Jake felt taut as fucking piano wire. This woman—holy hell, she was like lava, molten hot and sinuous. He had never in his life wanted a woman as much or as badly as he wanted Hailey.

Calm it down, he warned himself. At this rate, he’d come as soon as he entered her. So much for slow, he thought, grinning.

He heard her cell phone ring, let out a low growl. They probably should’ve shut their phones off. He hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t thought of anything but her. And now . . .

She’d been graceful in her movements, like a dancer. But the moment that phone rang, she grabbed for her cell like she was slapping out a fire, with an instinctive, clumsy haste. “Hello?”

The heater chose that moment to kick on, drowning out the other side of the conversation, but he saw Hailey’s expression fall slack, her eyes glittering with resolve. “All right. Don’t worry. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

She didn’t even look at him as she clicked off her phone. She was up and off the bed in a flash, snatching up her clothing, putting it on like a firefighter who had just heard the alarm.

Just like that, it was as if he didn’t exist. She moved like a machine, all her previous grace and sensuousness gone.

“What happened?” he asked quickly, standing up and reaching for her. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to go. Now.” Her deep violet eyes that had been so hot just a moment ago were now hard, cold. “Where did you put my bra?”

He pointed numbly toward the other bed, where he’d tossed it. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing you need to worry about.” She shimmied into her underwear, then tugged on her jeans. He felt a moment of loss as she put her bra back on. “I just need to go.”

His body ached like a son of a bitch, but he wasn’t a complete ass. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I got it.” Each word was clipped, like she’d chipped it off an ice block with a pick. Then, seeing that he wasn’t going anywhere, she shrugged. “Family stuff,” she added, but the look on her face suggested something more.

What kind of “family stuff” happened at eleven o’clock at night, he wondered. Something that would . . .

Wait a second.

“Do you have a kid or something?” he blurted out. A sick kid would be the reason a woman would shut down and go into emergency mode.

“Or something,” she said. The look of derision on her face was venomous. “And what if I did? Have a kid. Kind of a boner killer, huh?”

“I wouldn’t care,” he said honestly. He imagined any kid of Hailey’s would probably be awesome, and was momentarily intrigued. “I’m just trying to figure out what the hell is going on. You were really into it, and now you’re racing out of here like there’s a hostage situation . . .”

“It’s family stuff,” she said tightly, with the silent and it’s none of your business so clear, she might as well have held up a sign. She slipped into her boots as she pulled her sweater back on, then sat on the edge of the bed to zip them.

He grimaced. Then he sat next to her. “Are you in trouble?”

“Oh, Jesus,” she muttered. Her movements were choppy, frantic. “No, we don’t need any rescuing, thanks. This isn’t a problem you can fix. I just need to go, okay?”

He felt anger bubble up in him. “What the hell is with the attitude? I’m just trying to help!”

“And I’m just trying to leave!” She said, yanking her coat off the other bed and pushing her arms through the sleeves. “I don’t have time to hold your hand and reassure you. Don’t like my attitude? I’ll be gone in a minute, so no worries, you don’t have to deal with it. Good luck with the convention and the show and all that.”

That was the worst thing. Her tone. He’d gone from “incredible object of desire” to “obstacle and distraction” in the blink of an eye. She was also palpably anxious about that phone call. Whatever could scare this powerhouse of a woman had to be pretty goddamned bad.

He knew, instinctively, that she could probably handle it herself. But he found himself caring, and wanting her to know that maybe she didn’t have to.

“Wait. Wait, damn it,” he said, holding the door as she unlatched it.

Her blue eyes gleamed, her arctic gaze going from his hand, to his eyes, then back to his hand, with growing fury. “You do not want to try to stop me from leaving,” she said, her voice icy.

“Just give me one second to throw some clothes on,” he said, keeping his palm flat against the door and stepping closer to her. “I’m going with you.”

She moved like lightning, slamming him against the wall, surprising him. “I need to get to my sisters,” she said in a low growl. “Do you understand? They need me. Right. Now. Do not fuck with me on this!”

He let her shove him away from the door frame, worry, anger, frustration, and—yeah, sexual tension, he admitted—swirling around in him in a toxic cocktail of emotions. “Damn it! Why can’t you accept some help? Why do you have to do this all by yourself?”

“Asking if I needed help? That was considerate. Your hand on the door, though? Telling me you’re going with me?” She glared at him as she opened the door. “Why the fuck do you have to make this about you?”

His jaw dropped. “About me?”

But she didn’t stop to answer his question. Instead, she was already moving, striding down the hall like the Terminator, like she’d kill anything that got in her way. She broke into a sprint about halfway to the elevator bank.

He watched as she disappeared into the elevator, then grumbled, realizing he was buck naked and standing in a hotel room doorway. Security cameras were going to love that, he thought, rubbing his hand over his face as he locked the door.

He gritted his teeth, then headed to the mini-bar, grabbing a small bottle of tequila. How did he always attract the crazies, he thought, downing half of it with one swig. Cheating ex-girlfriends. Persistent groupies. That damned stalker. And now Hailey Frost, Queen of Hot and Cold. He was probably better off without her.

Why the fuck do you have to make this about you?

Her words rang in his head, and he grimaced, finishing off the tiny bottle. Try to be nice, he thought defensively, and it bites you on the ass.

Asking if I needed help was considerate. Your hand on the door, though?

He frowned, grabbing another mini bottle. He didn’t open it immediately, though. Instead, he rolled it around between his hands, sitting on the edge of the bed.

The thing was, he’d liked Hailey. Sure he was attracted to her, but there was more than just that flash burn of sexual combustibility. There was a warmth to her. She was fun to talk to, clever, quick, with equal parts of heart and snark. And there was a palpable passion when she talked about how much she loved her little town. She was a mystery, too, one he was dying to unravel.

“Goddamn it,” he grunted, opening the second bottle.

He’d held the door because he wanted her to listen. He wanted to go with her, to help her. To fix her problems and erase the tension that had flooded through her. To learn more about her, delve deeper into her life.

She was right, he thought.

He’d made it about what he wanted. He hadn’t listened to her at all, hadn’t backed off when she obviously needed him to. She wasn’t posturing—she was telling him, and he’d bulled through and made it about him.

He rubbed his face.

When he got the chance, he thought, he’d apologize.

That is . . . if he got the chance. Because there was a really good possibility that he’d screwed up his one and only shot at Hailey Frost.

* * *

Please, God, let her be okay. Everything else—the almost-sex, the stupid scene with Jake, the whole thing—disappeared beneath the weight of that one thought.

It was lucky Hailey was just up the hill from their house. She was never a slow driver to begin with, but adrenaline and fear made her roar down the road like a Valkyrie before screeching to a halt in front of the dilapidated Victorian that was both her home and her sister’s business.

Her half sister Rachel opened the door, obviously waiting for her. Where Hailey was the hell-raiser, Rachel was the librarian—quiet, staid, studious. She and Hailey shared indigo eyes and full lips, but that’s where the similarities shifted. Where Hailey was overblown, Rachel was perfect: perfectly symmetrical, perfectly proportioned. Stunning without being showy, sensuous without being overt. She was petite, about five foot three, with a slight but definitely womanly frame. She also had a face like an angel, like something carved out of marble. Right now, she looked like a luminous statue, somber and beautiful.

“Cressida?” Hailey asked quickly.

“She’s in her room,” Rachel said, her eyes filled with concern. “In the closet.”

Hailey stepped in from the cold night air, peeling off her leather coat as Rachel shut and locked the door. “What the hell happened?”

Rachel sighed. “She tried to go outside while I was working. Vickie was driving by on her way to the store tonight, and saw Cress lying there on the front steps. Vickie said it seemed like she’d been there a while, given how cold she was.” Rachel’s voice sounded like jagged glass. “I worked late, which meant I stayed late at the library studying. I didn’t . . . I wasn’t . . .”

Hailey felt her stomach clench like she’d been punched hard in the gut. “Jesus.”

“I rushed home, got her back upstairs.” Rachel’s face looked like it could’ve been carved out of porcelain, but her eyes were pure agony. “She’s . . . Well. Balled up on the floor, beside her books. She hasn’t talked in a few hours, though, and . . . I wasn’t going to call you, but I was so worried. Maybe she should go to the hospital . . . ?”

“Fuck. No, she hates hospitals. I’ll make sure she’s all right.” Hailey gripped Rachel’s thin hand. It was like ice. “You okay?”

“Just wish I could help her more,” Rachel said. “I’m sorry I called. I know tonight’s your, um, night off, but I didn’t . . .”

“Don’t ever apologize for something about Cressida,” Hailey said, and then let out a little huff of breath when Rachel made a tiny, almost imperceptible wince. “I love you, Rache, you know that. But Cress and I . . .”

“I know.” Rachel squeezed her hand, then nodded to the upstairs bedrooms. “Go on.”

Hailey bolted up the stairs, barely knocking on Cressida’s door, more out of habit than anything. She opened it, grateful that Cressida hadn’t locked it, and then stepped in, closing it behind her.

The room was neat as a pin, with deep blue walls and black-and-white artwork in white frames. An intricate-looking computer set up with two screens was on the Ikea desk, and the bed was made with a cheerful quilt. All in all, it was a cute, cozy room. But she couldn’t see Cress anywhere, and that caused a moment of panic. She stood, silent, listening for any sound over the frightened pounding of her own heart. The closet door was closed, and Hailey could hear the soft, almost panting breaths inside.

“Cress?” she said, leaning against the closet door. “Cress, honey, it’s Hailey. Are you okay? Let me see what’s going on.”

“Hailey?” Cressida’s voice sounded reedy. “Damn it. Rachel shouldn’t have called you.”

“Well, thankfully, she’s more scared of me than she is of you,” Hailey said, trying to joke. Trying to shake the chill of fear out of her voice. “Hon, can I open the door?”

It took a long minute before Cressida finally sighed. “Okay.”

Hailey opened the door. There, crammed under the clothes that were hanging up and a bunch of books on a shelf, was Cressida. She’d obviously been balled up, scrunched against the corner. Since she was normally about five foot six, that couldn’t be comfortable. Her ivory face, sprinkled with freckles, was covered by her long, red hair. She was buried in bedding, her willowy body obscured by a patchwork quilt.

The closet was Cressida’s panic room, her retreat. The smaller the space, the more comfortable she felt.

Hailey didn’t hesitate. She folded her taller five-eight frame in the closet doorway, tucking her boots under her. “What happened, sweetie?”

Cressida’s already pale skin looked like vellum, showing the tattoo-like blue veins at the corners of her eyes and in the column of her throat. Her hazel eyes looked like moons, round and luminous. She looked like a living ghost.

“I tried to go outside,” she whispered.

Hailey did a quick check. She didn’t seem to have frostbite anywhere, from what she could see. Her temperature wasn’t feverish, and though she was pale, Cressida didn’t seem to look too pale. Hailey took her hand. “Jesus, your fingers are like Otter Pops,” she said, quickly taking Cressida’s hands in her own and rubbing them, just like she had so many years ago in the foster home, the first time Cressida had had a panic attack. “What made you want to go outside today? And why didn’t you take a coat, sweetie? I mean, it’s March and all, and it was, what, thirty-seven degrees out, but it’s still not that warm.”

She was still joking. Trying to joke. But her voice was hoarse.

“I did the books,” Cressida said. “The accounting. We’re in the red, by like, a lot.”

Hailey swore under her breath. “Well, that sucks. So you decided, well, I’m having a bad day enough as it is, so I’ll just push my agoraphobia while I’m at it?”

Cressida’s look was mournful, reproachful. Hailey bit her tongue.

“If we can’t stay here, Hales, then I’m going to need to figure out how to leave the house,” Cressida said, her voice matter of fact.

“We’ll stay here.” Hailey’s voice was like a drill sergeant’s. “Don’t worry. I’ll figure it out.”

“I’m tired of forcing you and Rachel to figure it out,” Cressida said, her voice breaking. “I hate feeling like . . . like an invalid. A burden. Something you guys need to ‘take care of.’ It’s killing me.”

Hailey didn’t know what to say to that, so she squeezed Cressida’s hand harder. “You are not a burden,” she finally answered. “You’re my sister.”

“Not your blood.”

“Who gives a shit?” Hailey blurted out. “You were there for me when it was the worst. You took care of me. You were the only one who loved me when literally nobody else cared if I lived or died. You are my sister, and if you say one more word about it, I will fucking pound you.”

Thankfully, Cressida gave her a watery smile at this one. “Bring it on, bitch,” she murmured, the words sounding so at odds with her ethereal appearance, Hailey couldn’t help but laugh.

“So, no more pushing yourself to try and get out of the house. We’ll jump off that bridge when we come to it, okay?”

Cressida’s mouth pulled into a tight line. “We may be coming to it soon,” she said softly. “We’re falling behind on key payments—not just the rent. We’re always a month behind on utilities, and sneaky stuff keeps cropping up. Stupid stuff, like the furnace filter or when that pipe busted and we needed Pinky’s to come out and fix it. We’re just not making enough business. We need a windfall, to dig out from under, and then we need to have a better, more consistent client base.”

Hailey felt pressure behind her eyes. Rachel was the businessperson, not her. She was just a blackjack dealer and former grifter, who loved her sisters. She knew that a business inside their home gave Cressida something to do as well as a source of income—and something else, like write-offs or credits, or something else official and accountant-sounding. But that was about all she could understand without her head aching. “We will make it work,” Hailey said stubbornly.

Cressida didn’t look convinced, but let it drop.

“Have you eaten anything?” Hailey said instead.

“Not hungry.”

“That means no. Feel up to going downstairs for dinner?”

She saw it—the flinch, the curving of Cressida’s spine, and quickly changed tack. “You know what? Why don’t you get comfy pj’s on, I’ll get some grilled cheese sandwiches together, and we’ll camp out on your bed and watch some River Song episodes of Doctor Who.”

Cressida smiled. “Sure. Thanks. But I’m feeling more like a little Supernatural. Go hunting with the boys.”

“Then we’ll watch that,” Hailey said. “Watching two sexy guys like Sam and Dean? Not a hardship.”

“Speaking of sexy guys,” Cressida said, before Hailey could make it out of the room. “You were going to stay over at the casino tonight, weren’t you?”

Hailey gritted her teeth. A thought of Jake, spread out naked and resplendent on the bed, had her body tightening.

Cressida nodded. “I figured you had a guy. Tell the truth: we interrupted something, didn’t we?”

“No.” At Cressida’s piercing gaze, she relented. “Nothing that couldn’t be interrupted.”

“He wasn’t that good, huh?”

“He was . . .” She froze for a moment, trying to encapsulate Jake Reese, then shrugged. “Not bad.”

That is, it was “not bad” in the same way that the Empire State Building was “sort of tall” or the North Pole was “kind of brisk.”

“I’m sorry,” Cressida said, sounding genuinely disappointed. “I know you’ve been tense lately. You could always go back. Really, I’m fine.”

Hailey thought of how they’d left things. “No. He started getting a little stupid after that. Got a tad bit pushy.”

“Not literally, I’m assuming,” Cressida said, with enough concern for Hailey to know it was a real question.

“He’d still be nursing his balls if it was literally.” Grandma Frost had signed her up for martial arts classes when she’d first gotten to Snoqualmie, and she knew enough street fighting from her scraps in Los Angeles that she protected herself as a matter of course. She also didn’t get herself into situations where she’d need the skills if she could help it. “No. He just wanted to know what was going on, which was none of his business. Then he tried to play hero, and got a little too alpha for my tastes.”

“Oh.” Cressida frowned. “That sounds . . . ugh.”

“Not my bag,” Hailey agreed. “Pity, too. He had potential.”

Understatement, yet again. She sighed.

Cressida shook her head. “Too bad you can’t just get one guy you can count on.”

“I’m strictly catch and release, you know that,” Hailey said dryly. She leaned forward, giving Cressida a quick hug. “Go on, get comfy. I’ll bring up the sandwiches.”

She went downstairs, where Rachel was waiting. “How is she?” Rachel asked softly.

“She’ll be okay.” She went through the old kitchen, grabbing the loaf of bread, pulling cheese slices and butter out of the fridge, and pulling out a dented pan. “She tried to go outside because she did the books.” She took a deep breath, then looked at Rachel. “Why didn’t you tell me how far behind we’re falling?”

“She’s worried we’ll have to move, isn’t she?” Rachel said, avoiding the question.

Hailey pinned her down with an expectant stare. Rachel sighed.

“We’re staying afloat, but yeah, it’s been a struggle.”

“I can give you more money . . .”

“You’re giving us everything but the money you pour into Charlotte’s gas tank as it is,” Rachel protested.

“I’ll . . . damn it. Figure out something.”

“I’ve been thinking—maybe I should drop out of school. Just for this semester,” Rachel said, holding up her hands protectively from Hailey’s nuclear glare.

“Damn it.” She started to assemble the sandwiches, then gestured to them in invitation, quirking her eyebrow at her sister. Rachel shook her head. “How much trouble are we in?”

Rachel fidgeted with the mug in front of her. “If we don’t start getting more customers in, we won’t be able to keep this place. She’s right on that front.”

“So we get more customers in,” Hailey said. “You’ve been running those online ads and things. You had the interview with the local paper.”

“All small bumps, nothing that would drive a lot of traffic, especially for just a bookstore. The used bookstore in North Bend just closed because they couldn’t make ends meet, and they didn’t have our living expenses on top of it. Or our landlord’s crappy maintenance,” Rachel said darkly. “What we need is a game changer. A big event or something. I’m working on doing some joint stuff with the local chamber of commerce, but most of the opportunities will be in the summer. We need something now, and something that will drive a more niche clientele.”

Hailey got the butter frothing in the pan, then slid the sandwiches in. “Let me know what I can do, and I’ll do it.”

“If I did know, I’d tell you,” Rachel answered, her expression thoughtful. “I think turning it into more of a fandom place might help. It’s not like you can’t get books on Amazon—we’re in Seattle, for God’s sake, in their backyard. So it’s difficult to just be a bookstore without a niche. I’m thinking we can cater to . . . well, girl geeks, for lack of a better term.”

“Sounds good to me,” Hailey said. “What does that mean?”

“We order fan stuff, not just books,” she said. “We can still have the used books, but we can get more female-centric comics, and fandom-related stuff . . . maybe signed stuff, or items from Think Geek, or something. Even Etsy-styled stuff. Remember that Hobbit necklace Ren . . .” Rachel paused. “That I got in high school?”

Hailey blinked. Rachel never brought up her high school flame, the one true love of her life. She must be really rattled to let that slip. “Okay. So we make Frost Bookstore a fandom store. What do we need?”

“We’d need some items to really make that work. And we’d need a big draw, to get the right crowd in, to convince them to drive all the way out to Snoqualmie instead of the city.” Rachel rubbed her temples. “Let me make some calls. I’ll see what I can do to work fast. We need to get some more sales, and soon.”

Hailey flipped the golden-brown sandwiches, then slid them onto plates. “Rachel, I know how hard you’re working,” she said, feeling a bit impotent. “I’m sorry you’re hit with all of this.”

“She’s my sister, too,” Rachel said quietly. “Ever since she came home with you, she’s been part of the family.”

“I know.” But it was different. All three of them knew that. Rachel, the half sister Hailey hadn’t even known existed until she was twelve, didn’t have the same formative experiences Hailey and Cressida had. The two of them had been through the trenches, apart and together. But since Grandma Frost had brought Hailey and Cressida home from Los Angeles, Rachel genuinely loved and valued them both as sisters.

“If we’d only been able to win that fan contest, the one Tessa tried to help us with, we could’ve had one of the Mystics stars come,” Rachel said.

Hailey felt a pang.

Funny you should mention . . .

She thought about Jake, how she’d left him at the hotel. How he’d acted.

No. Wasn’t worth it.

“Especially if we could’ve done something for this week, or next weekend, what with the convention they’re running,” Rachel continued, oblivious to Hailey’s line of thought.

“We could’ve gotten some of that crowd over here, maybe, and you know some of those people would be local. We could build up our mailing list . . .”

As Rachel continued thinking out loud, Hailey felt guilt prick away at her.

Yes, Jake was overbearing about her leaving tonight. But she’d been sharp, too, out of fear and defensiveness. Maybe, just maybe, he was trying to be gallant. Maybe he’d seen the urgency, and he wanted to make sure she accepted his help.

Yeah. When in the history of ever had someone simply tried to help her out?

Well, maybe this was the first time, she thought, and wondered if it was hope or desperation that prompted the thought.

Hailey cleared her throat, interrupting Rachel’s monologue. “If one of the actors did an appearance here, you really think that would help?”

“Are you kidding? It’d give me something to spin for PR,” Rachel said. “It’d be a big draw. We’ve got some good fandom-related stock. I could organize the displays to show the paranormal romance that’s like Mystics. And we could send out stuff, get people’s contact info, start building off that client base.” Rachel’s slow smile was self-mocking. “But let’s be real. They aren’t going to be open to an eleventh-hour pitch from a tiny indie bookstore. And unless you have contacts I’m not aware of, I think it’s a hopeless cause.”

She winced. It would mean humbling herself. Possibly even groveling.

It’s for your sisters.

How much worse had she endured, to keep Cressida safe?

How much worse would she put up with?

“Give me a day,” Hailey said. “Let me see what I can do.”

* * *

The next day, Jake sat in the “green room” of the hotel—which was neither green nor a room, from the looks of it. It was a partitioned section of the ballroom where they were doing the majority of the panels, and the sales floor where they were selling Mystics memorabilia and other fan items. It was close to where he needed to be, but it was still separate, with its own door, guarded by a security guy—a bouncer, basically. His co-stars, Simon and Miles, were lounging at a table, joking about their own kerfuffle with the hotel the previous night.

“They finally dug us up a room at an Airbnb in Sammamish,” Simon said, his eyes alight with mischief. Simon was like a grown-up Tom Sawyer, mischievous and boyish. He tossed a football to Miles, who was more like a young monk, with a wiry physique and silent, pensive expression. Miles caught the ball easily while only barely paying attention, a testament to how often the two pitched it back and forth. “I have no idea how they thought that place ‘slept four,’ since it just had a queen bed. Barely fit me.”

“You sleep like a break-dancer, dude,” Miles pointed out. “I had to camp out on the floor in self-defense. You throw more elbows than Karl Malone.”

“You love it,” Simon said, blowing Miles an air kiss. Miles rolled his eyes.

“You know, they’re going to joke about you two sleeping together,” Jake said.

“Not the first time,” Simon agreed easily.

“We’ll talk about it during the panel,” Miles added, with a gentle grin of his own. “The slash fan-fic will be posted within the hour.”

The two had been best friends for years, meeting as starving actors in Los Angeles. Simon had helped Miles get the gig on Mystics, as a matter of fact. Jake admired their easy camaraderie.

To be honest, he envied it.

“How about you?” Simon pressed, turning a chair around and straddling it, surveying Jake curiously. “No offense, but you look like hammered shit. Did they stick you in a tent or something?”

“Nah. I got a room in a little town about fifteen minutes from here.” Jake shrugged.

“Oh?” Simon glanced at Miles. “Was it a rat hole or something?”

“It was nice,” Jake protested, then realized the trap as Simon waited eagerly. “I just had some trouble sleeping.”

“The fun kind of not sleeping?” Simon pressed, wiggling his eyebrows.

Miles chuckled, shaking his head. “Leave the poor guy alone, Si.”

Jake cleared his throat. The truth was, he’d had a hell of a time getting to sleep after Hailey left. Not because he’d been left at the brink of satisfaction—okay, not just because of that, he privately amended—but because of the way they’d left things.

He felt like a total ass.

Hailey was different from other women he’d met. She wasn’t intimidated by his fame or his father or his lifestyle. She took shit from no one. She was a problem solver, a force of nature.

Hotter than a Carolina Reaper. Probably just as lethal as the ghost pepper, he ruminated. They didn’t have a Scoville scale to cover her level of hotness.

He hadn’t ever reacted to a woman he’d just met the way he’d responded to Hailey. Her smile, her quick wit, her badass attitude and unbelievable responsiveness.

Then she’d gotten that call, acted weird and panicked. Wouldn’t talk to him about why. He probably shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions, but damn it, in his experience, if someone was too good to be true, it was because they were lying through their teeth.

I’m a terrible actress, but I’m a hell of a liar.

He sighed. Was she?

“You seem preoccupied,” Miles said, smiling softly. “I heard what happened at the VIP.”

“What happened?” Simon asked. Miles ignored him.

“They should’ve had a more experienced handler for you,” Miles said. “You could sue that woman for assault.”

“Whoa. What?”

Jake told Simon the story: the boob-signing, the pocket rip, making a break for it.

“Jesus,” Simon said, shuddering. “I love our fans, don’t get me wrong. But that’s fucked up.”

“Seriously. That doesn’t sound like Supernatural’s fan stuff at all,” Miles agreed.

“Don’t worry. We’ll protect you this weekend,” Simon added. “Hey, on an unrelated note: did your contract get renewed yet?”

“We just heard back yesterday,” Miles said. “You’ll probably hear back soon.”

Jake had actually managed to put that out of his mind, in the wake of the VIP kerfuffle and the subsequent Hailey fallout. Now, he felt a knot in his stomach.

“I haven’t heard yet,” he said, hoping he sounded more casual than he felt.

Miles and Simon frowned.

“Maybe you should call your agent,” Simon suggested.

Jake felt even more freaked out. He walked to the other side of the room, ignoring Simon’s and Miles’s story-swapping, remembrances from their days as early actors. He hit the contact for Susie.

“The room situation’s all straightened out,” she said, in lieu of a greeting. “I gave them the heads-up to keep your room number private, in case that looney woman tries to show up again and leave you presents. Oh, and make sure they have an impressive fruit basket and turn-down service and a bottle of aged Scotch waiting for you, or I will have somebody’s balls.”

He grinned. “You take good care of me, Susie.”

“Bet your ass,” she said fiercely. “Not that yesterday was a good example. I’m sorry, kid, that was a fiasco all the way around.”

“I’m fine. I managed,” Jake said, then cleared his throat. “Say, Susie . . . did the producers get back to you about renewing my contract yet?”

There was a noticeable pause.

“I saw that we’d been picked up for season three by the network,” he rambled nervously. “Production should start up this summer, filming by July. I’ll feel a lot better when the ink’s dry on my renewal.”

Susie sighed. Jake could almost picture her face: the picture of a middle-aged New Yorker in L.A., dressed sharp as a razor, stylish caramel-colored haircut over shrewd brown eyes, signature red lipstick on a mouth frowning with regret.

“I’m just going to come out and say it. They’re not thrilled, and there’s been some pushback.”

Jake froze, glancing at the other guys, who were too engrossed in their own stories to notice. “What? Why?” he blurted, his voice low. “I haven’t done anything bad. I’m not in the tabloids every week. I’ve been lying low for almost a year!”

“That could be part of the problem,” Susie said, surprising him further. “Listen, it’s great that the show’s starting to pick up steam. But there’s your Q Score to consider.”

Jake boggled. “What does that even mean?”

She sighed again. “I blame myself,” she said. “I should’ve pushed you harder on this front. I mean, you’re Kurt Windlass’s kid, I figured if anyone would be familiar with the cutthroat world of Hollywood publicity, it’s you. Didn’t your father set you up with his publicist?”

“That was a few years ago,” Jake said, his voice tight. “So it’s publicity related?”

“It’s, well, recognizability, for lack of a better word,” Susie explained.

“And I’m not recognizable?”

“You don’t have a lot of brand recognition,” she admitted, her voice apologetic. “I mean, if we ask people on the street, ‘Who is Jake Reese?’ you’re pretty much known as either the underwear model or Kurt Windlass’s son.” She waited a beat. “If they recognize you at all.”

Now it was his turn to sigh.

She hemmed a little. “You know, it’s not too late to change your name . . .”

“I’m not Jake Windlass.”

“Of course you’re not,” she soothed, obviously expecting his response. “And it’s admirable that you don’t want to cash in on your father’s fame to further your own career.”

That wasn’t quite the reason, but he let it lie.

“But I’m having a tough time getting the producers to sign off,” she said. “It’s an uphill battle. The other guys are more bankable. They had that show together before, and if you got half the social media hits that Simon got, I wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

“Miles doesn’t do a lot of social media,” Jake pointed out, feeling confused.

“Yeah, but he’s friends with Simon, so he gets a residual effect,” she said. “And he’s a fan favorite. Your part isn’t written like his.”

He grimaced. He could do more, he knew it. If they’d just give him a chance.

Susie cleared her throat, pressing forward. “If we got you more recognizable, it would help—not only with the contract renewal, but with other projects.”

“Other projects aren’t even on my radar right now,” Jake said. “I just want to lock up next season. Hell, several seasons, if they keep getting renewed. I love this show, Suse. What do I need to do?”

She let out another sigh. “These things take a little time, but of course, there’s always a way.”

Jake sighed, not wanting to get into that argument again. “What are you suggesting, then? Orchestrating some abuse problem that I can go to rehab for? Or some other crazy scheme?” He tried to force a laugh, even though his stomach knotted. “Really. It all sounds crazy. The tabloids can come up with a lot of that crap on their own, you know.”

“Nothing that radical,” Susie assured him. “There’s train-wreck publicity, and then there’s the PR that actually helps your career. Like the charity stuff you do . . .”

“That’s not for publicity,” he said quickly.

“I know, you sweet kid. But there’s no shame in it. Look at Chris Pratt, Russell Wilson,” she argued. “It’s not just about you boosting your image. It helps get the name of the charities out, too.”

“I’ll think about it.” He rubbed at his temple. “Anything else?”

“A girlfriend, the right girlfriend, could work wonders.”

He groaned. “No.”

“What? Publicity setups can be effective, and they cut those deals all the time. Sure, they don’t always work—that Taylor Swift and Tom Hiddleston fiasco, for example—but sometimes they . . .”

“Wait, that was fake?”

She laughed, a gravelly smoker’s laugh. “You are so cute. What are you, twelve?”

“So you’re saying I should get a fake girlfriend,” he reiterated. He hated when Susie teased him for being naïve.

“Let me see who I can come up with,” she said. “Talk to you later, sweetie.”

“Susie, no—damn it!” She’d already hung up.

He felt a tap on his shoulder, and spun. It was one of the convention people, looking annoyed. “You’re on,” the guy hissed, covering the microphone of his headset. Jake quickly apologized, feeling guilty, and followed him out the door.

The panel was ready, and Simon and Miles had already made their way onto the “stage,” such as it was. There were three chairs, and three microphones, and that’s it.

It was a different thing than filming on-set. The energy was like a wall. There had to be a few hundred people out there, mostly women. They wore Mystics T-shirts, and a few were cosplaying. Some wore his characteristic leather jacket, others were dressed as Druid priestesses or wore Templar armor.

“This question is for Simon,” said one of the fans, dressed as what he recognized was a Templar seminarian. “You’re best friends with, and share a house with Miles. What is his most annoying habit? And what is his most endearing?”

Simon rubbed his hands together, and Jake couldn’t help but laugh, especially when Miles hid his face behind his arms.

“His most annoying trait is the healthy food. He’s constantly trying to make me eat new vegetables . . .”

“Hey, you liked fennel bulb,” Miles gave a muffled protest.

“And his most endearing?” Simon’s eyes gleamed with glee. “He sleeps with a stuffed panda bear named Mr. Bobo.”

Miles emerged, pretending outrage. “You swore you wouldn’t bring him up!”

“They wanted to know!”

“How about you, Jake?” the fan teased, but her smile was gentle, more playful than lecherous. He wondered if she was trying to make sure he didn’t feel left out, and he felt his chest warm. “Sleep with anything endearing?”

“Miles,” he said. “I just wish he wouldn’t make me dress up as a stuffed panda.”

The crowd roared with laughter, Simon started clapping, and Miles high-fived him. He grinned back, the annoyance and nerves from his talk with Susie forgotten.

He could see himself doing this for years—like Stargate: SG-1 or Doctor Who—if given the opportunity. He loved the show’s take on sci-fi and fantasy. He loved that, even though they hadn’t done much with his character, the writing was great, alternating between humor and pathos, like so many of the shows he loved. And he even loved the conventions. Granted, this was their first, but he knew they would be booked in other conventions—panels at various Comic-Cons, stuff like that—and he was all in. He just frickin’ loved this stuff.

For the rest of the panel, he mostly sat quietly, as the other two fielded questions about future arcs, and some things about Double Negative, the old show they’d been on. On Mystics, Miles was the brains, the scholar; Simon was the con man, the guy who charmed his way into anything. Jake was cast as the muscle, the action guy, so his arc tended to be . . . well, sort of flat.

He frowned as he thought about that. He really should have Susie arguing about that, as well—but since it seemed hard to keep him on the damned show, it didn’t seem like the right hill to die on.

As his eyes scanned the room, he stopped short as his gaze locked onto a pair of deep violet eyes, staring right back at him. Her dark walnut hair was done up in pin curls, cascading behind a high ponytail. She had lips the color of a good Bordeaux and lashes that went on for miles. He couldn’t see the outfit, but he guessed it was something brutally sexy. Maybe that was just because of the woman wearing it, though.

She came, he thought, and couldn’t stop a smile from creeping across his face. Did that mean she’d forgiven him? Or did she just want to give him another piece of her mind?

“Jake?”

He shook himself. “Sorry. What?”

Simon grinned at him knowingly. “Question for you, dude. Stop staring at the ladies.”

There was an appreciative giggle that rippled through the crowd, and his smile spread sheepishly. “Sorry about that. I was . . . distracted.”

He gazed at Hailey again. Her perfectly arched eyebrow went up, and those full lips quirked in a knowing little lopsided grin.

“What was the question?” He looked over, trying to see who was at the microphone stand.

It was a guy—already a bit of an anomaly at the female-skewed crowd. He was wearing a Deadpool T-shirt and a serious expression. “Mr. Reese, I’m Ty Connors, from the AllThingsMystics blog,” he said, with just a trace of self-importance.

“Great to meet you,” Jake said. “What’s your question?” He braced himself for something technical, or some tiny detail. Fortunately, he could nerd out with the best of them—he’d had long talks with several of the writers, discussing the backstory of the world. And he just had a memory for that sort of thing. He found himself looking forward to it.

“Is it true that your contract isn’t going to be renewed?”

Everyone gasped. Jake froze. “What?” he finally croaked.

“Inside sources say that you may not be continuing with Mystics,” Ty said, looking down at a small notepad, then glancing back up at him. “Is that your choice, or theirs? And are they planning on killing the character off, or simply recasting it?”