Page 60 of The Fake Script
“Oh, yeah. But I had a headache, and my eyes were hurting, so I decided to watch TV instead.”
Yeah, that’s genius. Because you don’t need your eyes to watch TV.
I clear my throat. “So, how was the shoot today? Did you guys wrap it up?”
“We did,” he says, and my shoulders relax. I thought he was going to push the fact that I’m watching his movie.Iwould have. “We got everything we needed. We’ll be leaving tomorrow and resuming production in the bookstore on Monday.”
“Perfect.” I lean back as hesits down next to me. “I’m ready to go home. I miss my bed, and Mr. Darcy. Being sick away from home is the worst.”
“I bet.”
I turn to him, my lips pulling into a smile. “But thank you for taking care of me. You didn’t have to.”
He cocks his head to the side. “Of course I did.” His gaze drops to my lips, and I force myself to look away.
“Why aren’t you wearing your mask anymore?”
“Is that really necessary? You look so much better.”
“No, I guess it’s not.” But it was pretty handy to have that million-dollar smile hidden.
“So, which movie did you like best? You had a whole marathon, didn’t you?”
My eyes shoot to the TV, and sure enough, my entire afternoon is on display with the last three movies marked as “watched.” Traitor.
“Well, I had nothing else to do.” I shrug. “And I thought you didn’t like discussing your movies.”
He smiles. “I never said that. I don’t like towatchthem, but I’m fine talking about them. Especially with you.”
“You were great in all the roles.” I nod firmly. “But in that last one, I totally fell for Ben Legion.”
“What?” he exclaims. “He’s the villain. How can you fall for the bad guy?”
I chuckle. “What can I say? I’m a dark romance gal. Villains will always have my heart.”
He sighs. “Huh. I should rethink how I choose my next roles. I’m definitely going for the bad guy next time.”
“You should,” I tease.
“Oh, and remind me to never introduce you to Ben.”
“Fine by me.” I suppress my smile. “I’m not really into actors anyway.”
“Ouch,” he says, pretending to be hit in the chest.
I bite my lip, flitting my eyes toward him. “Okay. Maybe I have space for just one.”
“That’s what I like to hear.” He flashes me a big smile.
I want to return it, but the stupid butterflies are taking flight again. How are they back? We’re just talking.
No, Emma. You’re flirting, that annoying voice says in my head.
As if. I don’t do flirting.
Except I just did. It was just so natural, I barely registered it.
Doomed. I’m totally and utterly doomed. Over the span of three weeks, Auston Buckley has turned me into the heroine of a romance novel, and I’m not sure how to get out of it. Or if I even want to.