Free Scandalous by Missy Johnson

for me accepting this role. I’d move to the other side of the world if they wanted me to. Then again, London pretty much is on the other side of the world.
    “This all sounds great,” I say, snapping the folder shut. “Honestly? I can’t wait to start this. There’s no point skirting around it. I’m one hundred percent in if you’ll have me.”
    Cameron clasps his hands together, his mouth breaking into a grin. “I’m so pleased to hear that. So, officially, filming won’t begin for another month, but we want to get all the cast and crew together in the next few weeks for some promotional shoots. Probably on location.”
    “That sounds great,” I say, unable to wipe the smile off my face. “I’m so thankful for this opportunity, Cameron. I can’t thank you enough.”
    He laughs as he stands up, sticking his hand out for me to shake. “Don’t thank me, Beth. You earned this.”
    **
    As I walk through the front door, I notice the envelope sitting on the welcome mat. Bending down, I pick it up, turning it over in my hands. I don’t recognize the writing, but my name is scrawled across the front in black ink. I tuck it into my bag and continue inside, carrying my armloads of shopping with me.
    I discard my purchases on the bed and flop down beside them. Slipping my shoes off, I gently massage my tired feet. Four-inch stilettos probably weren’t the best idea for an afternoon of shopping, and I’m sure I’ll be paying for it for the rest of the night.
    I spend the next half-hour trying everything on—something I don’t do in stores. Things never look the same when you get them home. You can think you will like the hottest thing on earth in the confinement of a tiny change room, but when you leave the store it’s a whole different story. I’d much rather just buy and then try. If I can be bothered, I’ll take back what I don’t like. Otherwise, I’ll just dispose of them in a Goodwill bin.
    Once I’m satisfied, I make my way into the kitchen to prepare dinner. I’m not much of a cook, but I do know my way around the kitchen. Roman usually does most of the cooking, but lately he’s been working later and later, and after our fight, who knows when he’ll be home tonight.
    I pull out my phone to check the messages from him. Nothing. I shrug. Oh well, his loss. He won’t get to experience my once-in-a-lifetime creamy salmon pasta.
    I haven’t told Roman about my meeting yet—mostly because I know it will probably just start another argument. I don’t see what his problem is. How would he like it if I turned around and told him I wanted him to stay away from the club? Whether it’s singing or acting, what does it matter? I’ve got to make a living, because I refuse to depend on him—or anyone else, for that matter.
    I heat my frying pan and gently lay in my fresh fillet of salmon. Once it’s golden, I carefully turn it over, giving it a minute on the other side before resting it on a plate. Next I check my pasta, which has been gently simmering about five minutes. Perfect. I throw together some garlic, fresh herbs, a little bit of chili, and some cream, and gently flick the salmon through the sauce before finally adding the pasta. My mouth waters at the smell of my creation. Even I’m impressed. Here’s hoping it tastes as good as it looks.
    I flick the TV on and set my dinner down in front of it. It’s delicious. I only wish someone were here to share the experience of what might be the finest meal I ever cook. I think about calling Coop, but then decide against it. A, because I can just imagine Roman walking in on us laughing, and B, because I’m not convinced that our friendship is just friendship to him. I don’t want to encourage him, but at the same time he’s my best friend—and with Roman being so distant, I’m at a loss with who I can talk to. I slouch back on the couch and sigh. I hate feeling alone. It’s hard work trying to please everyone.
    **
    My neck is killing me. I groan