“So,” Kaiti said in a floaty voice, “this part they want me to audition for…”

“Yeah?” We’d moved to the couch in the living room, and I was sitting beside her, our bodies angled so we could talk comfortably without craning our necks. There had been quite a few drinks consumed by this point, and I’d almost forgotten why I’d originally come to see her. I’d been sidetracked, thrown by her presence—though she didn’t seem the least bit thrown by mine. I didn’t know what to make of that.

“What is the character supposed to be like?”

I wasn’t surprised she asked about the role on the show—it would have been odd if she hadn’t—but the way she asked was unusually careful like she was bracing herself for something unpleasant.

“You want the truth?”

“No, lie to me, Gavin,” she deadpanned, lifting her drink to her lips. My hat was sitting slightly askew on her head, making her look incredibly cute.

I gave a soft chuckle and sat my drink on the coffee table, giving her my full attention. “It’s what I like to call a ‘sacrificial lamb role.’ Basically, they’re looking to add a likable character, keep them around for a season—maybe two, but usually less—and then kill them off or write them out in the season finale.”

She cocked her head, a thoughtful look on her face. “I see. So, I’d be temporary?”

“In all likelihood, yes. There are exceptions, of course. If a sacrificial lamb becomes a huge fan favorite and the producers think they can milk more out of their exit by hanging on for another season—or half season—then they extend the actor or actress’s contract for a while to really reel in the fans and make the loss have more impact.”

Her eyes widened and her brows shot up. “Wait, so is that what happened with Noah?”

Noah was the name of the character who was to marry my on-screen sister, Tia. They had been poised to wed and then Noah’s character had been killed off in a car accident on the way to the church. The fans had gone berserk.

“Exactly. They would never have married off Tia’s character. It would have toned down the show’s edge.”

“So, I guess Tyler’s character won’t be settling down, either,” she commented dryly. Tyler—the character I played on the show—was something of a player, which somehow got me labeled as one too. And I wasn’t allowed to publicly correct the assumption.

“Why? Hoping your role would be as Tyler’s love interest?” I teased, catching her gaze wandering to my mouth more and more as the alcohol flooded her system. She was attracted to me, and it was most definitely mutual.

She snorted and shook her head. “If I’m being honest, I’d rather not have the role at all, but the last thing I want is an on-screen love affair with anyone. Not even you…um…I mean Tyler.” She blushed a little at her slip.

“Why no love scenes? Embarrassed?”

She ran her hands over her arms as though she was cold, and I caught a hint of a shudder as she shook her head. “Not exactly.”

Something had changed in the way she held herself. She pulled slightly away from me, settling into the corner of the couch. Her hands were doing a weird, repetitive motion in her lap. Her fingers touching to her thumb in succession in a distinct pattern she seemed unaware of.

“Is it a stage fright thing?” I asked.

“No.”

I lowered my voice and tried to give her a look that let her know she could trust me. “Then what is it exactly? Why are you so afraid to audition?”

Her chin lifted defiantly and she gave me a steady, pointed look. “I never said I was afraid.”

I held her eye and waited.

She sat forward and retrieved her drink, the ice falling forward to rest on her lip as she sipped the last little bit. When she lowered her glass, she idly ran her tongue over her upper lip to clear away the moisture. I had to force myself not to focus on the motion because I had the urge to kiss the hell out of her and that pink tongue was about to push me past the point of good sense.

“Kaiti?” It came out as more of a plea than a prompting, but she was too distracted to notice.

She blew out a big breath and averted her eyes, looking out the window instead of at me as she spoke. Her fingers started up again in her lap and she caught herself, clasping them together as she cut a quick look my way. I pretended I hadn’t noticed.

“I have anxiety issues. I don’t like being the center of attention, and I definitely don’t like the idea of being filmed doing a love scene or undressing or swimming or anything else that means being put on display or objectified.”

I nodded, understanding at least a little of what she meant. “I don’t think anyone is fully comfortable with making out in front a camera, or at least I know I’m not. I hate shirtless scenes and bedroom scenes, even after all this time.” She finally looked over at me, seemingly surprised at my admission. “What you’re feeling is perfectly okay and normal.”

“I don’t think—”

“Normal,” I interrupted, smiling at her. “But can I tell you something?”

She frowned, looking like she still wanted to argue. “What?”

“The reason I do the scenes anyway, even the ones I could probably talk them into toning down?”

“Yeah?”

I leaned forward and locked eyes with her. “Because I refuse to let fear beat me. I refuse to feel inadequate when I know damn well that I am good at what I do, even if I don’t always like every line of dialog or every scene we shoot. I do what I have to do, and I’m really proud of the fact that no one out there can say I’m not doing my job to the best of my ability. And, most of all, I do it to make those fears and insecurities my bitch.”

Her responding smile was gorgeous. “I can’t believe someone like you would ever be insecure, and it sounds terrible, but knowing you feel that way makes me feel a lot better. Not necessarily enough to actually audition but enough that I don’t feel like such a loser for having anxiety.”

“No one is ever truly one hundred percent confident all the time, Kaiti, no matter what image they project. And you are most certainly not a loser, so don’t ever think that. Okay?”

She snorted. “How would you know? You just met me.”

“Yeah, but I have incredible instincts.”

“And what do your instincts tell you, Gavin-fucking-Lane?” she asked teasingly.

I held up my glass and waited for her to do the same. “My instincts tell me that you’re about to make anxiety your bitch, Kaiti-fucking-Oliver.”

* * *

My head is going to explode.

Stupid peppermint concoction from hell.

I lifted one arm and draped it across my face, trying to block out the blinding morning sun that was pouring through my bedroom windows. Why hadn’t I closed the curtains? I always closed them before bed. Always.

I let out a pitiful groan and willed myself back to sleep, thinking it would be easier to sleep it off than suffer through the agony of trying to function.

I’d almost succeeded in nodding off when the bed beside me shifted and a heavy arm snaked across my abdomen. The warm hand gripped my side and gave it a little squeeze before going slack. I was so stunned, I couldn’t move at first. When I finally did, it was only to remove my arm from my eyes and confirm what I already suspected.

Yep.

Gavin-fucking-Lane was in my bed.

Snuggling me.

With no visible indication of clothing.

Oh. My. God.

I shifted slightly, trying to decipher my own state of dress without waking him. I looked down, squinting horribly because of the light, and sighed in relief when I spotted the straps from my tank top. A subtle butt shimmy told me I had on underwear, though I couldn’t tell if I had anything over them. I usually slept in a T-shirt and panties, but given that I also usually slept alone, I couldn’t help hoping there were some shorts present too.

As for Mr. Hollywood, he was bare-chested, but I couldn’t be sure what was going on south of that.

I tried not to stare at the perfection that was his upper torso as I searched my hazy memory for an explanation as to why he was in my freaking bed, possibly with no clothes on.

Why couldn’t I remember?

Oh, god, what if we…?

I didn’t know whether to be mortified or pissed the hell off.

So, I settled on both.

Mortified because there was no telling if I’d been the one to start it in my drunken state. Pissed the hell off because I couldn’t remember anything and that might actually be the saddest thing in the history of ever—to have slept with Gavin-fucking-Lane and not be able to do the replay in my mind over and over and over for the rest of my life.

Shit. Just my luck.

Dear Lord, I hope I was good.

Wait, don’t pray with a possibly-naked man clinging to you after what might have been a drunken one-night stand. That’s some kind of blasphemy, I’m sure.

He shifted in his sleep and pulled me closer, tucking my side against his chest and resting his head so close to mine that his lips brushed my hair.

So close, in fact, that I could feel his morning wood against my outer thigh when he suddenly threw one leg over mine. Thankfully, there was fabric between us, making me sigh with relief when I realized I was wearing shorts. But was he?

Much closer and he’ll be in my shorts with me.

But would I really mind?

Did I mind last night?

Why can’t I remember?

I was staring at the ceiling, desperately trying to recall the night before while ignoring the rather large erection resting against my hip when the owner of said erection groaned and began to stir. He gripped me tighter for a second and…

Did he just hump my leg?

“Gavin,” I hissed, feeling myself flush with embarrassment.

“Hmm?” he muttered, beginning to trail his hand up and down my side.

I cringed away from his probing fingers, trying not to laugh. “That tickles!” I chuckled even as I pressed myself against him in an attempt to shy away. It was either that or try to wrestle my way past those damn tickling fingers, and I had to pee so bad I didn’t dare risk it.

Talk about humiliation; losing one’s bladder control in front of—and probably on—a famous person would be about the worst thing possible.

Aside from being a disappointing lay, which could have already happened.

“What tickles?” From his slow, thick words, I could tell he was still half asleep. And he was still tickling my side.

Time to practice my Kegel’s and get the hell away from this guy.

“Gavin, stop rubbing my side and let me up. Nature calls.” I gave his chest a gentle shove and was infinitely relieved when he took his hand from my side to rub it over his head. He was waking up, which was great, but I had about ten gallons of Junior Mints I needed to expel pronto.

“Damn, it’s bright in here,” he muttered as I fled the bed.

“I’ll grab us some aspirin. Be right back,” I tossed over my shoulder as I scurried to the half bathroom in the hall. No way was I going to use the one attached to my bedroom. He might hear me pee.

Yeah, never mind that he probably saw you naked and thoroughly explored your body with that massive boner of his, hearing you pee would be too much information. Idiot.

The little voice in my head was a real bitch when she had a hangover.

* * *

With a bottle of aspirin in one hand and a couple of bottled waters in the other, I took a deep breath and stepped back into my bedroom. Gavin was still in my bed, awake and propped against the pillows as he rubbed his temples with the thumb and middle finger of his right hand, his eyes shielded.

The sheet was covering him up to his waist but his entire delicious chest was on display and it was hard not to stare. He was toned, muscular, and sculpted but not so much so that he would be uncomfortable to snuggle—I knew that much for a fact.

At least I had that memory to hold onto.

His eyes were closed against the glare, so I cleared my throat to announce myself and waited for him to look up. When he did, his green eyes shone in the light and his sleepy morning smile made my heart flutter, like having a million butterfly wings batting against my ribcage.

Jesus, he’s gorgeous.

I held up my offering. “Aspirin?”

“Yes, please.” He winced at the sound of his own voice and regarded the windows through squinty eyes. “Can you close the curtains?”

I was all too happy to oblige. As soon as I set everything on the nightstand, I hurried over to adjust the blinds and pull the curtains closed over them, making it as dark as possible. There was still enough light to see each other, but it was a far cry from the retina-incinerating rays that had greeted us when we awakened.

“Thanks,” Gavin muttered, leaning across my side of the bed to grab the aspirin and a water.

My side? What, like he has his own designated side now? I must still be drunk.

I moved to sit on the edge of the bed, on the side I’d vacated—not my side because the whole thing was mine; every side was mine—and snapped up the remaining bottle of water before opening the cap and drinking long swallows until Gavin tapped my arm with the aspirin bottle.

I accepted it with a nod and swallowed three before finishing off the rest of my beverage. When I was done, I finally looked him in the eye, confused by his smirk. “What?”

“Just remembering last night,” he chuckled.

Oh, shit. I must have been awful if he was laughing right in my face. Kill me now.

Dear lord, if you have an extra lightning bolt handy…

“Is everything dry?” he asked.

“Excuse me?” I was taken aback at his question. Was he insinuating that I…that my… “What the hell are you talking about?” Why was I blushing? If anything had been dry, wouldn’t that have been his fault?

“I mean, you soaked us both pretty good,” he chuckled, shaking his head.

“Wait, I’m confused.” I frowned and searched my foggy brain.

He watched me for a minute, still smiling. “You don’t remember any of it, do you?”

I groaned and leaned against the headboard beside him, keeping myself on top of the covers and hiding my face in my hands. “No, I don’t. I don’t know what I did or what we did or who started it or even if I was any good.” My eyes burned as humiliated tears began to well.

“Kaiti.” He sounded like he was trying not to laugh. “Will you look at me, please?”

“No.” I shook my head, not moving my hands. “Just go. Leave me here to die of embarrassment.”

He gently gripped my wrists and began tugging them down, but I resisted. “Kaiti, come on. This isn’t you. Look at me.”

“How do you know it’s not me?” I mumbled, fighting his grip. “Oh, right. I guess you think you know me now that we have carnal knowledge of each other.”

He laughed, still tugging on my wrists. “We don’t hide from each other, remember? You’re still the same girl who was brave enough to tell a moderately well-known actor to go fuck himself as she threw him out of her apartment, aren’t you? Stop trying to hide yourself from me and act like it.”

“I didn’t tell you to go fuck yourself. I told you to fuck off. There’s a difference,” I corrected, finally looking at him.

“Not much of one.” He winked when I met his eye. “Now, will you let me talk or should I fuck off?”

I blinked several times, trying not to cry. “Go ahead, talk. I’ll just be over here wishing I was invisible.”

He shook his head at me and reached for my hand. I let him take it, knowing I was going to need the comforting touch for whatever he was about to say.

“We didn’t have sex.”

I jumped slightly. “We didn’t?” I looked at his bare chest and quirked a brow at the sheet that had pooled around his waist.

He followed my gaze and pushed the sheet down to reveal the waistband of his boxer briefs. “No. We drank entirely too much, and I suggested we switch to water to ward off a hangover—something I’ve done for years. It really does work. Unless someone trips on the way back to the couch and dumps an entire pitcher of ice water on themselves, me, and the couch in the process.”

“Oh, shit.” I covered my mouth.

“Yeah, no offense, but I wouldn’t be able to procure carnal knowledge of anyone after an ice bath like that.”

I started to smile, finally, and shook my head at my own stupidity. “So, that explains my change of clothes, your lack of clothes, and why you shared my bed instead of crashing on the couch.”

He nodded. “Yeah, there’s sleeping in the wet spot and then there’s needing a flotation device to keep from drowning in it.”

I burst out laughing, so relieved I almost wanted to kiss him. No, there was no almost about it. I wanted to kiss him. And that wasn’t a good idea, so I focused on the conversation. “And I’m betting I put our clothes in the dryer before we passed out, right?” Which was why he’d asked if everything was dry.

“Yeah. I opted to keep my boxers and let body heat dry them, though you did offer me a pair of thin, lacy shorts to wear instead. I declined.” Laughing at my embarrassed groan, he tilted his head and asked, “Should I be offended that you’re so happy to have not slept with me?” His gaze roamed over the tussled sheets. “Well, we slept together but you know what I mean.”

I blushed again, moving off the bed to go check the dryer. “Don’t take my relief as an affront to your desirability. I just wouldn’t want to have drunken, black-out sex with anyone. I prefer to have complete recall of my…um…activities in that department.”

“Agreed. And I’d like to think it’d be an experience worth remembering.” He winked again and I quickly turned and hurried out the door to gather his clothes. Before I did something I might regret—while totally sober.

* * *

After I took our clothes from the dryer and stopped off in the bathroom, switching the barely-there pajamas I was wearing for my more modest outfit from the night before, I brought Gavin his things.

I started to offer to scrounge around for some breakfast, but he snagged my wrist as I handed him his clothes and motioned for me to sit next to him on the bed. He was still bare-chested and looked amazing, so I kept as much distance between us as I could, resting my ass on the edge of the bed. “Everything okay?” I asked, wondering why he was looking at me with such intensity.

The edges of his mouth turned up but he didn’t give me a full-on smile. “Read lines with me.”

It wasn’t a command, exactly, more like a plea. He was so serious, almost sullen, and it made me want to bring back his smile. “I don’t know…”

He pinned me with an earnest expression. “Not at the studio. Just you and me, here.” He glanced at the nightstand, where his phone rested beside mine. “And maybe we could Facetime with Bryce so he could see what he needs to see without making you come down and audition in front of a bunch of people.”

The familiar coldness washed over me—the first wave of anxiety—and I shook my head. “Gavin, I like you a lot, but I don’t think…”

“Just you and me, then. No Bryce if that makes you uncomfortable. Run lines with me. Let me see if this chemistry I feel with you will shine through in our work.”

“You think we have chemistry?” I barely got the words out on an uneven croak, my anxiety ratcheting up exponentially.

He smiled then, wide and brilliant. “You have no idea.” His eyes dipped from mine, taking in my lips and neck before returning my stare. “I think you could set the screen on fire with or without me, but there’s something about you, about how I feel when I talk to you, that tells me we could be the one-two punch that blows the roof off that studio. You just have to trust me. Can you do that?”

God, I wanted to, but trust was really hard for me—for a lot of reasons. “I don’t know…”

“I have the audition script in my car, courtesy of Bryce. I wasn’t going to waltz in here and wave it in your face because I meant what I said about not wanting to play games. But—and I fucking hate to admit this, so please don’t ever tell him I said it—I think Bryce was right. I think this could be something amazing. So, if you’ll let me, I want to go get the pages from my car and go over them with you. No obligation; only a test run.”

I didn’t say anything because I was struggling so hard with what I wanted to say versus what my anxiety was trying to force me to say.

“Please, Kaiti.” His voice was so sincere, so genuine. “I need you to trust me.”

I blew out a big breath and forced down the terror. “I trust you, Gavin. Get the script.”

He instantly leaped from the bed and kissed my forehead. “You won’t regret it. I’ll be right back.”

He snatched his phone and keys off the nightstand on the way out of my room.

I called out behind him, “Bring coffee when you come back up.”

I might have to add some Bailey’s or bourbon to it to make it through this next part, but at least for today, I was going to be the woman he thought I was.

If only this one time, I was going to make anxiety my bitch.