“I guess you should get used to the attention,” Canon murmurs as we exit the restaurant and enter the rooftop lobby.
“What?” I look up, my chest tightening when our stares collide. “What attention?”
“When we walked through the restaurant, all eyes were on you.”
I release a startled peal of laughter. “I thought they were all looking at you, not me.”
“I wonder how long you’ll be able to keep that,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “That humility. Once everyone starts telling you how beautiful you are, how amazing you are, it’s hard to hold onto.”
“Is it hard for you?” I ask softly.
That could be taken in some really pervy ways, but I’m glad that when he looks at me, his eyes sober, he seems to consider the question exactly as I meant it.
“Sometimes you start believing your own press, yeah.” He slides his hands into the pockets of his impeccably fitted slacks. “And forget what matters most.”
“What matters most?” I ask.
Dear elevator, if you could just not come until he answers this one question, that’d be great.
“The story matters most. Always the story.” He looks back to the rooftop, still packed with patrons, now bathed in star glow. “And if you’re lucky, you find people along the way who keep your feet on the ground—who remind you that real life matters, too.”
I know he’s referring to his tight inner circle, people like the coterie we just spent the evening with, and some audacious voice inside wonders if I could one day be one of them . . . to him. Someone who reminds a force like this that he’s also just a man.
Our elevator comes too soon, and I savor the last few moments around him. Once I return to New York, I probably won’t see him again before we start production. My senses hoard the last of him. His clean, masculine scent. The rich timbre of his voice and the compelling landscape of his features. The intellect and curiosity mingled in his dark eyes. The rare, bright flash of his smile.
I have no right to think I’ll miss him, and yet I know I will.
Monk is still on the phone when we board, and neither Canon nor I speak once we’re in motion. I sneak a peripheral glance at him from beneath my lashes, watching the shift of his shoulders under the jacket. I think about how I felt when I saw him with Arietta—the unreasonable jealousy. I wonder if he’s got a girl, some woman he goes home to or finds solace in or who merely slakes his physical needs. And the thought of it embeds a burning thorn in my heart. How can someone you’ve known for such a short time inspire this visceral response?
I don’t have much time to wonder because we reach my floor and it’s time to say goodbye. Still on the phone, Monk whispers see you soon. Canon holds the elevator door with one hand, waiting for me to get off.
“Uh, well, I guess I’ll see you in a few months,” I say, leaving the elevator car. I don’t wait for a response but take the first steps toward my room.
“Neevah,” Canon calls.
I look over my shoulder, committing his face and the way I feel when I’m around him to memory.
He stares back, his expression enigmatic, but alert.
“Yeah?” I ask, my voice pitched low. Waiting. Breath held.
“Nothing.” He frowns, clears his throat. “Good to see you again. Thanks for flying out.”
Before I can respond, he releases the door, letting it close between us.