I sat in my lace and peekaboo, running my fingertips across his face and down along his neck, through the closely cropped hair and across his eyelids.

My star needed some sleep.

A pair of solid hands pulled me backward, sliding me against a warm body. I shuddered a bit, sleep pushing from my eyes as I realized I was in our bed, with my Jack. My star was no longer sleeping. My star was on the prowl.

“Jack, you should sleep,” I protested, rolling over and raising up on one elbow, peering down at him. He ran his arm from my knee to my thigh, up and over my backside, plucking at the red lace he loved so. His hand was warm, and so was his smile.

“I slept,” he whispered,

“You still look tired.” I caught his roving hand and brought it to my lips for a kiss.

“What a nice thing to say. Do I get five orgasms now?”

“Funny.” I chuckled, relaxing into his side and tucking in, resting my head on his shoulder. I sighed, still sleepy but craving his skin.

“I could probably handle at least one, then a snack?” He pressed his lips against my forehead. I threw one leg over, sat up above him, and smiled.

“I can handle that.” I went to work.

A while later, I lay in our bed, snuggled on Jack. I wrapped around him like a blanket, still perched on top of him, legs and arms around him, my head tucked into his shoulder. His hands traced a path from my thigh to my backside, up to my shoulders, then pressed into each dent in my spine. They were hands no longer frantic and frenzied, now quiet and soothing.

“I missed you, Crazy,” he breathed into my hair, and I sighed, content with his hands on me.

“You have no idea,” I answered, kissing his ear, tickling with my lips until he laughed.

“How are things here going?” he asked, bringing his hands up to move my hair away from my face, his green eyes piercing even in the moonlight.

“Good. Busy, but good.”

“No, I mean, how are you doing with everything? You ready for tomorrow?”

“The junket?”

“The junket. You ready for that?” He sat up underneath me, my legs automatically going around his waist. He sat cross-legged with me on his lap, his strong hands dipping down to my backside and pulling me closer.

“I think so. I mean, Holly and I prepped and went over the likely questions, when to dodge and when to answer.” I nodded, feeling my tummy clench a little at the thought of facing the firing squad in less than twelve hours.

“I hear what you’re saying, but how are you really feeling?” he prodded, his hands moving under the red lace to be closer to me.

“I’m scared to death,” I admitted, throwing my arms around his neck and clutching him close. He chuckled into my hair, holding me tight.

“I know, sweet girl.” He got it.

“It just makes no sense. I haven’t even done anything yet, and they all want to know how I feel about being a fat actress in Hollywood, and how you’re dealing with my weight gain. How absurd! This makes no sense!” I spilled my secrets to the back of his head.

“None of it makes any sense. The sooner you get that, the easier it’ll be,” he said, pulling back just enough to kiss me soundly on the forehead.

“How are you dealing with Grace’s recent weight gain, Mr. Hamilton?” I asked, thrusting my thumb microphone into his face.

“Yes, well, it’s pretty tough to take. I suppose really the only thing to do is just grab a handful and go to town,” he answered deadpan, followed quickly by him actually grabbing a handful.

We wrestled on the bed, slapping and tickling. We finally came to rest somewhere near the headboard, Jack pinning me down and playing with my lace once more.

“You’re going to be great. You know that, right?” he said, breathing hard from our playful fighting. “Just be yourself. That’s who I love. They’ll love her too.”

“And when they ask me about dating you?”

“Tell them yes, tell them no, tell them to bugger off. I’m not the story. You’re the story. So tell it your own way, Nuts Girl.” He gave my bottom a slap. “Now where’s that snack? I’m starving.”

After a few minutes, I perched cross-legged in our bed and watched Jack slurp leftover sesame noodles and crunch through the egg rolls I had reheated for him. Naked, sheet tucked around his middle, he ate everything with gusto, telling me about the rest of the shoot and how much he’d enjoyed working on this project.

“I mean, what other job in the world would I, some wanker from London, get to fire off rounds from big giant guns and drive a tank—a sodding tank! Are there any more egg rolls?”

I chuckled as I went to the kitchen. It always made me laugh how the more excited he was about something, the thicker the accent got.

I set about heating up the rest of the egg rolls, toying with the idea of slicing up some fruit for him as well, when I heard his phone go off. It was on the counter. And he was in the other room. It was Adam calling. I debated whether I should take it to him or throw it out the window, but then I remembered that the windows were closed, and I didn’t want to replace anything right now, and that the mature thing to do would be to take the phone to Jack.

You wanted to talk to him about this tonight anyway. Now’s your chance . . .

I realize that, but things were going so well.

Give him the phone, heat up his egg rolls, and then have your Come to Jesus conversation.

Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I took him the phone, throwing it maybe a little harder than I would have normally. He was still in bed, sheet pulled down low on his hips as he reclined against the headboard.

“Phone call,” I said, leaving the bedroom as he answered it. I finished the reheating, then headed back in, just as he was finishing up his call.

“Right then, tomorrow. Sure thing. Yep, ’bye.” He hung up and looked hungrily at the plate I brought him. He reached for it, but I held it just out of his reach.

“What’s up, love?” he asked, a puzzled grin making its way across his face.

“We’re going to talk, and then you will get your egg rolls. Fair enough?” I sat at the end of the bed, curling my legs underneath me.

I was still in my red negligee, and I realized this conversation was entirely too serious for the amount of peekaboo I was still in. A look of frustration crossed his face, one I’d seen lately when he was confronted with photographers but rarely directed toward me. He sighed, but sat back against the headboard.

“Okay, so I’m not really sure how to say this, since you’ve been doing this longer than I have, certainly, and you’re an adult and all, and really you’re—”

“Say what you want to say, Grace,” he said quietly.

“I don’t like the path you’re on. It worries me, it worries your friends, and it’s worrying Holly.”

“Is this coming from you or from her?”

“Me. Both. Me. Jack, I know I’ve said this a lot lately, but I’m worried about you. I’ve never seen you like this with your fans. You’ve been downright rude a few times. That’s not like you. And you know how I feel about Adam.”

“That’s what this is about, isn’t it?”

“It’s part of it, yes. He’s just . . . he’s not good for you. You’re a different person when he’s around.”

“Grace, I can’t go anywhere in public without either a bodyguard or a driver hardly at all anymore. My girlfriend is attacked for dating me, even though the question of whether we’re really dating can’t even be answered because some focus group somewhere says it would be bad for my career to be seen as unavailable right now. I can’t go to a restaurant without someone tweeting it and fifty people showing up within twenty minutes, and if I don’t feel like signing autographs one night because I’m tired as fuck, then I’m an asshole who doesn’t care about his fans. I blow off a little steam, and everyone is concerned. To use one of your American phrases, everyone needs to just chill out a bit. Everything is fine. Are we done?” He got out of bed and headed over to the chair where his clothes were.