Page 11 of Forced Proximity

‘Not at all.’ I click my pen. ‘Sometimes putting pen to paper helps me see things in a different light. There’s a bit more mind–body connection.’

‘Makes sense.’ He blows into his mug. ‘I do that when I’m running lines. I’ll add a note in the margin of my paper copy, rather than typing it into the electronic version.’

Ah. So, he gets it. I add a touch more cream to my coffee and peek at him. He has really nice eyes. Hazel, yes, but sitting this close, I can see more. Variations of green, some moss, a little jade, a small ridge of amber circling the iris. They’re beautiful. Maybe even … kind? I shift my gaze.

‘What did Anthony tell you about the threats?’

‘He didn’t give too many details. Basically said someone sent letters and weird packages.’

I blow into the top of the mug and take another sip. ‘And, ah, how are you … feeling … about that?’ I’ve never once claimed to be a therapist. But it’s still good for me to gauge my client’s mental well-being while under threat.

He shrugs. ‘Fine. Honestly, my female co-stars deal with a lot worse. Having some lunatic send me letters is part of the business. Right?’

I catch the slight crease of his brows, the curved grin, the eye contact avoidance, and it hits me – he’s nervous. At least a little bit. He’s looking for reassurance that the threats are as harmless as he thinks, and I cannot in good faith give it to him.

I don’t respond. But I don’t break his team’s mandate and tell him the whole truth, either.

‘Besides, Anthony says the studio’s just being cautious,’ he quickly adds, then pulls the mug back to his mouth. ‘Oh, last night, Zane got a package, though.’

What? Why the hell wouldn’t he lead with this? ‘Your assistant? Are they okay?’

A playful grin crosses his face. ‘Yeah, they’re fine. It was a glitter bomb.’

‘A glitter bomb?’

‘You know that box when you open it up and glitter goes everywhere?’

‘I know what a glitter bomb is.’ I’m not that out of touch. But a glitter bomb doesn’t follow the MO of the videos. This might be a prank or something to throw us off. I scribble in my notepad. ‘I’m wondering why they chose that. It’s an odd threat.’

‘I thought the same. But Zane was pissed,’ Justin says with a chuckle. ‘Never seen them like that before.’

‘I’d be pissed too.’ Glitter is like lice: hard to get rid of and spreads everywhere. ‘Anything else Anthony told you?’

He shakes his head, and I exhale a low breath. This is not a surprise. I sincerely doubt he’d be this calm if he’d seen the videos.

A phone buzzes and Justin pulls it out of his pocket. His face lights up. Who’s on the other end? I want to know, strictly out of professional curiosity, of course. ‘Will you excuse me for a sec?’ When I nod, he taps the screen. ‘Hey, what’s up …’ he says as he walks out of the room.

A glitter bomb? As Justin chats outside the room, my ears perk at the playful tone. He doesn’t need to tell me everything in gory detail, but if he’s dating someone, we need to know. I jot down a few notes: check the glitter for harmful remnants, double check Zane’s background, review security footage of Zane’s place.

I check my phone for any messages and scroll through emails when footsteps approach.

‘Sorry ’bout that,’ Justin says when he strolls back into the kitchen. ‘That was my sister Mia. I told her someone was here and I’d call her back. Here’s a little insight into Mia. I told her that right when I stepped out of the room. It took ten minutes for her to say goodbye.’

My heart pinches. I seriously need to call my brothers. I scribble a note in the margins to call them this weekend.

‘Hey, can I ask a question?’ Justin says as he slides back into his chair. ‘How does one get into this profession?’

Answering personal questions is not on my list of approved activities. A cordial relationship with a client is fine. But anything teetering on personal can compromise my professional integrity and potentially cause me to lose focus. If I lose focus, I jeopardize my client’s safety. No matter who I protect, this is what keeps me up at night. After The Incident, I vowed I’d never lose focus again.

‘It’s a long story,’ I finally say. ‘Let’s just say the plans I had when I was young didn’t pan out.’ Does he really need to hear that the university revoked my basketball scholarship because I was hospitalized during my senior year season? Probably not.

‘Did you attend undergrad around here?’ he asks.

I stiffen. ‘No.’

He sets the mug on the island. ‘Where did you graduate from?’

Jesus. He clearly does not have the training I do on reading body cues. Are the one-word answers and pursed lips not giving him a hint? I don’t want to be rude, but seriously. ‘Nowhere.’