Page 50 of A Summer of Stars

“Wait, I don’t understand,” I said, stepping forward. He stopped immediately. “It’s only an hour and a half.”

He turned. His mouth was a hard line of determination, but his eyes looked tired. A slight crease of stress branched from the corners of his eyes.

“I don’t watch the movies I’m in,” he said finally. No emotion, no question. It was final. Water hitting a dam and stopping.

I shook my head. “I don’t understand. After all that talk about which of your movies I had seen and—”

“This is my job. I did my job. I played my part in the movie, and the movie is done now. I don’t want to discuss it, Aldridge.”

I—I didn’t know what to say. He was being completely serious. This had nothing to do with our fake relationship or how much we hated each other. This was him. And I touched a nerve I wasn’t supposed to touch. One I wasn’t supposed to see.

“Kieran,” I said softly. His eyes sparked with surprise. “I—”

A shadow in the corner caught my peripheral attention.

No. It couldn’t be. I blinked again.No.

My lungs caved in, and my throat tightened as if ten fingers wrapped around it.

Jeremiah was here.

“Luna Aldridge Heads to English Countryside to Attend Mansfield Mansion Event”

—LVH Knows

“WHAT’S WRONG?” KIERANasked. He stepped forward, his hand a whisper from my hip.

“Nothing, I—I need to go.”

“Go where?” He tried to follow me.

“No, Kieran, I need you to leave me alone. Just five minutes alone.” My voice was frigid. He paused, assessing the situation before accepting it.

“Okay.”

“Thank you,” was all I said before walking off, down the hall.

Jeremiah stood around the corner, waiting. He knew I’d come. The last time I had seen him in person was at my front door in Rhode Island. I had emptied two tissue boxes, eaten five bowls of oatmeal mixed with peanut butter, and memorized every crack in my father’s office ceiling.

My mouth was dry. Nostalgia, what a duplicitous friend. It was already creeping in, burrowing itself under my skin, reminding me of what it was like to be with him, to be admired by him, to beloved by him, to be acknowledged by him. And only a second had passed.

My year-long nightmare was standing in front of me.

His chestnut hair was shorter than the last time I had run my hands through it. His jaw was softer with facial hair now too.

The corner of his mouth quirked into an innocent smile. “You look… beautiful, wow,” he said warmly, leaning in for a hug like I hadn’t threatened to call my lawyer the last time we spoke. I tried to contain my flinch—the same gesture in the New York City hotel flashing behind my eyes.

I made an effort to back up, but he was taller. Quicker. He squeezed my shoulders the same way he did when we were married. A piece of me wanted to lean in. But I kept my hands at my sides.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, hoping my voice would have more spite.

“You won’t answer my calls, and I saw the event, and we’re both in London, so…”

“Because we’re playing in the same tournament, not because of some—some serendipitous encounter.”

“You don’t think there’s anything serendipitous about the fact that your husband happened to learn about this event the day it was happening?”

“You can’t call yourself that anymore.”