“Despina—”
“Shut up,” she said, pointing her fork at the salad, “and eat. You’re going to wither away to nothing if you can’t keep calories in you.” She pulled out her phone and dialed with her thumb. “And I have a call to make.”
8
Chase glanced up and down the hall of the hotel and knocked on Zahara’s door again. “Z, just pop your head out so I can see you’re okay. We don’t have to talk.”
He kept his voice low and his head close to the door so he didn’t disturb other guests—mostly movie cast and crew on this floor. He didn’t need any more roadblocks to Zahara than he already had, and rumors might just send her into complete hibernation.
After knocking and waiting for five more minutes, he headed toward the lobby and saw one of the secondary actors coming in through the main doors.
“Hey, man,” Chase said. “Have you seen Zahara?”
“No, sorry. I’m just getting back from dinner.”
“Thanks.”
Chase wandered through the bottom floor of the hotel, checking the lobby, the gift shop, and cruising by the vending machines before turning into the dining area where they had breakfast every morning.
Zahara sat at a table in the back corner of the room.
The sight of her relaxed all his muscles. The quasi restaurant was empty but for Zahara. She sat forward, elbows on the table, her head resting on one hand, reading something. From its bulk, Chase guessed it was the movie script.
He threaded through the tables to the back of the room. “There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for—” She looked up, and Chase’s words evaporated. Her eyes were dull, her skin pale, her expression drawn. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean you look like something bad happened.”
She turned her attention back to the script. “It’s been a long day.”
He pulled out a chair and sat. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?”
“I left it in my room. Look, Chase, I really don’t have the energy to face off with you again right now.”
He covered her hand with his. “Baby, something’s not right. Let me take you to an urgent care. They can check you over, draw some blood, maybe figure out what’s making you so tired.”
Her expression went from detached exhaustion to the verge of tears in an instant. He tightened his hand and leaned in. “Talk to me, Z. We’ve always been able to talk, even if that talk was an argument.”
Her beautiful dark eyes scanned his. She looked like she ached to confide. But she returned her gaze to the script. “I will. I’m just not ready.”
“That’s cryptic.”
She shook her head and rubbed her eyes. “I have a lot going on. I need to sort things out in my head.”
“Can I help?” he asked, hopeful when she didn’t pull from his grasp. “I want to help.”
She laughed, just a quick, low laugh holding absolutely no humor. “No. I think you’ve done enough.”
He couldn’t exactly argue with that. “Ouch.”
She heaved a sigh, rested her head in her hand, and looked at him. Just looked. It was the most intimate eye contact they’d shared in weeks. All her walls were down, and he saw just how much misery he’d caused her. He hated the thought of being the reason for her fatigue. Worse, the cause of the stress that could jeopardize her safety.
“Why didn’t you take one of the studio houses in town, like Despina?” she asked.
“I wanted to be closer to you.”
She pressed her lips together. Her gaze darted away.