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“Yes, Mr. Montgomery?”

“Mazynsky,” I said, the Polish name crashing consonants into the air.

“God-bless-you?”

I laughed, feeling lighter already. “You signed an NDA. Mazynsky is my real name. I—” my voice fell “—spent a lot of food money changing that shit.” Vinnie and I had spent an entire night talking about who I’d be when I finally got my SAG card, and we’d stuck with it.

“Mmm . . .” Noah said, the syllable conveying tremendous disappointment.

“Not good enough?” I was absurdly hurt.

Then, even in the weak light, I could see the dim sparkle of his supernova grin. “Naw—for right now, Mr. Mazynsky, it’ll do just fine.”

I winced. I’d always hated that name. “Maybe Connor,” I said humbly.

He moved, coming to squat right in front of me, and taking my hands as they dangled limply between my knees. “Okay, Connor,” he said, his voice so gentle I almost—
almost—
didn’t realize he’d taken this conversation to a sudden intimacy.

“Okay what?” I rasped. His hands on mine were warm and strong, and my neediness rose up, almost choking me.

“We’ll start with your name.” His thumbs rubbed circles on the inside of my palms. “Maybe eventually we’ll get to who you really are.”

He stood then and turned to leave, and I watched him, hungering for something, anything, to hold on to in the still darkness of the fallen night.

“Noah?” I said, hating myself for the pitch in my voice.

He turned halfway. “What’s up?”

“What are we doing tomorrow?” Like a little kid, I fuckin’ swear to fuckin’ God.

Noah turned all the way then. “You don’t have anything at the studio, but how ’bout I come get you around ten, and show you and Jilly around our little town. There’s a bike shop—I’ll put the rack on the back of the car if you like. You can buy or rent a touring bike and maybe have some independence if you’re not going to get your own car.”

My voice squeaked with embarrassment. “That’s a really good plan,” I said. “I . . . The bike’s a good idea, but, uh, Jilly and I weren’t kidding when we saw you in the airport. I can’t, uh, navigate out of a paper bag.”

Noah laughed a little. “Don’t worry, Connor. It takes two turns to get to Bluewater Bay. Even
you
can’t screw that up. You’ll like it, trust me. Besides, it’s good exercise, and you won’t risk turning an ankle—the roads here are for shit because the ground’s so soft. There’s not a road shoulder for miles.”

“Two turns?” I said, puzzled. I mean, we’d driven through the town on the way to the studio this morning, and it had seemed like we’d been running through a maze.

“The road’s a little squirrely, but I swear, there’s only two stop signs between here and town. I’ll let you sit up front tomorrow, you’ll have a better view.”

I smiled suddenly—I had something to do, then. Something to look forward to.

“Okay,” I said, happier than I had been. “That sounds like a plan.” Creakily, like an old man, I stood and stretched. “I’ll walk back to the house with you. I don’t want you to feel obligated to wait.”

“Sure. But it would have been no problem.”

We started back, shoulder to shoulder. He loomed an intimidating height over me—and I was pretty tall for Hollywood.

“I don’t like to put people out,” I said apologetically.

He chuckled, and the air between us lightened. “Aren’t you a movie star?”

I laughed too. “Jesus, don’t start that shit. Just get me my coffee and give me my pedicure and I’ll go be big and important somewhere else.”

This time his laugh echoed off the water, and the island across from us, and the houses down the hill in our little block.

“Noah?”

“Yeah?”

“Do other people live on this block?” The houses were well spaced—if there were lights on, it was hard to see in the twilight.

“Yeah—a family in each house.”

“How come I don’t see them?”

“Timing.”

“Huh. Hey, does anybody live on that island across from us?”

He made a surprised grunt. “I don’t know. I can find out for you.”

I thought about it for a few steps. “No, that’s okay. I can make up better scenarios on my own.”

“That’s . . . narcissistic. Any other questions?”

How far away was Mount Olympus? How many stores were in town? What were the locals like? Was it possible to swim to the island? Could I plant flowers even though we were renting the house? How many miles was it to town? To the hotel? Were there helmet laws in Washington? Were they enforced? What exactly was a touring bike? Was it different from a mountain bike? Which one would be better?

We got back to the house, and he opened the garage with the press of a fob on his keychain, stopping me in midquestion.

“God, you’re exhausting,” he muttered, almost to himself. “I had no idea one little truth was going to set so much free!”

I smiled, a slow, sweet, sunshiny kind of smile. “Yeah, well, I’m surprised myself.”

The light from the garage let me see his features, and I remembered all over again that he wasn’t a bad-looking kid.

That thought, of all of them, killed my smile and shut me up.

“No,” he snapped harshly.

“No what?” But my shoulders were hunching, and I could already feel my body hiding all my secrets.

“No—we were in a place. A good place—you’re not shutting me out.”

I held up my hands, forcing my shoulders back with an effort. “Absolutely, Mr.—”

Oh God, he moved fast.

He suddenly stood so close I could smell him—something dark and Old Spice-y—rum and sweat and wool. I could feel his body heat through his suit.

“Noah?” I said uncertainly—although I didn’t feel threatened. Just really, really close.

So close that when he captured the back of my head with one long-fingered, bony-knuckled hand, I had no way to pull back.

And when he pressed a short, brutal kiss against my lips, I froze in surprise.

He paused, and I parted my lips slightly, prepared to tell him . . . what? He went in again, and this time his tongue swept in. For a moment, I relaxed, and in that breath—

I was safe. Cared for. Protected. Comforted in a way I hadn’t felt since . . .

Ever.

Treacherous and ungrateful—that feeling forced me to step back and hold my hand to my mouth like an outraged Victorian heroine.

“But . . .” I stammered.

“Don’t say it,” Noah ordered. “Man, if you actually say that fucking lie out loud I am going to lose my shit.”

I’m not gay.

Oh for fuck’s sake, Connor—you blew half of Hollywood before I fucked you up the ass.

But Vinnie!

He’s hot. Please don’t fuck this up.

“Uhm . . .” I was still staggered, and when Noah’s hand came out to cup my cheek I almost flinched.

But he wasn’t mean or angry—he just rubbed my cheekbone with his thumb. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Connor Mazynsky.”

“Okay,” I said, like this was normal.

“Good.” And like that he turned around and hopped in the car. He backed out and gave me time to get into the garage before he closed the door and left me to wander into the house.

Jilly had cleaned up and apparently gone to bed, and I made it to my room before I stripped to my shorts and collapsed, wondering what in the hell had just happened.

Jilly declined to come to “the village” as she put it, stating work reasons. I honestly thought she just needed to put her head in a different place, a place where she was forced to realize “I have to tell Vinnie” meant she had to do it like I did it—in her head, where Vinnie could reply and she didn’t have to tell anybody about the conversation.

Noah picked me up, right on time. We were both wearing cargo shorts and hooded sweatshirts, which relieved me on some level. Actors play the part—and right now my part was to blend in and be casual.

“I think,” I said, looking out the window to the greenery that surrounded the winding road, “that the last year was like . . . like we insulated ourselves. Like when you wrap a bandage tight around a cut so you don’t have to feel it until you’re ready.”

I felt rather than saw Noah’s startled glance. “You haven’t spoken for three miles, do you know that?”

I looked at him. “This road is really long. I’m surprised I don’t get carsick on the way out.”

“Is that another of your quirks—like the getting lost?” he asked, not like he was irritated, just like he was taking note.

“Only sometimes,” I confessed. “Usually if I’ve played it fast and loose with the diet.”

“Which means . . .”

I sighed. “Okay, fine. Let’s play ‘Getting to know Connor Montgomery—’”

“Mazynsky.”

“Connor
Mazynsky
better. I rarely get carsick, but when I do it’s usually after too much sugar and fat. So, sausage and cheese with a milkshake chaser is a bad idea for me.”

“It’s a bad idea for my little sister,” Noah muttered. “It’s a bad idea for
anyone
.”

“Yeah, Vinnie used to complain. I loved burgers and fries and milkshakes, and that shit’s cheap, but I couldn’t eat it, even when we were younger. Not more than once a week. So we’d have wheat bread and hummus with turkey, and we’d call it champagne and caviar on wheat.”

“That’s good.” Noah laughed.

I smiled back. I’d made him happy—and the memory had slipped out so naturally it hadn’t hurt at all.

“Vinnie could turn shit around like that,” I told him. “Just . . . just stupid optimistic. I started to pick it up from him, way back—it’s a better way to live.”

“Like how?”

“Like, well, if you blow the audition for the chewing gum, you’ll have time to make it to the one for the fabric detergent and that one has a hot director. You know, that sort of thing.”

“What was his name?” Noah asked casually.

“Whose name?”

“The hot director’s name?”

Oh, very tricky.

“It was a hypothetical,” I returned mildly.

“Sure. So, what else did Vinnie give you?”

“Besides a place to live?”

“Was it a nice place?” It seemed like such an innocuous question.

“It was a dump,” I said bluntly. “Mold in the bathroom, a hot plate and a minifridge, a couch that would break your back if you slept on it, and one window, from the bedroom, that looked out on a brick wall.”

“But you guys lived there for a year?”

“Yeah.” I smiled nostalgically. “Until Jilly signed us on and we started getting a better class of commercial.” This was basic history—you could find it on any website, or clickbait site for “best bromance” really. I know it had found its way into fanfic, which was fine. As long as Vinnie and I didn’t have to read about one of us having ass-babies or getting gangbanged by aliens with latex tentacles, we’d been sort of proud of popping up in the imaginations of schoolgirls everywhere. It was like being a movie star in their dreams, right? Except some of the scripts were
way
better.

“And then you moved into a better apartment?”

I smiled. “Yeah—this one actually had a kitchen. It was awesome.” It had been a studio.

“And a year later, you signed on for
Warlock Tea
.”

I sent him a sideways look. “Yeah, why?”

Noah shook his head. “Just getting a timeline here. You know—how long you lived in each other’s back pockets. Didn’t that get wearing?”

“No.” I realized that I’d managed to answer his questions honestly, and that made me feel good. “In fact, we missed each other when I moved out.”

My voice dropped. That was a truth I had difficulty sharing. It led to so many truths I
couldn’t
share.

“How’d you handle that?”

“Friends separate all the time,” I said vaguely.

“Yeah. What’d you do?”

“Email, texting, Skype—it’s not the dark ages. Is that the town? It’s sweet!”

It was a tourist trap—but a nice one. Log cabin facades, boardwalks above streets that probably flooded when the rain melted the snow off the mountains. The stores themselves were eclectic—art galleries featuring local artists, coffee shops, candy by the barrel, locally designed and manufactured clothing. There was a store with yarn spun from everything from arctic bunny to yak, and a store with carved Native art. Noah cruised the small, maybe four-block area slowly, and I took in the shingles hanging above the boardwalk with a kind of delight.

They even had men’s outdoor clothing, and it was apparently doing brisk business. Good—the clown cum rag had come out of the wash that morning, and it was never going to be the same.

“I like this place,” I declared. “This is a very good place!”

I looked at Noah and could tell by his smirk that he’d just assessed my mental age to about five. I didn’t care. One of the first things Vinnie and I had done when we started getting good commercials was learn to shop. Not for headshots or clothes we had to wear for auditions or hair products. Just for
us
. We’d furnished that second apartment with an eclectic assortment of things we’d seen and loved—and could finally afford.

A throw rug the color of a summer sky? Yes. Plates shaped like steak? You betcha. Quilts, pillows, throws, and afghans that matched the season, or the day, or the month, or the premiere we looked forward to the most?