CHAPTER SIXTEEN

SAVANNAH

––––––––

"He might be ten times hotter than George, but he's grumpy as hell." Briar says and I push off the sofa and head to the chair to start removing the layers of makeup I have on.

"Yeah, poor George," I say, referring to my old bodyguard.

He collapsed one day, and while George was a little older than Ryder, he seemed in excellent health. I'm no medical doctor, but it surprised us all.

As for Ryder's mood, I don't understand what happened between the jet and when he returned to the room.

Something has. He's cold and distant.

I hate it.

"What are you doing tonight while we're in the Big Apple?" I ask Briar through the mirror. "Oh, where has Gina gone?"

I was hoping to invite Gina for a drink before dinner with Nick to relax and chat as friends. To give her the opportunity outside our employee-employer relationship to chat freely.

I glance around as Briar pulls her bag over her shoulder. "She said she had plans. The rest of us are going to a show. I better get going so I can shower." She glances at her phone screen. "Do you need me before eight in the morning?"

I shake my head.

"No." Then I have a thought. "Is Gina flying home commercial with the rest of you tomorrow?"

Briar shakes her head.

Because I'm spending the rest of the day with friends in New York after the show in the morning, I asked Briar to fly everyone home to start their weekend early.

They don't need to wait around for me.

I don't know what made me ask, but I did. Now I have no idea how she is getting home.

"Oh, is she planning to flying home with us?"

Shit.

"Me, I mean." I correct.

Not us.

Ryder and I are not an us.

"She didn't say. When I asked, she got...um, annoyed with me." Briar chews her lip.

"Okay. Go have fun tonight." I force a smile and when she closes the door, I stare in the mirror. My smile fades and sadness washes over me.

I pick up my phone and there are no missed calls from my family. None. A tear falls down my face as I realize Gina hasn't said congratulations to me about the nomination either.

Nothing.

Not one single word.

Jimmy made a big fuss about our nominations tonight on the show and it was fun, but it's not the same. He's paid to do it. Michelle, who sent me an enormous bouquet of flowers congratulating me, is also paid. She's my manager.

Ditto the producers of the movie who sent a large cake.

These are my colleagues, not my family.

They understand how important this is and I'm grateful they are acknowledging it and celebrating it with me.

But I want one person who loves me to hug me and say, Girl, you did it. Oh, my fucking god.

Getting nominated for a Golden Globe is an honor and enormous achievement for an actor. This could be the only time it happens. Few ever get nominated. Even fewer win.

Listen, I can understand my family being so critical when I was younger. They are working-class people, so seeing their daughter being a dreamer rather than having a safe career must have seemed crazy to them.

I could have failed.

But I knew in my heart this was what I wanted to do. All I wanted to do. I had to back myself, even when I was told I was a fool.

How I found the belief and resilience I will never know. Perhaps if I'd still been trying at thirty-something, I might've given up, but that didn't happen.

I didn't just dream, I also took action. I took risks; I practiced my art and kept believing it was possible.

I did.

It paid off.

So why can't my family be happy for me? Maybe then I might share some of my wealth with them, but who in their goddamn mind would give money to anyone who is being abusive?

Seems like a toxic trait to me.

I wipe the tears away, then start second guessing myself. If I gave them money, I bet they'd suddenly and magically start being lovely.

Is that what I need to do?

Pay off Mom's mortgage. Clear my sister's student debt. And get my dad's girlfriend new boobs.

Jesus.

I drop my head into my hands. I just want them to love and care for me. I'm not paying for their support and affection. Tears leak through my fingers as my pity party continues.

I hate crying about them.

I hate feeling so alone in my success.

I lift my head and wipe my eyes, letting out a teary laugh at my panda eyes. Then, as I always do, I take a deep breath and carry on.

Alone.

I reach for the cotton wipes and makeup remover and start the process of turning back into Savannah Sinclair, the woman, not the actress.

After I've reapplied my own makeup and pinned up my hair, I get changed.

I haven't spent much time in New York. Before becoming famous I'd never been here, so I'm excited to go out tonight.

Sliding the matching apple green jacket over my pantsuit, I reach for my purse. Then, with one last look in the mirror, I step outside.

Ryder is leaning against the opposite wall with one leg lifted and his arms crossed.

God, he looks so handsome.

And grumpy.

The door clicks behind me, and I walk over to him. He drops his foot to the floor and straightens his suit.

"Ready?"

I nod, but don't move as he stares down at me. I wish he would pull me into his arms and kiss me.

He's your bodyguard.

Stop it.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Yes. Let's go." He moves, his arm reaching behind me, but he doesn't touch me.

I hide my disappointment, which has no place existing between us, and make my way through the building.

I just need a drink or two or three.

That will make today better.

I'm done being sad.

––––––––

THE SERVER PULLS my chair out, and I thank her. Then slide into my seat as she places the napkin over my lap and waits.

"I ordered us a bottle of wine." Nick says, as Ryder moves into the shadow, looking every bit the badass bodyguard he is in his gorgeous black suit and dark glasses.

Can he even see in those things?

I figure he must be able to.

But I can't see his eyes and I hate it.

He said about three words to me on the way to Jean-Georges Restaurant in Manhattan and then made a call back to the Black Hawke security office.

They've made no headway on the stalker notes. The paper and pen used were standard materials, and the handwriting is not on any police databases.

"You told the police?" I asked Ryder.

"No."

He gave no more information. I'm not sure how that works, but I do know the stalker is still out there and I have no idea when I'll receive another one.

It's unnerving.

I'm trying not to worry about it, but it's easier when Ryder is not so cold. I'm thankful to have his protection. I just wish he'd tell me what has upset him.

Or if he regrets what we did.

"Babe?" Nick prompts.

"Oh, sorry. Thank you." I glance up and smile, then the server fills my glass.

"The Lucien Crochet 2021 vintage, madam," the server says. "Would you like to order?"

"Excellent choice." I say, sipping the Sauvignon Blanc from Sancerre and then rest my arm on the table, relaxing.

"Give us a few minutes." Nick says, tipping his head. "You look tired."

I sip my wine again. "I am. Aren't you?"

He shrugs and sips his own glass. "I'm used to the circus during a media tour and thrive on it, if I'm honest."

"I noticed." I smile.

"I remind myself how blessed I am, and that it might be the last time." Nick says, taking a long sip of his wine.

"You're right." I sigh. "It's not all of this"—I wave my hand out indicating the invisible celebrity status we both hold—"that's draining me, it's more the personal side of things."

"Your dad still telling you that you have no talent?" Nick asks, surprised. When I nod, he adds, "Did he not see the Golden Globe nomination announcement this morning?"

I sigh and lift the glass to my lips, taking a long sip.

"No idea. Not one person outside this new world of mine has said congratulations. Not one."

"That's fucked up. What about your mom and sister, Ivy?"

I shake my head. Then I add, "No, not even Gina."

Nick sips his drink thoughtfully, watching me. "How close are you?"

I thought we were best friends. I thought we were as close as two friends should be. But life has been so busy, and I employed her.

I messed it up.

And I need to fix it.

But now I'm not sure we are friends, and my heart just feels sad about it.

"I suppose she just works for me now." I smile sadly.

"Not everyone is a best friend for life. People come and go," Nick says, straightening his utensils. "I'm your friend and fellow nominee, so focus on those who do care about you."

I smile, but it feels fake.

Not because he isn't being a friend, but because he kind of missed the point. There are people in my life I love who don't seem to love me.

It hurts.

It really hurts.

And, as my eyes dart over to Ryder, I realize that he's doing the same thing. Closing me out.

He shouldn't matter.

But he does.

God, I slept with him once and he won't even kiss me. Am I that desperate to be loved and accepted?

The guy is my bodyguard. A hot bodyguard, yes, but seriously, he's just a guy who wanted to fuck Savannah Sinclair.

I'm such a fool.

"Come on. Let's celebrate in style like the fucking rich movie stars we are." Nick waves out and our server appears immediately. "Oysters. Your best champagne. Lobster."

I giggle.

"Make that two bottles. And every other stupidly priced thing on your menu," Nick adds.

"What are you doing?" I keep laughing.

"Enjoying our success. We should have choppered here."

"I'm staying two blocks away." I choke on my wine and cough.

"Exactly. Golden Globe nominees do not drive. We helicopter everywhere from now on!" He winks at me.

I almost reach over and kiss him. This is what I need. Not because we're spending an insane amount of money—we are—but because we are celebrating.

Celebrating our amazing achievement despite what my family has said or thought or judged.

Nick has given me something tonight no one else in my life has: a place to celebrate and not feel guilty.

Even more importantly, I let myself.

Over the next few hours, plate after plate, bottle after bottle arrives at our table. Nick makes me laugh all evening and I even force myself to ignore Ryder, who is watching from the shadows.

I know he's unhappy, but I can't do anything about it if he won't talk to me.

So fuck him too.

Fuck him for turning off and...whatever. I know he owes me nothing, but I feel...things I shouldn't.

Nick and I laugh at the hilarious things that happened on set and gossip like little drunken teenagers.

I need this.

Almost as much as I need Ryder to kiss me.

But I know now it isn't going to happen. He's made it clear.

Message received by Mr. Bodyguard, I think drunkenly.

We crossed the line. Now I simply need him to protect me and find whoever is sending these notes.

Nothing more.

For a second, I reflect on the note.

NOW I HAVE YOUR DNA

It's weird. I haven't slept with Nick. I'm tempted to ask him about it, but the BHS team has been adamant I keep the situation private for now.

I think it's a fan with a crush on Nick.

So that narrows it down to one hundred million people.

More.

So while the threat is baseless—because what on earth are they planning to do with my DNA—and even if I had slept with Nick...well, so what?

The public would be thrilled.

"Honestly, it would be good PR," Michelle reminded me.

"True," I'd replied.

To which Ryder said, "You've both missed the point. If this person is unhinged, the media will be the least of our worries."

He was right. It's the crazy and unpredictable nature of the person leaving the notes that is worrying. I feel like running away from everything tonight.

To escape.

But the exquisite champagne, Nick's wonderful company, and way too many oysters are a good start.

Maybe he is a true friend?

There's a bond between a leading man and lady that's hard to describe. You share something unique, when it's this successful, that only the two of you understand.

"Tell the truth. Do you get nervous during intimacy scenes?" I ask, even though we've discussed it before. "You've done way more than me. Does it get easier?"

"Depends who it's with." He stretches out his leg. "And the team around you."

"True. Our intimacy team was amazing."

"They were." Nick agrees and licks the Belgium chocolate from the back of his spoon. "I was looking forward to our scenes." He says, placing the spoon on the plate and dabbing his mouth with his napkin.

"You were?" I ask, surprised.

He tosses his napkin on the plate and laughs. "Yes, Savannah Sinclair. You're a beautiful, sexy woman. Kissing you wasn't horrible."

I feel my cheeks warm.

That wasn't what I was expecting him to say.

It's almost...inappropriate.

"Well, it was acting."

"It's still kissing." Nick holds my gaze. "My mouth was on yours."

I shiver.

His naked body was on top of mine, too. Even if we were surrounded by twenty people and four cameras.

I'm not unaware of how hot Nick is. He's a Hollywood heartthrob.

But this conversation feels like it's fueled with oysters and alcohol, and I'm not sure it should go too much further.

"I was nervous," I say. "You're Nick Marciano. My god. I thought I was going to bite you or something."

He tosses his head back and laughs. I giggle, happy to have broken that awkward tension.

He leans in and says, "Spoiler alert. If you had, I would've liked it."

And...now it's back.