Page 8 of Ready, Willing and Abel

Evan’s brows raise. “Really? You tired of acting?”

“I don’t know. I’m tired of that life, you know? All the red carpets and invasion of privacy. Sometimes I just wanna be a normal guy.”

My Cactus Girl had made me feel seen in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. Granted, she’d seen me in a weird and unusual situation. But she hadn’t asked for my autograph or anything. And as far as I know, she didn’t take pictures of me naked. At least none of them have shown up on the internet.

Is she really as special as she seems? Or do I just want to believe she is?

All of which is irrelevant, because someone like her wouldn’t be the least bit interested in a guy largely considered nothing more than a shallow, muscle-bound lug.

“You still writing?” Evan asks.

The question takes me by surprise, but at least it forces my thoughts away from a woman I have no business thinking about.

I blow out a breath. “Yes. But every time I mention it to my agent or manager, they put me off.”

“Why do you need them? You have enough contacts in the business. If you want to make a movie from one of your screenplays, do it. Cast yourself as the lead. Direct it. Fund it. You can do any and all of that, brother.”

I stare at him for a few breaths. “You’ve changed since meeting Marley. You’re more settled in your own skin. I like it.”

“She’s amazing,” he says.

“You practically have cartoon hearts in your eyes,” I say with a laugh.

“Love is worth it, man. She’s just everything.”

“And you’re gonna be a dad,” I say.

“I know. That’s crazy. Mom and Dad said they’d fly home the month she’s due. They’ve video chatted with us a few times and have asked if we need them earlier. But they waited a long time to explore Europe. They should get to enjoy it as long as possible.”

“Europe will still be there after the baby is born. They can always go back.”

“You really think our mother is going to leave a baby that she can hold?”

I laugh. “Fair point.”

Just then, my phone alerts go off. One after another. Sounds like a damn amber alert, but it’s whatever the fucking app Tish added to my phone. She can make it sound horrific noises from across the country if I’m not responding quickly enough to her.

“What the fuck is that?” Evan asks.

“My publicist.” I slide to answer. “What?”

“Where are you?” she asks.

“At a coffee shop with my brother. Or a bakery.”

“Sugar Bakers,” Evan whispers.

“Sugar Bakers,” I repeat.

“Still in that same tiny little town?”

“I know you’ve already tracked my phone, Tish. What do you want?”

“I take it you haven’t been online at all today.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “No. It’s one of the reasons I pay you. So that I don’t have to go online.”

“Well, there’s a very interesting picture that’s circulating, and I need you to look at it and tell me if it’s real.”