He turned as she entered the house, her eyes darting away from his the second they connected. He felt that horrible twisting in his belly and wanted to beg her to look at him—to just look—and to see him the way no one else did.
But all he said was, “Coffee? Or do you want champagne to celebrate? Which I don’t have, but I think I have some white wine chilled.”
“I think pretend champagne sounds like a great idea. I—”
“What?”
“Nothing.” The word came out fast and clipped, followed by an uncomfortable laugh. “I’m not even sure what I meant to say.” Her smile seemed overly bright, and his chest tightened, like a sinking man who needed oxygen but wasn’t going to get it.
“Right. Okay, then. I’ll be right back.”
She nodded, and when he returned, she was settled in her usual chair behind the massive desk that took up most of the far wall of his living room. “So I had a few ideas for the scene where Hammond first sees Angelique,” she said. “I love what you’ve already got, but I have a way to build on it. Can we start there?”
“Sure,” he said, then handed her a glass. He was tempted to give her the glass in his right hand, just to watch her reaction. Because damned if he didn’t want a reaction. Hell, he expected one. And yet she hadn’t said one thing about what had happened outside, although the room seemed filled with unspoken words.
On the contrary, he was certain that she was intentionally avoiding the topic, because when had they ever dived straight into work?
Was she trying to be polite? Or, more likely, was she so disgusted by what she saw that she’d do anything to erase the memory and avoid the conversation?
That probability was the one he feared. The one that had the power to hurt him more deeply than any of the flames that had scarred his body. He’d let her live too long in his fantasies, spinning movies in his head where she was in his arms, her hands touching him, her lips kissing him. Her face revealing only love and not the slightest bit of disgust.
He should never have given in to those thoughts, he knew that. But he couldn’t change what he wanted anymore than he could change the skin on his body.
None of it mattered, though. That was the world of fantasy. In reality, she couldn’t even look at him. Hadn’t this evening proved that? And if the best they could manage was friendship … well, he could live with that. What other choice did he have?
He forced himself to sit in front of the monitor, then tried to control his heartbeat when she rolled her chair up beside him. “Hang on,” he said, “and I’ll find that section.”
“No prob.” She licked her lips, another sign that she felt nervous and awkward. Great. She’d seen his skin and everything had gone weird between them.
“Do you want to ride to The Fix with me?” she asked. “You and Megan are probably hanging out afterwards, right? So she could give you a ride back if you don’t want to wait for me. I’m going to watch Spencer and Brooke’s premiere tonight.”
“Sure,” he said, his heart sinking a little with the question. She knew he and Megan were friends, and only friends. Everyone at The Fix did. Not only had they tried to be clear about that from the get-go, but as soon as she and Parker became an item, they’d doubled their efforts.
In light of all that, he suspected that Beverly had asked the question as a way to telegraph her desire to jump on the friend wagon, too. Friends—and nothing more.
He exhaled slowly, allowing his fantasies to shift into a more realistic pattern. And then he turned his chair to face her, mentally sprinted forward, and jumped straight into the deep end of the pool anyway.
“You’ve seen more than she has, you know.” He watched her eyes as he spoke, those chocolate brown eyes so wide it seemed as though he could drown in them.
“More?”
“Of my scars.”
She blinked, but otherwise her expression didn’t change. “Oh.” She swallowed. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t mean to—”
“No,” he interrupted. “It’s okay.” He leaned back, sighing as he tried to wrap his head around his mess of thoughts. “I never—I hate everything about them, you know. Hate the memory of the fire—not that I have much memory. Hate myself for being stupid enough to try to start a grill with gasoline.”
She cringed, but didn’t say anything, and he pressed on.
“For a while, I hated the doctors. They should have been able to fix me, right?”
Her mouth opened, and she silently said his name. But that was all, and so he continued. “But this is what I’ve got. This is the best that they could do. Even with an experimental protocol, what you saw was the best that it’s possible for me to be.”
“You say that like there’s something wrong with you.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Don’t patronize me, Beverly. We know each other too well.”
One perfectly groomed eyebrow arched up. “Screw you, Griff. And I say that with tons of affection. But you’re an idiot. Yeah, I get that it’s hard and people stare. But being different—even being damaged—isn’t the same as having something wrong with you. From where I sit, you’re pretty damn amazing. I mean, have you read one of your scripts lately?”