I raised my eyebrows. “Really?”
“What do you want me to say? I spend a lot of time home with Zoe. She likes the ticking clock sound.”
“Right.” I laughed. “But seriously, thank you. I’ll research some agents and get the ball rolling.”
“And then you need to practice your groveling. It’s gotta come from the heart so don’t sound too rehearsed. And for fuck’s sake, don’t use any dialogue from past movies. Be real. Authentic. Speak from here.” King thumped a fist against his chest.
I winced at his dialogue comment. To be fair, some of the lines were so ingrained in my mind I forgot they weren’t my words. But yeah, it was tacky. “Got you. Thanks, bro.”
“It’s what I’m here for. Now where’s this script you’re so crazy over? I might have to give you a run for your money. A swashbuckling treasure hunt and romance? Sounds like my kinda role.”
“Nope. Not happening. It’s mine.”
“Pretty sure Sophia was thinking of me when she wrote it.”
“Gross. And I changed my mind. I don’t want you to read it after all.” I set my beer down on the counter and hotfooted it to the living room where I’d left the screenplay on the coffee table.
King ran after me and dove across the room. I slapped the sheath of papers out of his hands, and then it was on. We wrestled on the hardwood floor like the old days. Lots of grunts and laughter and curses.
Of course, King had all his Captain America muscles, and after a few minutes pinned me under his stupid, fat ass.
He sat on my chest and flipped through Sophia’s screenplay. All his laughter fell away as he got enveloped in her story.
“Uh, King?” I grunted, fighting to breathe under his weight. “A little help here?”
“Oh yeah. Sorry.” King stood up and walked over to the couch, reading the whole way.
I couldn’t help but grin at the sight. I was right. Sophia’s story was amazing.
And King probably would give me no end of shit when he realized how familiar the hero was. Although since we shared so many similar features, he’d no doubt believe it was written for him. Or at least that would be his take on it.
Fat chance.
* * *
A day later I’d researched literary agents, querying, and talked it all over with my agent Daniel. And we’d come to a conclusion. There was no way I could forward Sophia’s screenplays without her contact information attached. It would raise flags left and right if I didn’t have her phone number on the query letter.
A number I didn’t have anymore.
I’d questioned everyone in my circle. No one had been in touch with Sophia since she’d left. The thought of showing up on her parents’ doorstep without a plan, hoping she or her father would give me her number, was humiliating. She’d no doubt slam the door in my face. Or I could easily picture her father chasing me off their doorstep with a shotgun. It was what I would’ve done. A punk like me didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as Sophia.
Not to mention the fact that I wasn’t ready to face her yet. I hadn’t gotten very far in my Get-Her-Back Plan. I had to make up some ground in gaining her forgiveness before I saw her again. I couldn’t go to her with only words. At the very least, I had to think through what I was going to say first. I didn’t want to spout out lines from one of my movies again. It hadn’t gone well the first time—I could only imagine what the second would look like.
Which was how I found myself at her apartment complex. If there was one person in this world who had her new phone number—aside from her family—it was her bff, Molly.
Of course it didn’t occur to me that maybe Sophia had gone ahead and moved back to her apartment until I was walking toward her front door. I didn’t see her car in the parking lot, but she could’ve switched cars with her dad to keep the paps off her trail. And even worse, what if she’d already moved on, and she opened the door hand in hand with a new guy? My palms went sweaty at the thought.
I closed my eyes with a muttered curse. I was ridiculous. I had to get my shit under control. It’d only been a week. No way had Sophia moved on already. She wasn’t here. Her car wasn’t here. I’d just ask Molly for Sophia’s new number and after a little back and forth, I’d charm her into giving it to me. Simple.
Plan made, I approached her door and knocked authoritatively.
And then my worst nightmare came true. The door swung open and a shirtless, gangly man covered in tattoos stood in the doorway.
My heart sank into my stomach.
I was too late.
His lips curled in a sneer. “Not the cops, babe. Just some douche with a complex.”