Page 48 of Snow Balled

Crap.

He sat on the stool next to mine. “I still can’t believe Miranda’s going to look at your writing. I love her films.”

“Me, too.”

“Drew’s going to do cartwheels when he gets back and finds out.”

The sour taste of guilt filled my stomach. Did Tristan think I hadn’t wanted to kiss him because of Drew? Or because I didn’t like him?

“I’m really happy for you, too,” I said lamely. “Glad the lawyers came through.”

He nodded. “Every once in a while, something goes right. Hey, I think I’m going to make some sandwiches, do you want—”

“I don’t kiss,” I blurted out. Instantly, I felt my face heat. Sometimes it amazed the hell out of me that I could play any kind of character quite smoothly, yet was so awkward in real life.

“You don’t have to explain.”

“Yeah, I kind of do.” I stared down at the floor under the large table, unable to meet his eyes. “To you, and to…”

“Drew?”

Shyly, I nodded. He’d just confirmed he had some inkling of what had gone on between Drew and me. Carter probably did as well—but that was something to worry about later.

When I took a quick peek up, Tristan’s eyes were kind. “I’ll listen to whatever you want to tell me. But let’s go sit over there. This doesn’t feel like a worktable conversation.”

Nodding, I followed him over to the sofa. I sat down, my feet tucked under me, trying not to blush from remembering the things Drew and I had done on this couch.

“Want me to make a fire?”

“No, it’s okay.”

To my surprise, he sat in the armchair that Carter usually claimed. It was only a few feet away from me, so we weren’t very far apart, but it was less intimate than sitting on the sofa together and for that, I was grateful. It was hard for me to talk about those kinds of things.

I hugged my knees to my chest while I gathered my thoughts. It was very important to me that he understood—that he not feel rejected. I couldn’t articulate why it was so important, but I knew that it was. “I’ve been kissed a lot.”

God, what a way to start. Tristan looked startled, and I didn’t blame him. I’d spent the entire time acting like a blushing virgin—for good reason. “In front of the cameras,” I clarified, and he nodded.

“When I was a kid, it was just a quick smack on the lips. Just basically touching our mouths together, but that was intimidating enough—usually for both me and the actor.”

“I’ll bet,” he said softly. “I heard the child actors from the Harry Potter films stressed over kissing scenes.”

“Yeah, I’m sure they did.” I sighed, wanting to tell him more, but not sure I could. But his expression held only kindness, not judgment. “I was seventeen when I was first required to share a real kiss on screen. With an adult.”

“That must’ve been intimidating.”

“It was.” I shivered, remembering it. “The actor was almost forty—older than my dad would’ve been if he’d lived.”

“Shit,” Tristan said. “That’s fucked up.”

“Very much so.”

“Didn’t your mom say anything about it?”

“Yes, she did. The director asked her about it, and she signed off on it immediately.”

“Jesus,” Tristan said. “Didn’t anyone object? Your agent? The actor himself?”

“Nope.” That wasn’t how Hollywood worked—or at least not how it used to work. These days, if actors were lucky, there might be an intimacy coordinator on set to make sure everyone was comfortable with what was happening.

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