Getting out of bed, he pulled on his jeans and then walked them to the door, because now that he’d managed to drain himself to numb emptiness, he wanted to sleep. He had to sleep. If he missed this window, he might not sleep again for days.

He hauled open the door. “Thanks for a nice time, ladies,” he said, because he wasn’t a total bastard. Not all the time anyway.

Pouts disappeared, replaced by sultry smiles. Placing one hand each on his chest, they leaned in as a unit. “Thanks, Noah. Anytime you want a good time, call us.”

Her friend took out a phone. “Mind if I take a photo of us together?”

Noah knew that photo would end up online or in the papers. Where before he wouldn’t have given a shit, now that Kit was back in his life, even if only as a friend, he found himself shaking his head. “No souvenirs.” He smiled, using it like the tool it was. “Be good and I might use those numbers you left by the bed.”

They giggled and waved before getting into the damn car at last.

Eyes so heavy he could barely keep them open, he nonetheless managed to get himself to the house, collapsing into bed thirty seconds after he entered the front door, his mind blanking out.

When he woke, dawn was pink on the horizon. A glance at the clock on the bedside table told him two and a half hours had passed.

A good night’s sleep.

Two days after the picnic with Noah, Kit walked out of a meeting with the director and the writer of Last Flight with a spring in her step. Their new project—still in the planning stages—sounded remarkable, and she was more than ready to be attached on the understanding that they’d negotiate a contract once Terrence and Jade got the financing sorted.

Kit knew her agreement would assist the duo to get the funding they needed, and she was fine with that. Without the risk the two had taken by casting her in Last Flight, she’d still be knocking on doors and attending open casting calls with a hundred other hopefuls. Kit wasn’t about to turn her back on them, especially with a script this poignant and complex.

“Kit, hold up.”

Turning, she smiled at Terrence. Tall, with shaggy black hair against olive skin and bright hazel eyes behind silver-rimmed frames, the writer was one of her favorite people in the industry. “You don’t have to give me the hard sell, Terrence. I’m convinced.”

“Excellent.” Putting his hand on her back, he smiled down at her, his features fine-boned and his camouflage green T-shirt sitting easily on a body lean with muscle. “In which case I can put my efforts into convincing you to have dinner with me tonight.”

“With Jade?”

Terrence shook his head. “Just you and me.” His expression softened. “What do you think?”

“Oh.” She fiddled with the bound copy of the script she held in order to give herself time to think. She’d always liked Terrence, but she’d never thought of him in a romantic way, mostly because she’d been hung up on Noah. She had to get over that. Why not with a man she respected and admired?

“Okay,” she said. “But not anyplace celebrity—I’d rather we go somewhere we can actually eat and talk.” As opposed to see and be seen.

“Us poor writers can’t even get into those celebrity places.” Terrence’s smile was wry as he thrust his hands into the pockets of his buff-colored cargo pants. “The maître d’s look at me like I’m some hobo who crawled in off the street.” A grin that reached his eyes. “I know a nice neighborhood Italian place.”

 “Sounds good. Shall I meet you there?”

“I can pick you up if you don’t mind.”

She knew what he was asking. If he came through her gates, the paparazzi would start salivating and snapping; if not immediately, then soon enough. “That’d be lovely,” she said, her breath tight in her chest. “Six thirty?”

“Yeah.” Smile deep, he offered her his arm. “I’ll walk you out.”

“No, go back to Jade—I’m sure you two have tons to discuss. I’m heading next door to pick up Becca so we can grab a coffee together.” Her friend was working on makeup designs for her next gig. “I’ll see you tonight.”

As she left, she was aware of her heart thundering, her blood a roar in her ears. Terrence was a nice guy—a good-looking, smart, funny guy—but he wasn’t the one who’d provoked the raw emotional response. It was only Noah who got to her that deep. But Noah wasn’t for her.

Moving on from him, really moving on, was terrifying and freeing… and heartbreaking. She’d dated since that ugly night, but part of her had held back, secretly hopeful. No more. It was time to erase that hope, walk away from it forever.

Ducking into a restroom on the way to the makeup trailer where Becca was working, Kit locked the door and tried to stifle the sobs that threatened to break out of her. Her chest hurt, her body ached, her eyes burned, and her breath had turned choppy. Two tears rolled down her face, but she managed to swallow the rest, managed to learn to breathe again after five minutes of trying.

After washing her face at the sink and patting it dry with tissues from the dispenser, she dug around in her purse for her compact and lipstick and repaired the damage. She was good at hiding it, had learned all about makeup from her mother. Adreina had taken her in hand for two weeks after she turned fifteen, given her lessons.

Kit planned to teach her own daughter too—if that daughter wanted it. At fifteen, Kit had still been in the fugly stage and sitting in front of a mirror with a supermodel by her side had only highlighted her flaws. Despite that, she’d loved those hours with her mom, just the two of them for once—and Adreina had never once put her down. Rather, her gorgeous, confident mother had told her to look bullies in the eye and say fuck you.

Those memories were some of the most cherished of Kit’s childhood.

Checking her face afterward, she caught her own eyes in the mirror. The camera apparently loved her eyes—the critics raved about how expressive they were, how much she could communicate with just those two amber orbs.

Today her eyes revealed bruised pain and a searing sense of loss.

Becca would take one look at her and know something was wrong, regardless of the stellar job Kit had done on her face. Kit couldn’t handle her friend’s perceptive mind right now, so she did what she tried very hard never to do with her closest friends: she put on a mask.

Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and thought of a bit part she’d played right when she’d started out in the industry. It had been of a “girl next door” whose only job had been to smile and flirt with the coffee guy who was the heartthrob, thus giving the heroine a reason to act jealous. It hadn’t been the greatest script, but it had paid her rent that month.

It was also perfect for today. Her eyes filled with cheerful joy, her lips curved, and suddenly she wasn’t Kit anymore but that happy, uncomplicated girl next door. If only the transformation wasn’t simply skin deep.

Noah picked Abe up around seven, the two of them having decided to grab a bite together after the keyboard player got into the city. “Any preferences?”

His mahogany skin gleaming with health after his camping and hiking vacation, Abe rubbed his hand over his clean-shaven skull. It was a very conservative look for the other man; he usually rocked color, with patterns razored into his close-cut and tightly curled hair. Noah hadn’t seen this look since soon after they first arrived in Los Angeles as eighteen-year-olds full of dreams.

“Remember that Italian place your bud Esteban showed us last time he was in the city?” Abe said after a second’s thought.

“Yeah.” Noah had enjoyed that restaurant too. It was run by a family of six who all seemed genuinely happy to be part of a family business. No hidden surliness or frustrated ambitions.