Page 61 of The Golden Scoop

“Doesn’t sound like fun. Hope she gets better,” I mumble.

The gala—a fundraiser for the Future Arts Foundation, a nonprofit that funds arts programs for underprivileged kids across New York and New Jersey—is something I attend every year. It’s a cause that’s always meant something to me, and I try contributing however I can. Even if public events aren’t my favorite way of spending a Saturday night, I’ve never missed one. Show up, stay for a couple of hours, do my part with the influence I’ve been blessed with.

It’s never been a hassle. Jennifer finds someone pleasant enough to spend an evening with, who poses next to me on the red carpet and whom I never see again afterward.

This year, especially after the assignment with Emma started, my desire to attend has pretty much disappeared. The only woman I want next to me is her. And that’s not happening. Not after my stunt.

“Maybe I can send a hefty check and save myself the trip.” I give it a shot, although there’s never been a time Jennifer’s passed up the chance to parade me around for a good cause. “You could cross it off of your never-ending list.”

“Yeah… I don’t think that’s a smart move. You need this more than ever,” she counters. “It’s exactly the depth What We Carry is looking for. Your career will skyrocket with that role, Matt. But hey, it’s your life. If you don’t want to go, I’ll cancel.”

She’s right, of course. No surprise there.

The ‘action superstar’ label has been stuck to my name for years, and I haven’t been able to shake it. In Hollywood, there’s a good and a bad side to being boxed into a certain genre. If you excel, you’ll have plenty of work. But it’s also the only thing they’ll call you for.

My mom taught me to be grateful for everything we have in life. Even something as basic as food. It’s never felt right to complain about the roles I get when there are people who would move heaven and earth to be in my position. High-speed chases and jumping out of buildings are cool, but part of me is tired of playing the guy who just takes the hit.

I want more. Something meaningful.

With introspection. Emotional growth. A role that inspires others with a craft that goes beyond looking tough on screen. The need for that is there, regardless of how thankful I am for my journey.

“I can go by myself. Won’t be a big deal.”

“You could. Or…” Her face breaks into that smart grin she gets when a lightbulb goes off. I never like the outcome. “I could ask Ms. Miller if she’d like to come with you. Extra exclusive. Double the press. I should’ve thought of it sooner.”

My head is shaking before she even finishes.

“No. That’s not going to work. At all. She’s already swamped with the article. We can’t ask her to take almost two whole days off to follow me across the country, Jennifer.”

That, and she doesn’t want to see me. Probably ever.

“It doesn’t hurt to ask,” she says. Her phone suddenly looks like a weapon. “Who knows, she might be dying to attend an upscale event such as this one. Bucket list material.”

Not for Emma. She doesn’t do bucket lists. And if she did, it’d be skydiving, running with the bulls in Pamplona, or surfing terrifying waves in Portugal. The messier, the better. A gala is definitely on her do-not-do list.

“I don’t want to bother her, and knowing you, it’ll be more of a compromise than a favor. It’s not part of her job. Let’s leave her out of it.”

“Could argue it is, in fact, a requirement for her current assignment,” Jennifer answers.

Damn. There’s no stopping her.

The last thing I want is to annoy her even more. She’s going to assume this is my doing. Another scheme to force my way into her life.

“Plus, she’s pretty,” Jennifer adds. “She’s not Aurora, but⁠—”

“Don’t compare her,” I snap before I can get my brain-to-mouth connection under control. “She’s nothing like anyone you’ve ever set me up with.”

My mind is suddenly flooded with snippets of moments we’ve shared. The green of her eyes filling my previously gray mind state.

“She’s… different. Emma’s unique, special,” I continue, quieter now. “Everything about her. She shows up in overalls and worn-out Vans and still turns heads everywhere we go—and she doesn’t even realize it.”

Jennifer stares at me, one eyebrow raised, nodding and humming in unison.

“But like I said, I don’t think she’ll agree,” I add.

And I’m not ready for another confrontation. She’s one sentence away from breaking me and getting me to spill my guts. That’s no longer the plan.

I have to stay away, I remind myself for the hundredth time today. For her.