Method

“What?”

His eyes zero in on my reflection. “Up until a few weeks ago, you two were the most boring of all my clients.”

“Huh,” I reply, staring out the window knowing his statement is a compliment.

When Paul opens the door, I hear the telling click of the cameras and school my features. Nova greets me and leads me down the sidewalk alongside two other bodyguards.

“You look beautiful,” she says, giving me a quick hug. “How are you doing?”

“Thank you, I’m good. You?”

“Today is a good day.”

“Indeed.”

“Glad he’s back,” she whispers, eyeing me as we walk.

I nod but gather that she can see the lie on my face and if she can see, then everyone watching can too.

One hour, Mila. You can do this.

Determined to bury my emotions, I flash her my best smile. “How’s the love life?”

Her answering grin is radiant, and I feel a small stab of jealousy at the way it isn’t forced. I used to be that girl, carefree and confidently in love.

“It’s awesome.”

“So happy for you, I mean that.” We pass a barricade where the public and paps are held at bay and are led over to a tent on the side of a small stage with a podium. Taking my seat next to Nova, I’m greeted by a few of Lucas’s old co-stars who are seated behind us. Nerves threaten and my stomach rolls as I fight a wave of nausea.

I’ve spent days trying to decide if I would show up and concluded on every single one to be here for him, to keep that promise, no matter what our future may bring. Lucas’s back is turned to me, he’s talking animatedly to the presenter.

“What a great turnout.”

Fans are lined up on all sides of the closed-off tent. “Sure is.”

“Did he know you were coming?” Nova asks.

“No.”

As if he senses me, Lucas turns, and I’m forced to downplay the jolt that hits when our eyes connect. His eyes close briefly, and his throat bobs as ramped up emotion flits over his features.

I made the right decision.

Unable to handle the tension, I give him a wink and mouth, “Hey, Hollywood.” Relief-filled eyes shimmer down on me with so much warmth, my chest constricts and my throat burns.

He’s wearing a fitted navy pea coat—that fails miserably in concealing his biceps—matching slacks, a white button-down, and a gray vest and tie. His hair is freshly cut and styled back. He looks every bit the m

ovie star he denies he is.

Nova reads my mind. “He looks good. Really good.”

“Yes, he does, the bastard,” I say, shaking my head with a smile. Eyes still intent on me, I swear he reads my lips, and his lift at the corners with a smirk.

“Paul said he got into an accident.”

“Must have scared him straight, because he’s been sober every day I’ve seen him this week.”

I let out a relieved breath. “Thank God.”