Page 33 of A Summer of Stars

—W News

I SHOULDN’T HAVEsat down. I should have turned around and left. That’s what a sane person would have done. Instead, I was trying to compromise.

Don’t react. Don’t react. Don’t react.

I repeated it every time Aldridge shoved her heel into my foot. Did this woman have a reflex problem or an agenda to dig a hole through my shoe?

Accident or not, I did not give a shit. It still hurt like a—

“Who were you talking to?”

I flipped my gaze up, sliding my ring back on my finger. She was sitting on my left, staring at me. She always stared. Never gazed, never glanced. Only looked straight forward, unabashed. It was unnerving. The black makeup around her eyelashes made the color of her eyes bright like a cat’s. I imagined people struggled to keep eye contact with her. She was infuriating like that.

The room was loud with people’s drunken chatter and the live music playing at the front of the room. There must have been atleast fifty people at our table, everyone seated shoulder to shoulder. Most of them looked like models and actors; you could tell from the quality of their clothes and the relaxation in their wrists, holding their wineglasses. This was a night for them to gossip. The producers and directors were quieter, focusing on networking, leaning over the table to discuss future projects and pesky budgets.

Aldridge stood out; she didn’t fit into either category.

While everyone appeared occupied, I didn’t miss how they granted us long stares. Many were inappropriately long, but most were quick—curious. It was obvious Aldridge noticed, because she hadn’t loosened her shoulders.

“Alexander,” she said, waving her hand once in front of my face.

“What?” I asked.

“The blonde with the purple eye shadow you were talking to before you sat down,” she explained. Leaning back, she tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear, waiting.

I reached forward for my wineglass, taking a sip. “A colleague,” I said after swallowing.

A scowl was tattooed on her face. She didn’t like my answer. If she leaned over with a butter knife, she could stab me under the table to show me how much she didn’t like it. I don’t think anyone would notice. The room was fairly dark.

“She’s pretty,” she said.

“That sounds like a jealous comment,” I hummed.

“No.”

“That was a quick no.”

“Because you talk to so many women, I’d be dead with envy if I were actually jealous.”

“God forbid I enjoy working with women.”

“Are you working with her?”

“No.”

“Point made.”

“No point was made—Ihadworked with her.”

“You can just say you were flirting with her. We’re not in a real relationship; it doesn’t bother me.”

“It actuallydoessound like it bothers you. She’s also not my type anyway.”

“A type? I didn’t think you had one of those. With a dating history like yours, I assumed you only required that they breathe in order for you to be interested.”

I shook my head. Not taking the bait.

“Fine, let’s hear it, what’s your type then?” she pushed.