Noah

"It'll be okay, Noah." Tennyson gave my shoulder a squeeze. "We'll take a couple days off to get to the bottom of this. It reeks of insider gig."

"What do you mean?" I muttered, my jaw clenching at the thought of a particular motherfucker who could've given out information to the press.

"We haven't created any buzz for this project." He bent over the laptop and more articles about Julian and me popped up. "I want to sell the film at Sundance or in Cannes, so location sites and dates haven't leaked out. Finding Sophie isn't very difficult; there're vultures everywhere. But…" He glanced over with a cocked brow.

I nodded. Our sets had been clear of press, which limited the options of knowing who the fucking director of her new movie was. Industry folk always knew more. Between studios and various companies involved in filmmaking, the chatter was constant, though it tended to stay internal. Unless it was intentional to leak the information or if it was a huge scandal involving a star.

Then there were supposed friends. Or ex-boyfriends…

But even so… "I'm not famous enough for this," I told him. "I'm of no public interest whatsoever."

That was why Julian and I hadn't hesitated to roam freely in Paris. Nobody gave a fuck.

"You are now." He flipped to a page where a series of photos of Julian and me were revealed. "First of all, congratulations." He smiled wryly, with a spark of genuine amusement in his eyes. "You two are clearly in love."

I cocked my head, studying the photos. Somewhat grainy but clear enough. They were all taken a few days ago. Julian and I had had dinner at another bistro, and we'd sat outside. The photos showed laughs, us sitting close, hand-holding, a few kisses… The last one was of me ushering him into a taxi.

If not so much was at stake, I could've laughed it off or said I didn’t care. And we did look all cheesy and lovey-dovey together. But I didn’t know how Julian would react, and this wasn’t good publicity for the film.

In print, my relationship with Julian looked bad. Ignorant fuckers would see incest or an older man taking advantage of a much younger one. I wasn’t even fucking old, but forty-one against twenty-four could be portrayed as a fuckload.

"This can ruin shit, Tennyson." I had to put that out there, 'cause he was too chill about it. Maybe it hadn't occurred to him, though that didn’t make any sense. "There are scandals and there are scandals. This ain't the kind that will drive more people to see the film."

"Oh, screw that." He slid into the booth and took a sip of his coffee. "Worst-case scenario, we keep a low profile and wait for the next season. Either way, I don't believe this will affect the film much at all. Perhaps in the next few weeks or so, but Hollywood forgets quickly."

There was a knock on the door, and I let Julian in as a wave of nausea came over me.

"I'll give you some privacy, and then we'll talk back at the hotel," Tennyson said.

*

It was getting ridiculous.

Julian had been staring at the laptop for half an eternity.

Or ten minutes.

He went from article to article and read the gossip about us. I hadn't even read the bullshit. It was probably lies, anyway.

"It says you seduced your nephew," he mumbled. "You took advantage of my grief after our family died to get me into bed."

I sighed heavily and sat down across from him. "I don’t care about any of that. I'm only concerned about how you feel."

He made a face and went to another gossip site. "Basically, I am a weak child who can't stand up for myself, and you're a perverted uncle preying on me. Wonderful." He shook his head, finally facing me. "You're waiting for me to freak out."

"Your grandparents…"

"I know." He swallowed and averted his eyes to the screen. "This isn't how I would've wanted them to find out, and it's not like I can jump on the next flight to go see them. We have another month here."

"You can do whatever you want," I told him gently. "Family comes first—"

"You come first for me." His tone was soft, but he held my stare firmly and didn’t break away. "I'm not sure you've realized that yet."

Maybe I hadn't. It was difficult to embrace, difficult to understand I was so important to someone else.

For this conversation, I felt it was best to start over. I got up and joined him on his side of the booth instead, and I cupped his cheeks and rested my forehead to his.

"Tell me what you want."

He scowled, though he didn’t withdraw. "No… It's what we want."

He had a point. It was about us. But even so, they weren't my grandparents. They were his.