Page 21 of The Singapore Stunt

“You sure you’re up for it? That’s a lot of walking, and tomorrow’s going to be another long one.” My chest warms with his concern. His focus is always on making sure I’m in the best light.

“I’m good. I should ask you the same question, old man,” I tease, already aware he only has two years on me. After my talk with Trace, I fought the urge to do something that irritated me about every man I went out with early in my career. They’d google me and then recite information from my Wikipedia page back at me over dinner.

Why?

Did they think I didn’t know I played a strung-out junkie on season seven, episode eleven, of a police procedural ten years ago? My favorite is when they correct me rather than the site about basic facts. No, kind sir, who I will not be going out with again. I did not attend elementary school in Ohio. I think I would have remembered that.

“It’s either pace around the Gardens or my room all night. At least your way, I have you in my line of sight.” His response is filled with more information than he realizes.

I step next to him and slip my hand through his hooked arm. I do this because I can. I’ve been able to walk around Singapore totally incognito because no one expects to see a movie star hanging out in a hawker market. I’ve worn my hair pulled back, minimal makeup, and am dressed for comfort. Different from how most of the world sees me. This is the real me, the preferred way I like to be.

After the film crews arrive, things will change. The local news will report we’re on the island filming. Social media feeds of fans on the island will track our movement. Our filming location and schedules will be leaked. There are five and a half million people on the island and probably ten million phones with cameras. If I walked down the street like this with Mattias in twenty-four hours, our pictures would appear on a tabloid magazine within five minutes.

“Can we talk?” I let slip the three-word combination that every man on the planet fears.

“I suspected as much. I’m in no rush.”

“You know about my past, right?” When he doesn’t speak, I clarify which part of my past I’m referring to. “My fake romance with Trace Edwards.”

He nods. “I’m not one to follow the rags. But yeah, it was impossible not to get sucked in. Especially since I work in the industry.”

My mouth turns dry. “Do you have questions?” I cede control and hold my breath.

“Just the one.” I brace. “Do you have any regrets?”

“Hmm,” I grunt, surprised at his question. Women typically want to know what it was like to play Trace’s fake girlfriend, some fishing for inappropriate details. The men assume that despite the six hundred articles to the contrary, Trace and I have had sex.

“It’s a little complex. Trace is my best friend in the entire world. Still.” I wait for his reaction. Some men, even in this day and age, don’t believe heterosexual men and women can be close friends without sex playing a part. “I didn’t think things through.” I squeeze his forearm. “I regret not being able to do something as simple as this with someone I’d like to get to know better.”

His left hand lands on the back of my hand on his forearm. “Help me understand.” My breath hitches. Mattias doesn’t assume. He doesn’t jump to conclusions. He’s the rare man who asks.

I take a deep inhale. “My world is a house of magnified mirrors.” I use the words Trace once used to describe Hollywood. The smallest of flaws are reflected out to the world in full HD to pick apart. “An innocent stroll down the street with my arms hooked with you could appear on the cover of a tabloid magazine. A half dozen salacious headlines.” I state the obvious in case Mattias is blind to what my world entails.

“It’ll unleash the dungeon of internet dwellers. They will pick through your social media history, looking for the smallest of missteps to support whatever agenda they are pushing, regardless of facts. That’s the cost of admission for a single man to take an innocent stroll with me.”

Our pace slows, and I peek over my shoulder and attempt to read his reaction. His gaze is forward. A far-off gaze, as if contemplating my words. I watch his Adam’s apple bob and fight the urge to trace a finger down his collarbone.

I know when he speaks, it will clarify what comes next. I won’t blame him if he retreats. That’s what a smart person would do. It forced Hollywood’s biggest star, Trace Edwards, into an early retirement.

His feet stop. He must sense the importance of this moment. He twists to face me, lowering his arms, his hands slipping into mine. He lowers his chin, capturing my complete attention. “We’re both adults,” he starts, and I prepare for the graceful exit.

The left corner of his lips curls up into a half smirk. “And we both know this little stroll is far from innocent. Am I right?”

My lips part, and I start to give him the answer he seeks. I realize I don’t need words to answer his question. Mattias is a man of action. He observes and collects information through the movement of others.

I release his hands and lift my hands to the top of my hair. I finger the band holding my ponytail and whip it off. I lower my chin and shake my hair loose.

When I lift my head and capture the look of hunger in his eyes, I know he has the answer to his question, and I know what comes next.

Chapter Sixteen

Mattias

I am Pavlov’s dog.

I am a bull in the arena with a matador waving a red flag in front of me.

I am uncontrolled desire.

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