much. If I tell Carlisle that she’s speaking with one of Hollywood’s most eligible bachelors, she’s more likely to think I’m psychotic than take me at my word.
And it’s all my own damn fault for not being honest with her from the beginning.
Backpedaling, I plead, “I swear, the only thing I lied to you about was my name, and that wasn’t technically a lie since Brent is my first name.”Damn, I remember one more lie I told her during our initial conversation.“Well, I’m not a bartender anymore either.”
“What the hell, Ben? What have you told me thatistrue?” Her southern twang returns with a vengeance, and with it comes her fiery temper. “I cannot keep doing this. Have a nice life.”
“Wait! Stop, don’t hang up,” I blurt out as panic sets in. “Listen to me. Please keep talking to me.” My heart speeds up as I feel the pressureto placate her and keep her on the line. “I really like you, Carlisle, and all I’m asking for is a little time,” I beg. “Keep talking to me for the next week, and then if you still want to meet me, we can.”
A week will allow me enough time to meet with my publicist and plan the best way to introduce Carlisle to the world, assuming all goes well between us when we meet. If our connection is as strong as I believe it to be, then my team needs to be prepared for the onslaught of added publicity that a new relationship will certainly generate.
And if our face-to-face meeting leads to nothing, then no harm, no foul. Better to be over-prepared than under-prepared.
Carlisle is quiet and as much as I want to fill the awkward silence, I don’t. I give her time to mull over my offer.
