Free All About Evie by Beth Ciotta Page A

documents. Passports. Character profiles…Aw, hell. “Why this guy?”
    â€œYou’ve played him before. You’re already prepped. We’ve got the wardrobe in stock and we’re on a tight schedule. He’s middle-aged, but he’s rich.”
    â€œHe’s annoying.”
    â€œHe gets on Ace’s nerves, that’s for sure.”
    Milo cracked his first smile of the day. He shrugged out of the leather jacket, opened the suitcase to swap out the wardrobe.
    Woody hovered nearby, rubbing the back of his neck—his nervous tell.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œThere’s something else, sir.”
    â€œSpit it out.”
    â€œAce enlisted an unsanctioned player.”

CHAPTER EIGHT
    A FTER AN HOUR of scribbling in my diary, rehashing a day of rash actions, and checking in with Nicole via a brief phone call, I’d fallen into a fitful sleep. Most people have nightmares about showing up at an important event in their underwear. I showed up topless.
    I’d have to ask Jayne, a new age enthusiast, to look up the interpretation of breasts in one of her dream books. Or not. Maybe I didn’t want to know. Maybe it symbolized a need for my mother—please save me from the big, bad world. Only the last person I’d run to is my I-told-you-so mom who told me to go to college. You could’ve been a teacher, I could hear her saying. Instead you’re a gorilla . Or maybe the topless bit simply meant that I was destined to lose my shirt.
    Great.
    I blinked up at the ceiling, thought about the days to come and how I’d be spending them with Arch. Surprisingly, the hurricane of loneliness that generally ruined my mornings weakened to a Category One. Last night’s kiss lingered and sparked under my skin like a summer lightning storm. The man was not only dangerous, but potent.
    I kicked off the sheets, scooted to the edge of the bed and scanned the darkened room.
    He was also missing.
    My heart raced with familiar pangs of desertion. He found you lacking. He’s gone. My jaw throbbed. Falling asleep without my splint—the retainerlike appliance provided by my TMJ specialist—hadn’t been smart. Stressful dreams on top of a stressful day make Evie a prime candidate for lockjaw.
    I massaged my chest with one hand, my jaw with the other. I told myself to chill. You’ve survived a year without Michael. You don’t need a man. You don’t need Arch.
    I marched over to the window and wrenched open the curtains. Florida sunshine flooded the room. Craving a glass of orange juice, I palmed the warm plate glass and squinted at the blue skies, palm trees and hedges bursting with pink and white flowers.
    I thought about Disney World. Maybe I could relocate and get a job there. Maybe I could snag a gig as Goofy or Minnie Mouse—full-body costume. Better than a gorilla suit. At least I’d be hawking fairy tales instead of cars.
    Sighing, I turned away from the tropical scenery, my spirits lifting when I realized Arch hadn’t vamoosed. His suitcase yawned open, propped up on one of those metal luggage stands. His laptop sat on the desk. A cushioned chair overflowed with rumpled blankets and a pillow, the only proof he’d even returned last night. Add scary-quiet to his bag of tricks.
    Since the bathroom door was closed, I assumed Houdini was in there peeing or preening. Maybe he was taking a shower. Maybe I should join him. Yeah, boy, wouldn’t that be fun? Except I was too chicken to risk rejection. He hadn’t seemed impressed with my kissing skills, certainly not enough to join me in bed. I couldn’t imagine he’d welcome me in his shower. Last night I’d endured several hours of dreamed humiliation. I had no interest in making them come true, thank you very much.
    My gaze skipped back to the chair heaped with bed linens.
    Okay. So my stage husband had opted to stretch out in a chair or on the floor rather than next to me.