Now he’d live in the purgatory he deserved. Recreating that scene a hundred ways but in the endings he created, he always figured out what had gone wrong before walking out the door.
He had a meeting with Jack Abrams in seven hours. In seven hours, either he’d have a plan to salvage Visions of Black or he’d have a front-row seat to the final demise of his career. This movie should have been the springboard, catapulting him to the next level. Not his swan song.
How had it come to this?
The intercom at the entrance to his condo buzzed, startling him out of his morose contemplation. A visitor. In the middle of the night. A short burst of hope that it might be VJ dissolved into the more likely scenario. Five bucks said it was Kyla. Blitzed.
He activated the two-way speaker, pretty sure he was going to be sorry.
“Hey, babe.” The cultured feminine voice floated from the box. “In the mood for some company?”
He grimaced. At least Kyla was a happy drunk and therefore less likely to cause a scene. “No. Go home and sleep it off.”
“Oh, honey, you don’t have to be that way. I just want to talk. Nothing else.”
Right. They hadn’t spoken since her hysterical call the afternoon everything had fallen apart with VJ, but yet, here she was in L.A., itching for yet another confrontation. “Call me in the morning. It’s after two.”
Even so, the rush of cars and boisterous pedestrians filtered in along with Kyla’s words. “Let me in. This button is hard to push, and I’m wearing five-inch heels.”
“Whose fault is that?” Nothing good was going to come of this late-night visit. Nothing. “I was asleep. I’d like to go back to bed.”
“Kris.” She snuffled. “We were lovers for a long time. I know you weren’t asleep. Unless you want a picture of me at your door on the front page of every tabloid in the morning, let me in.”
That was the last thing he wanted. A conversation with Kyla was second to last. He buzzed open the lock on the entrance and dashed into the bedroom to put on a shirt. No reason to give her any further ideas since she undoubtedly had plenty of ideas already.
He opened the door and let her totter in to collapse on the couch after she’d miraculously missed tripping over the lamb’s wool throw rug. Crossing his arms, he leaned on the shut door. “What’s so important?”
She smoothed the microscopic lines of her fuchsia skirt and smiled demurely with flawlessly painted lips. “I wanted to see you. I miss you. Is that so bad?”
With a silent groan, he went to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. “Drink this. I’ll call you a cab.” He handed her the glass, and when she took it, a long wave of her perfume settled over him. The scent was cloying and sweet. He’d forgotten how much he hated its artificial quality.
“Sit down.” She patted the couch and fluttered her surgically enhanced lashes. “I’m sorry about what happened in Dallas. Is your friend okay?”
He shook his head. “Not having this conversation.”
Slyly, she tapped a nail on her lips and peered up at him. “Since she’s not here, I assume it didn’t work out. Too bad. She wasn’t right for you anyway.”
That explained the timing. Kyla was scoping out his residence for signs of competition.
“Who was? You?” Cursing, he went back into the kitchen so the island would be between them. Small comfort. He’d already given her far too much of an opening.
Her fake interview laugh trilled through the air. “You like to pretend things are over, but there are still feelings between us or you never would have agreed to the engagement.”
He wasn’t taking the bait. She could talk until laryngitis set in, and he wasn’t going to let her goad him into another endless conversation about their relationship.
Except now he was thinking about it, as she’d intended.
Why had he agreed to the engagement? When the deal came together with Abrams, Kris immediately recommended Kyla for the lead role. Film was an industry, not a school yard. He couldn’t let personal feelings get in the way, and after she’d read the script, her agent had contacted his assistant to say she was in.
Things had snowballed from there. His palms gripped the hard, granite edges of the island countertop, grounding him. He’d agreed—at the time—because Visions of Black was more important than anything else. Was. Now it wasn’t.
“It could have been a new start for us, Kris,” Kyla said and came into the kitchen. She wasn’t nearly as drunk as he’d assumed. Her cornflower-blue eyes were bright and open, as if imploring him to plumb their depths and see the truth. A trick of the recessed lighting in the kitchen. Kyla never missed her mark.