Move the Stars (Something in the Way 3)

Apparently, Manning had the same hesitation about me that I had about him. Maybe he was also trying to get his life back on track. Or had he moved on long ago? Maybe those were selfish questions considering he’d been through a miscarriage and a divorce since I’d last seen him. They were the reasons I’d never reached out, but why hadn’t he? It was possible I was nothing more to him now than a painful reminder of the past.

But then he shoved the bandana in his back pocket and without another moment of hesitation, he started in my direction. I was sixteen, eighteen, twenty-two again, unable to move or think or do anything but watch him come toward me.

My palms sweat. He commanded eyes as he crossed the lot, but his stayed trained on me and mine on him. He was older, darker, and determined. I was different. I’d lived on another planet the past year and a half, where people expected great things from me that I hadn’t been sure I could deliver. I wasn’t his immaculate, bright-eyed girl anymore. And to me, he was no longer my Manning, just the man I’d loved and lost.

By the time he reached me, I still hadn’t thought of a coherent thing to say. “Lake,” he said.

My name from his mouth calmed me. This was my Manning—in some ways, he always would be. With him, I didn’t have to be anyone other than myself. “What are you doing?” I asked. Unable to imagine any scenario in which Manning would be at a Hollywood studio, I dumbly added, “Are you here for me?”

He laughed. “No. Well, not yet. I didn’t plan on seeing you, I mean.”

My agent shoved her way between us. “June McPherson.”

He wiped his palm on his jeans and took her outstretched hand. “Manning . . . Sutter.”

“I’m not familiar,” she said. “Who are you with?”

“With?” he asked.

“He’s not an actor,” I said, smiling at Manning’s obvious discomfort. “Can you give us a minute, June?”

“Sure, but just one. We’ve got a photo shoot across town at noon.” She took out a business card and forced it into Manning’s palm. “You have something. A special quality. Call me if you’re looking for representation.”

I frowned at her. Of course, I thought Manning had a special something, but she’d told me the same thing not ten minutes ago. How many people had that supposedly elusive quality?

As Manning watched June walk away, I had a moment to take him in. He hadn’t shaven recently, and his hair was a tad longer than he normally wore it—at least, when I’d known him. Conversely, my hair was a little shorter. The producers wouldn’t let me wear it any other way than long and blonde, but I’d chopped a couple inches and added a few rebellious lowlights.

With a light breeze, his hair rustled, and a few of my strands blew into my face. He looked back at me as I pulled them from my lip gloss. “I’m delivering furniture,” he said to my mouth. He reached in his shirt pocket, but rubbed his chest instead, returning his eyes to mine. “What about you?”

“I’m on a TV show,” I said.

A smile spread over his face. “I know that, Lake. I meant why are you here, at the studio? This isn’t reality TV.”

“Oh.” My face heated. I wasn’t sure if I was glad or embarrassed that he’d been following my career. This wasn’t the life I’d described to Manning way back when. To everyone else, the center of a Hollywood tornado was a coveted spot, but he’d probably already figured out the truth—the attention stifled me. “I had a meeting with the producers about my contract.”

“Yeah?” He leaned in. “What about it?”

I didn’t want to talk about it. My life had been splashed across the small screen the last year, and it made me uncomfortable that Manning might’ve been watching. He’d have seen all the fabricated drama between Corbin, Sean, and me. My audition for a commercial for which I’d been passed over. My genuine tears one night when I’d hugged Birdy, missing Manning more than usual, lying to Bree that I was upset over Sean’s latest antics. “It’s nothing. Did you build the furniture you’re delivering?” I asked hopefully.

“Yeah. A midcentury dining set for some show that takes place in the fifties.” He scratched the back of his neck. “It’s what I do now. For a living.”

My heart squeezed with pride. It felt like a personal victory, hearing he was pursuing what he loved, and I hoped I’d had something to do with it. “No more suits?” I asked.

“No more suits.”

“Is it just movie sets?” I wanted to know everything. “Do you have a store?”

“Nah. Usually just custom furniture for people’s homes. I have a workshop and deliver the pieces myself, but this was a special project. Henry helped some . . .” He cracked his knuckles. “It’s funny to see you, actually. Weird. Because we were talking about you just last night.”