Off Script

by Anna Paige

  Evangeline Rivers—Evie—was my best friend in the world. She and her wealthy new boyfriend had left on a month-long couple’s cruise a few days ago, and I was already going crazy without her. She was the glue that held me together, and the nucleus of our tiny circle of friends. I wouldn’t even think of doing a dinner or club excursion with them unless she was there, so I was basically on my own until she returned.

  It was going to be a long four weeks—well, technically it was thirty-three days which sounded even worse. Especially with no communication. Between the cost of international roaming and the fact that she’d promised one hundred percent attention to her man, there was little chance of hearing from her until they got back. That was of course, aside from possibly an email or two when the Wi-Fi was working, which her boyfriend—who’d been on the cruise before—said wasn’t often.

  It would be the longest we’d been apart since we were kids, but I encouraged her to go, knowing how serious she was about this guy and wanting to put her happiness first. She’d initially balked, refusing to leave me for that long but I assured her that I’d be fine here, leading my boring, uneventful life as usual.

  She promised to try and email as much as possible, but there was no way I was telling her about Bryce—if that was even his real name—over email. This needed to be a long, giddy gab-fest when she got back on dry land.

  But, oh, the conversation we’d have once she was home.

  As soon as I settled into my favorite spot on the couch, I pulled out my phone and Googled Bryce’s name because—for the life of me—I could not remember what the man on the awards shows looked like. Probably because he usually shared the stage with Gavin when accepting awards, and who the hell could focus on anything except Gavin-fucking-Lane when he was on their television screen? Not me, that was for sure.

  Images of Bryce popped up on my screen, along with his bio. Shit, shit, shit. It was really him. There were thousands of pics of him—on set, on location shoots, sporting tuxedos to red-carpet events all over the globe, and alone onstage accepting awards. Apparently, there were some of those without Gavin. Who knew?

  And I threatened to fry the hair off his head with my fifty-dollar purple taser.

  Great first impression, Kaiti. Just perfect.

  I scrolled back up to the search bar and typed in Gavin Lane. Not that I needed to type the whole thing—after entering ‘Gav’ his name was the first to pop up. And there he was in all his flawless, chiseled, panty-melting glory. Photo after photo of him with that messy, dirty blond hair and his mossy green bedroom eyes. The man was sex on two legs; six-one and built with wide shoulders, slim lips, a square jaw, and long toned arms that made me sigh in appreciation. He was perfection. Absolute perfection.

  And I was most definitely not.

  My dark hair was neither curly nor straight but some hybrid of the two. Unless I heat-styled it into something passable, it looked like I’d just rolled out of bed. My wide, near-black eyes were a little unusual, I had to admit, but they weren’t particularly captivating in my experience. That was to say, no one ever commented on them. I was curvy—not overweight but not thin.

  Average.

  I was decidedly, aggressively, overwhelmingly average.

  And I was okay with that…until someone suggested I share air space with Gavin-fucking-Lane. Talk about a self-esteem killer.

  I’d never get up enough nerve to even speak to him, let alone pass myself off as an actress.

  No freaking way.

  My phone rang in my hand, startling me as the glorious photos disappeared and an unfamiliar number popped up. Not even the same area code—yep, that shouted telemarketer and sent a jolt of annoyance through me. I’d usually just answer the call and immediately hit ‘end,’ but I was in a shitty mood, so I accepted the call and said ‘hello’ while preparing to launch into my patented ‘take me off your goddamn calling list’ speech.

  “Kaiti?” a male voice said on the other end.

  “Depends on what you want,” I answered in a clipped tone.

  “Kaiti Oliver? The feisty mall-dweller who ran out on me today?”

  I frowned at the phone as my heartbeat kicked up a notch. “Mr. Harrison?”

  “Call me Bryce, please.”

  “Okay, Bryce, want to tell me how you got your hands on my cell number?” Why couldn’t he leave me alone?

  He made a tsking sound. “Can’t reveal my sources, I’m afraid. Suffice it to say, I was highly motivated to track you down, and I know a lot of people.”

  “Really? Do you know anyone who can help me get a quick restraining order? Because I think I need to shop around for one.”

  His soft laugh annoyed me even more. “I’m persistent, what can I say?”

  “Stalkers call themselves that too, you know,” I huffed, going to the kitchen to grab a soda. A sugary drink should fix the tremor in my hands since the shakes were clearly from hypoglycemia.

  It wasn’t like nerves would make them tremble like that.

  Right.

  Maybe it was because I was still talking shit to the famous person.

  Why couldn’t I stop?

  “I promise I’m not a stalker. Just a businessman who wants to see his show maintain its top-ranked status for a very long time. And I’m convinced I need you on board for that to happen. Please just come down and do a reading.”

  “No.” I hated the pleading in his voice, but I couldn’t help him. There was no way. “I’m sorry, really I am, but I’m not interested.”

  “You’re lying,” he tossed out.

  “No. You’re stubborn and refuse to take no for an answer.” I was gritting my teeth and had to force myself to relax. I took a sip of my drink and overdid it in my haste; the bubbles made my nose burn, and I began to cough.

  “You okay?”

  I sputtered a while longer before regaining the ability to speak. “I’m fine. And I’m done with this conversation. Thanks for your offer, Bryce, but no thanks.”

  I hung up before he could start in again and looked down to see that my hands still shook.

  Low blood sugar, my ass. I was shaking because I was scared.

  And I was scared because I knew if he kept pushing, I would eventually want to give in.

  Giving in wasn’t an option, though. Not for me. I’d fought hard to be left the hell alone.

  I couldn’t give that up now.

  Or they’d know…

  How long have I been standing here staring at these freaking bananas?

  I hadn’t been seeing them, of course. Nope. All I could see today was images of Gavin Lane from the last episode of Savages.

  Shirtless.

  Surfing.

  Dripping wet.

  If I kept this up, I would be too.

  I blinked and glanced around the market, wondering if my odd trance had caught anyone’s attention. God, I hoped not. The last thing I wanted was to be stared at or worse, find pictures of my weird banana-fixation on the web. The meme potential was definitely there.

  I shuddered considering the possibilities.

  Thankfully, the aisles were relatively empty mid-afternoon on a Friday, which was why I tended to do my shopping at this time each week.

  Friday was my short day, which meant I got off at lunchtime. I would have gladly stayed and gotten a little overtime, but company policy prohibited that.

  Sometimes I would meet Evie and her friends for lunch, then head out to do the week’s shopping. Other times—when the weather was nice—I would sit in the park with an enormous frozen frappé and day-old bread from the bakery outlet, feeding the birds. Friday afternoons were peaceful and unhurried; my time to shake off the week.

  This week, specifically the day before, was not so easy to shake. I couldn’t stop thinking about Gavin Lane and what might have happened if I had taken Bryce up on his offer. The mere idea that I used the director’s first name in my head blew my mind, like I was on a first name basis with a superstar, even if his accomplishments were all be
hind the camera.

  And he wanted me to audition with someone who was very much in the public eye, someone I’d been fangirling over for years, even before he’d become an A-list name. Even though he and I were about the same age, I remembered every sitcom cameo, commercial, and soap opera role of Gavin Lane’s career. He’d been acting since he was an adorable, chubby-cheeked kid, and my god, puberty had treated that boy well.

  Now in his early twenties, he was so damn attractive I could barely even think of being in the same room with him without my mouth going dry. There was no way I would fare well trying to even speak to the man, much less work with him. Run lines? Right. I’d be lucky to remember my own name in the presence of such perfection.

  I went through the afternoon with my attention divided between the tasks at hand—grocery shopping and a few quick errands—and thoughts of Gavin. I just couldn’t stop thinking about him, about what Bryce had said, even if I knew there was no way I could ever go through with it.

  Social anxiety was a pain in the ass.

  I could go most places without trouble, but the idea of being the focus of everyone’s attention, like the people in the food court when Bryce was being so loud, made me want to run and hide under a damn rock. I couldn’t stand the idea of their eyes on me; assessing, judging, mocking. It made my palms sweat when I thought about all the curious stares from the day before and that had been less than a hundred people.

  When I thought about the millions of people who watched Savages every week? I actually felt woozy.

  That guy is barking up the wrong tree.

  By the time I got home with my groceries, I had made up my mind to forget Bryce and Gavin and the drawn-out game of what-if I’d been playing since I’d left that food court. It was done, decision made, that was the end of it.

  Period.

  I nodded to myself, affirming that I was on the right track. Once I unpacked the food, I set off for a quick shower, after which I intended to find something to binge-watch while I put a sizable dent in the half-gallon of mint chocolate chip I’d just bought.

  Maybe it wasn’t the most exciting Friday night I’d ever planned, but it sounded like pure bliss.

  My apartment was cozy and inviting, filled with comfortable furniture and eclectic pieces I had come across over the years, most of which were inside jokes with Evie that would confuse any normal person. Not that many people came over anyway.

  I kept things tidy—which wasn’t exactly hard with only myself to clean up after—but the apartment still looked lived-in enough to seem inviting. The kind of place where you’d be able to relax and be yourself.

  The floor plan was open, which meant I could watch TV from the kitchen if I wanted—not that I cooked all that often or anything. Cooking for one was a lot of wasted energy, or that’s what I told myself when I felt too lazy to whip up a proper lasagna and grabbed a Stouffer’s For One instead.

  I’d settled myself on the couch and spent a good half hour alternating between quick bites of ice cream and scrolling the available shows—pointedly avoiding ones that featured a certain green-eyed heartthrob—when a soft knock sounded at my door. I groaned at the interruption.

  I tugged my tank top and cotton capris into place and briefly considered taking down my messy topknot, then decided not to bother. It was probably my downstairs neighbor who never seemed to have all the ingredients for what she wanted to cook. Sugar, eggs, milk, and flour were her usual requests, though she had asked for salmon fillets once. Seriously. Salmon fillets. As long as she wasn’t asking for my wine or my ice cream, we were good.

  I gave my mint chocolate chip a longing look from across the room and prepared to answer the door before common sense kicked in and I remembered to ask who was on the other side.

  “Who is it?” I called, wishing for the millionth time that I had a damn peephole.

  “Delivery for Kaiti Oliver,” a male voice announced.

  With the chain still on the door, I opened it a crack and was eye-level with an enormous bouquet of pink roses. The arrangement was so large I couldn’t even see past them to make out the delivery guy. “Who are they from?”

  “There’s a card, ma’am,” he replied.

  “Can you read it to me, please? Not to be weird but roses aren’t enough to get me to open my door to some strange guy.”

  There was a soft chuckle. “Understood.” His voice was nice; smooth and friendly. After a moment he said, “They’re from Bryce Harrison, ma’am.”

  “Son of a bitch,” I muttered without thinking.

  “Excuse me?” The guy sounded more amused than offended.

  “Never mind. Hang on a sec.” I closed the door and took the chain off before opening it wide to accommodate the flowers as the guy stepped just inside the threshold. “Do I need to sign something?” I asked, taking the vase and turning to sit the surprisingly heavy arrangement on the table.

  “Not unless he offers you a contract, and even then, I’d consult a lawyer before signing. Bryce is a sneaky bastard.”

  I spun on one socked heel and stood face to face with Gavin Lane.

  My heart jumped into my throat and cut off all possibility of speech, so I stood there gaping like an idiot while Gavin leaned against the door jamb with a smile, letting me work my shit out because clearly, I needed a minute. Or five.

  And a drink.

  He was wearing a black low-profile ball cap—complete with traditional curved bill—dark jeans and a thin, black, short-sleeved shirt that made his arms look amazing, especially when he crossed them over his broad chest and his biceps flexed. I had the insane urge to nuzzle them and maybe…lick one?

  Am I drooling? Dear Lord, please don’t let me be drooling.

  This is all Bryce’s fault. I’m about to humiliate myself because of that stubborn son of a bitch.

  I barely managed to speak without a noticeable tremble in my voice. “If I don’t die of a fucking heart attack first, I’m going to kill Bryce Harrison with my bare hands.”

  Gavin laughed at that, gesturing toward the open door and closing it when I nodded that he could. “I see what he means about you.”

  I blindly reached behind me until my hand landed on the back of one of my dining chairs and whipped it around, flopping down into it gracelessly. I stared at the man hovering by my front door. “No offense, but he is full of shit, and if he thinks sending you here helped further his ridiculous campaign to get me to audition, he’s also stupid.”

  His smile didn’t slip in the least. Instead of being offended, he just nodded and came closer. “I told him as much, but he thought maybe I could entice you into at least coming in for a quick read-through.”

  “Because you’re too hot to turn down?” I blurted. Shit. My eyes went wide and I clamped my mouth shut so hard I bit my lip.

  He raised a brow and tilted his head to one side, watching me intently. “Was that sarcasm or an unintentional revelation? I was warned that you have a sharp tongue.” His eyes flicked to my mouth for a beat.

  “Both,” I admitted, knowing I was blushing.

  He nodded. “Well, I’m sure he was hoping to use me as bait, but I’m not into manipulation, so I told him flat out I wouldn’t come here and try to con you. If you’re anything like he said, you’re not the type to be swayed that easily anyway.”

  “Then why did you come here?” I didn’t mean for it to come out so snippy, but it annoyed me that Bryce—and maybe Gavin, despite what he said—thought I would be so entranced by this visit that I would give in.

  “Honestly?”

  “No, lie to me.” I rolled my eyes, not believing I was smarting off to Gavin Lane. What the hell was wrong with me?

  He chuckled. “Because I thought he made it all up. I couldn’t believe someone not only turned him down but actually threatened to fry him with a taser.”

  I cringed. “Yeah, that was me.”

  “You’re my hero, woman.” He laughed. “Did you really say you’d set him on fire?”

  �
�Not exactly.” I found myself laughing too, though a bit uncomfortably. “I said I’d keep zapping him until his hair burst into flames. Not the same thing.”

  “You’re right. That’s even better.”

  We both cracked up at that, and I found myself relaxing, to my shock.

  Gavin looked around the apartment, nodding in apparent approval. “Nice place. The apartments here are so much bigger than the ones in New York.”

  I looked around with a critical eye and a small twinge of panic hit me like cold water. God, what if I’d left a bra on the back of the couch or something equally embarrassing? Thankfully, I didn’t see anything amiss. “Advantage of being in the south, I guess. Do you have an apartment here?”

  He reached over and fiddled with one of the photo frames on my foyer table—not that I had much of a foyer, but I liked to partition off the areas of the apartment anyway. It made it feel more ordered, which I found soothing. “Yeah, one of those fully furnished deals. A whole building was reserved for cast and crew members when we got picked up for our second season. We’ve been there—at least during filming—ever since. It’s not like this place, though. It’s big with lots of furniture but kind of empty. No personality, just a collection of rooms, you know?”

  I nodded. “I know exactly what you mean.” I had grown up in foster homes, being shuffled from one house to another in the small town where I’d been born, and none of them allowed much decorating—probably because they knew you weren’t going to be there that long. And once you were gone, it was like you’d never been there at all.

  Gavin watched me for a beat like he knew I really did understand but was deciding whether or not to comment on it. Thankfully, he chose to go back to his perusal of my apartment. He nodded and pointed to the coffee table in front of the couch. “Looks like your ice cream is melting. What is that, mint chocolate chip?”

  “Yeah. My exciting Friday night.”

  He pulled his phone from his back pocket and frowned down at the display. “Um, it’s four-thirty.”