Free A Safe Space (Someone Else's Fairytale Book 4) by E.M. Tippetts

days if that’s all right? See how things are going?”
    “Okay.”
    “Becky, honey,” comes another voice offscreen. “You must be tired. You ready to say goodbye?”
    “Yeah.”
    “Bye, Becky,” I say.
    “Bye.”
    The image jerks and there’s a flash of ceiling tiles and a light blue curtain, then I find myself looking at the nurse again as she stands in the hallway. “Can we hire you?” she says.
    “Um, I think you mean my personal assistant, Cleo. She’s—”
    “You pulled off a miracle, do you know that? No one else was able to reach the sister. She’s been so scared and walled off. Anyway, I’ll let you go. I just wanted to thank you.”
    “Thank Cleo,” I repeat, but the connection cuts out before I’m done.
    I look over at my personal assistant.
    “Please don’t fire me,” she begs. “I had to do something. I know that was totally out of line, but I had to try.”
    I rub my forehead with the heel of my hand. “In general, you don’t go call people up and dig into their personal, medical business.”
    “I know.”
    “Just avoid getting in trouble with lawyers and you can do what you just did anytime you want.”
    For a moment she blinks, letting that sink in. “Really?”
    “Yeah. You may have saved a life there.”
    Cleo squeals and pumps her fists in the air. “This is the best job ever . Thank you so much.” She throws her arms around me.
    I hug back and let her have this moment. She’ll learn soon enough that they aren’t all like this.

    The next day, when I’m in the recording studio, a courier drops off the next script of Clues. I pull it out of its envelope and flip through it. Apparently, I’m to begin this episode in leggings and a sports bra, doing yoga, and that’s how Kevin’s character, Garrett, first sees me. Forty-one pages later, we’re supposed to kiss passionately and pull each other’s clothes off.
    I flip it shut and lay it aside. “Okay, I’m ready to do the next one,” I say to the sound engineer and producer.
    I got lucky. My old producer from my Veronica Pryce days agreed to come help me get a few tracks laid down.
    Once I’m back on the other side of the glass with my headphones on and the mic in front of my mouth, I shut my eyes and force out all thoughts of my television show.
    The music for Waiting to Get Over You begins and I let myself sway to it as I wait for my cue. When it comes, I open my mouth and sing. The lyrics made me melancholy when I read them. They’re so sad and full of longing. When I sing them, though, the full force of emotion hits me. This is a song about wanting someone you can never have.
    It makes me wonder about Devon and his love life. Does he use women because he had his heart broken once? Or am I grasping at straws because I want to excuse him for being a terrible person?
    Just focus and sing , I think. My stomach feels like it’s been in an acid bath for a week, which I suppose it has. My stress levels have climbed steadily since my show got put on hold, and right now I know I could throw up if I let myself.

    The following morning, I make it two steps in the door of the gym before someone grasps my wrist and hauls me into the broom closet. Kyra doubled back to get something out of her car, so I guess I was easy pickings all by myself. The door shuts behind me and the light winks on.
    “One of these times,” I say without turning around, “someone is gonna see you doing that and we better hope they aren’t paparazzi.”
    “Sorry,” says Devon.
    I look back over my shoulder at him. I should be freaking out, but the truth is, I’m relieved. I’ve come to feel comfortable in this closet. It’s a good place to hide, and Devon’s always the nice version of himself here.
    He stands with his arms folded. “Are you all right?”
    I rub my forehead with my fingers. “Why is everyone asking me that this morning?”
    “You look like you’re about to report for your own execution.”
    “It’s been a rough