Page 93 of Love Scenes

It’s very, very real.

So Joe runs me through his audition for Daya. How satisfying it was to get the entire team laughing. “It’s easy to win over a room for a drama,” he explains. “Be a man who cries and you’re at least getting a callback. Comedy is tough. Every bastard in this town thinks they’re funny. I have no idea if I actually was, or they were deeply generous, but I’ll take it. It’s refreshing to leave a room feeling like I did something that scared me and I survived.”

“I read for that Romana De Lasso Regency romance project last week,” I tell him. “And I felt that too. I’ve spent my whole career avoiding historical stuff. I don’t even understand why, other than the thought of doing it terrifies me. In a good way. I want to try it all.”

“Does that mean one day I’ll get aSeekerspinoff starring Tess as a hard-hearted ghost who comes back seeking vengeance against Colfax?”

“Can you please explain why you ever started watching that show? All this time and I truly don’t understand. I know you have better taste than this.”

“It was for you,” he says simply. Our easy joking rhythm slows, halted by his candor. “This will sound a lot more intense than I mean it to, but I spent a lot of the last five years thinking aboutyou. In an admiring way. Your talent really amazes me. A big part of why I tookHorizonswas because I thought you were going to be in it with me.”

“Wow.” I’m truly touched by his admission. “Well, good. May you spend the next five years doing the same,” I joke.

“What happens after that?” he asks.

“We renegotiate the contract, of course. Ten more years thinking about me, and a promise for at least three more movies in theSwipeduniverse from you. My terms are firm.”

“Oh, I’ll sign on for that right now. So long as Tess gets the closure she deserves. Even if that particular show airs only in my living room.”

“That can be arranged.”

“I may need to get that in writing,” he says with a grin.

Our evening fades into a haze of good food and good conversation, the two of us rarely breaking eye contact. By the time we’ve finished our meal, it’s all I can do not to switch sides and sit beside him, leg across his lap. I refrain, never one for big public displays of affection. It’s too easily weaponized in our business.

The server returns with the bill paid for by me, my card tucked into the inside panel and receipt waiting for my signature.

Joe can’t hide his shock. “When did you do that?”

“This isn’t amateur hour. I gave them my card when I walked in,” I say as I sign.

“Christ. You are something to behold.” He gets up and walks to my side. “The next one is on me.”

“Fair.” My heart flutters at the ease with which he’s assured me there will be a next one.

He sticks out an elbow for me to hold. The exact level of public contact I can handle. Enough to say this person is mine without revealing every way we move together.

Like I figured, Joe and I pass by three people I know cordially. I give all of them knowing nods.Yes. This is exactly what you think it is.

When the elevator opens, Joe and I are the only two entering. The doors close on us, and Joe presses me up against the side, one arm around my waist and the other behind my head.

“Hello there,” he whispers as I savor his familiar weight against me.

“Hello.”

And just like that, he’s kissing me, soft and slow and wanting, fighting against time, the floors ticking down faster than they should. They open, and we break apart, stepping out to greet the bouncer as we walk to the next elevator arm in arm, as composed as two members of a bridal party gliding down the aisle.

Elevator number two closes on us, and I seize the opportunity to pin Joe, leg up around the side of him. “Hello again. Long time no see.”

This ride is longer. But not nearly long enough. Floating us up as we soar down, there’s more urgency now, though Joe’s hands only have time to roam under my shirt while mine enjoy the feel of his back, all the divots and grooves I’ve learned but haven’t yet memorized. Once the doors open, we walk out again, laughing, not arm in arm but hand in hand.

“Where are we going?” he asks me.

“Home,” I say, squeezing tight.

Joe’s orange Camarois parked in my driveway, and he’s kissing my ear as my hands fumble to turn my lock.

Tyler, I remember with a start. I didn’t tell her we were coming.Every inside light in my house is off, save for the small side lamp on a console table in my entryway. It illuminates a sticky note with a message sprawled across it in imposing capitals.