“You have a dinner meeting with Uri Ivanovich in half an hour,” Greg says.
Dawson frowns. “I do? About what?”
“He wants to pitch a script to you. It’s a thriller, I think.”
“I don’t remember agreeing to this.”
Greg’s lips tighten in a shadow of a smile. “I’m not surprised. You ran into him the other night. You were pretty hammered at that point.”
“Cancel it,” Dawson says.
Greg lifts an eyebrow. “Sure? Uri is a big-money player. He doesn’t go in for shit scripts.”
“Just send him my apologies and have him courier the script to me. I’ll read through it later. I’m not doing dinner, though.” Dawson chews and swallows, and continues, “I’m not sure I want to do a thriller, to be honest with you.”
My business mind kicks in. “I don’t think a thriller would be a good move for you,” I say, before I can rethink my intentions. “You want to reinvent your image, then you need to stick to more serious dramatic roles. Uri Ivanovich does big-money scripts, but they’re summer blockbusters, not serious Oscar-contender projects.”
Dawson frowns at me. “Really.” It’s not a question, but his eyes invite me to continue.
“Before you left Hollywood, most of your roles were thriller and action, a few rom-coms here and there. Gone With the Wind is a great return role for you. It sends the message that you’re serious.”
“Serious about what?” Dawson asks.
“Rejuvenating your image. Your reputation.”
“What do you know about my image and reputation?” It’s a challenge.
I shrug. “Just what’s been written about you.”
“Just because they wrote it—” Dawson cuts in, but I speak over him.
“Whether it’s true or not is irrelevant. The scandals alone, merited or not, gave you a negative image. And yeah, I know what they say about negative publicity being better than nothing, but I’m not sure how accurate that is. For a come back, you need to present yourself as more mature.”
I need a distraction to keep myself from falling for how sexy he is. Thinking thoughts I shouldn’t. Even eating, he’s beautiful. Rugged and godlike. His jaw shifts and rocks and glints in the evening light as he chews. He licks dressing off his lip, and I remember the way his lips touched mine, the way his tongue traced my lower lip.
I shake myself, and focus on my burger, half gone, focus on the grain of the fake wood of my desk, focus on anything but him.
Greg slips out, and I hear voices chatter outside, see a few camera flashes, and his low growl as he pushes back the crowd. Dawson shoots a tense glance at the door. A crowd is waiting for Dawson to come out. He’s in here with me, eating corned beef, and out there are dozens of people waiting, clamoring for a mere glimpse of him. My head spins a little.
I finish the burger, muffle an embarrassing belch, which brings a grin out of Dawson, and I wipe my mouth with a napkin. The voices outside grow in volume, and Dawson’s expression turns serious once more.
“I’m sorry,” I say, gesturing to the door, and by extension, the crowd beyond it. “Now you have to deal with that.”
“I made the choice. It’s part of the deal.” He shrugs, acting nonchalant. “Not your worry.”
I frown. “Are they going to write about me?”
“Probably. They’ll make up lies. Just ignore it. They’ll go away.”
Possibilities and potential ramifications flit through my head, and panic begins to set in. “But…what if they follow me?”
Dawson shrugs. “Don’t answer. Do what you have to do and ignore them.”
He doesn’t get it.
“I’m not a famous actress, Dawson. I’m a student. An intern.” I keep my eyes downcast. “You know where I work. What I do. What if they follow me there? People will find out.”
Dawson closes the Styrofoam lid and wipes his hands and mouth, then he places my feet back on the floor, leans forward and takes my hands in his. “And that’s a problem?”
“Yes!”
“Are you ashamed of what you do?”
I don’t answer, don’t look at him. I just tug my hands free and stand up. “You should go.”
He stands up, too, but only to tower over me, body close to mine. His index finger touches my chin and forces me to look up at him. I do, and I’m breathless. His eyes are the bluish-gray of upset now, intense and conflicted.
“Grey.”
“What?” It’s a breath, a quiet whisper.
“Why do you do it, if you’re ashamed?” His gaze burns into me, and I know he can see my secrets, see my shame, see my need and my fear. His finger and thumb gently hold my chin so I can’t turn away.
I refuse to answer. “Please just go.”
“Fine.” He lets go of my chin and turns toward the door. My skins burns where he touched me. “I’ll see you at the office tomorrow.”
“No.”
He stops and turns back. “What? No, what?”
“I can’t do it.”
“Grey, what are you talking about?” He scowls at me.
“I can’t work with you. I just can’t do it.”
“I was under the impression that you had to, if you wanted to finish your internship.” He scratches his jaw. “I don’t know what you’re so afraid of. Despite my reputation, I’m not that bad.”
I shake my head. “It’s not that.”
“Then what? Explain it.”
“You wouldn’t understand. You couldn’t.”
“You’d be surprised what I can understand,” Dawson says. His eyes are intent on mine, not wavering, daring me to look away, which of course I can’t do.
“You know,” I whisper. “You saw me. You saw Gracie. You’ll never see anything else now.”
“Am I treating you like a stripper?” He says the word casually, as if the truth of it doesn’t rip a hole in me.
“No.” I can barely whisper the answer.
“You think you’re the first girl to strip her way through college? You’re f**king amazing at it, Grey. You should own it. It doesn’t have to define you.”
“But it does.”
“Then that’s your problem. You’re going to let it ruin your career before it even begins? Seriously? If it’s that big of a deal, I won’t tell anyone. And I’ll talk to Armand and make sure he doesn’t, either. Adam and Nate were wasted, and I doubt they’d be able to pick you out of a lineup. Just come to work tomorrow.”