"The chain," she says matter-of-factly. But her blase tone is betrayed by a nervous swallow. "He kept me chained to the wall."

My reaction is instinctive, visceral and stupid-I drop her hand like it's on fire and step back.

She stiffens, a mix of emotions flashing across her face before vanishing behind a smooth, blank mask. It's like watching the life drain out of someone, Amanda turning into a marble version of herself.

I feel like a complete asshole. My mouth works for a second before words come out. "Sorry. I'm sorry, Amanda. That was shitty. I just ... I wasn't expecting that."

"It's okay," she says in a flat tone that suggests this is not the first time this has happened to her.

Except I'm pretty sure it wasn't just hurt that I saw on her face, but disappointment as well. Like she expected better from me.

That eats at me more than anything. I am not living up to the Chase Henry in her head. I'm not living up to anyone's version of me, including my own.

Amanda meets my gaze defiantly. "Bruises heal. But there's the scar on my wrist, formerly fractured cheekbones, some cracked ribs that healed on their own over the years, and a mouth full of broken teeth. He didn't want to do too much serious damage. I might have died before he was done with me."

It's like she's daring me to run. But she lived through it, so I'm determined to stand my ground in hearing about it. Anything less would make me the worst kind of coward, and I've played that role too often already.

"And then, of course, there's the truckload of psychological damage." She waves a hand in a vague gesture at the table braced against the door. "Obviously."

I don't know what to say, so I keep my mouth shut.

"A dentist donated his services to fix my teeth. Made them even better, straighter than they were originally," she says with a small smile, her gaze fixed on a distant spot somewhere over my shoulder. "A plastic surgeon offered a consultation on my wrist, too. But that's one thing I want to keep."

"Why?" The question pops out before I can stop it. Why would anyone want a permanent souvenir of such a horrible time in their life?

Her eyes refocus on me, zeroing in until I feel like she can see through me. "Because it helps me when I wake up in the middle of a panic attack. It's proof that I got out. And because it reminds me I survived."

I take back anything I might have ever thought about her being messed up or weak.

She's a fucking warrior.

"So." Amanda puts her hands on her hips. "Are you going to teach me to hit or what?"

That's a challenge if I've ever heard one, and I'm up to it, yeah.

I clear my throat. "So, in boxing and kickboxing, you use combinations. Left, right, left, left, whatever. Basic punches are the hook and the cross. But for right now, let's just stick with the cross." I demonstrate a couple times, and she follows along.

"Feels weird to lead with the left," she says with a frown.

"It seems backwards, but it's actually making the best use of your dominant hand. You get more force behind a punch from your right hand because you have more momentum from the follow-through motion," I say.

I walk her through throwing a couple punches to make sure she's got the form close to right. Then I grab one of the pillows from the bed.

I take a breath. "Okay, I know this is the douchiest thing anyone is ever going to say, but please don't hit my face. I really need this job, and they'll kill me if I show up tomorrow with a black eye. Real bruises are harder than hell to cover up."

"I know," she says simply.

It doesn't take but a few tries before she's landing some solid hits into the pillow. Nothing that would put a serious dent in someone determined to hurt her, but enough to make him think twice. More important, Amanda looks like she's having a good time. Her forehead is furrowed with concentration, her cheeks are flushed with the effort, and she seems somehow more present in the moment, less haunted.

"Nice," I say, when she connects hard enough that it almost knocks the pillow from my hands.

Panting from the exertion, she bends at the waist to catch her breath.

"You okay?" I ask with a grin, lowering the pillow.

She nods without looking up. "Yeah," she says. "That was fun. Dinner and a boxing lesson. Not exactly what I had in mind when I asked to come with you."

I grin and toss the pillow onto her bed. "It's a full-service operation around here."

She straightens up, then, and smiles at me. "Thank you."

It's a broad, genuine expression that lights up her entire face, the smile that was broken but is now repaired, undimmed.

Amanda Grace is beautiful. The realization strikes with an uncomfortable amount of force. And she's looking at me like I deserve the gratitude she's beaming at me. But I don't. I so don't.

I duck my head, my hand flying up to rub at the back of my neck. It's a tell: Chase breaking through the role. My first acting coach did his best to hammer that home, to rid me of the habit, but he wasn't entirely successful.

"Sure, yeah. You're welcome," I mumble.

Her smile slips a little, and she tilts her head to the side in confusion.

I can feel the question coming, and I can't be here to try to answer it. I'm an actor, a professional liar. But I don't want to lie to her any more than I already am. She deserves better than that.

"I should go," I say. "Early day tomorrow."

"Okay," Amanda draws out the word, making it clear she's not buying my excuse.

But she doesn't say anything more as I grab my coat from the bed and bolt for the adjoining door.

Once safely on the other side, I close the door and lean against it, my shoulders sagging with the weight of the situation and my choices.

This "simple" plan is only getting more and more complicated, and, if I'm being completely honest, it's not all Elise's fault.

9.

Amanda I must have been high when I packed yesterday.

It's the only explanation for the array of disastrous clothing options on the bed in front of me this morning.

With my hair dripping down my back, I pull the hotel towel-too short and too thin-tighter against my body and search through my shirts, as if a more acceptable one might have been born from two lesser choices in the few minutes I left them alone.

Boatneck with red stripes and three-quarter-length sleeves, no. Pink with ribbons, no. The snug-fit purple V-neck with a flowered pattern, definitely not. Oversized flannel shirt that used to be my dad's, no. A faded long-sleeved T-shirt from Liza's college advertising a "3K Popcorn Festival Fun Run" from three years ago, no. White see-through blouse with built-in cami and short sleeves-even worse, puffed short sleeves. No, no, no.

I rub my hand over my face, my eyes gritty from lack of sleep. Last night was a bad one, and waking up this morning to discover this problem isn't helping.

I brought a mishmash of the new, bold items my mom picked out for me, anticipating better days, and my absolute worst "dressing for comfort" clothes. What the hell was wrong with me yesterday?

It had to be the adrenaline rush. With my heart thundering in my chest, five minutes to pack, and Chase Henry waiting downstairs, I felt mostly invincible, determined, and in motion, a step ahead of my fear, but cautious enough to include my feeling-vulnerable favorites.

And now, this morning, my fear has caught up with me, clobbering me in the process, and my packing extremes have left me with nothing to wear. Nothing I want to be photographed in, anyway.

I bite my lip. I don't want to blow this. I'm asking Chase for a lot, and these photos are the only thing he's getting.

And he's been so ... considerate. Last night was actually fun.

Until I freaked him out and he took off for the safety of his room. I'm still not sure what I did. One minute we were laughing, relaxed in each other's presence, and the next he's backing away, trying to get to minimum safe distance.

With a sigh, I return my attention to my choices. My plaid flannel from yesterday is my best option. It isn't dirty exactly. But I ran home in it, in a sweaty panic-yuck-and there were pictures taken at the store, which means it'll be obvious I'm wearing the same thing two days in a row.

Someone will notice, and it'll be commented on, speculated about, then likely deemed a sign of dysfunction rather than limited wardrobe options. (The irony that I spent an inordinate amount of time in my closet yesterday and still managed to come away with this dilemma is not lost on me.) But walking out with my head down and my shoulders hunched, wearing my dad's ratty shirt that's long enough to be a dress, is not the image I want people to have of me or for me to have of myself, either.

I want to be stronger than that.

I pick the pink, the least offensive of my options. I used to love the color. Then I spent two years in a room where everything, including me, was decorated in an obnoxious shade of bubble gum, Jakes's version of "teen girl" decor.

I shudder involuntarily.

But this pink is so pale it barely deserves the name, which helps. And it's a solid color, which, I vaguely remember from my TV interview days, is better for film. Not sure if that's true for photographs, too, or not.

Unfortunately, this particular shirt, with matching pink ribbons threaded through the cuffs, also seems to scream "happy, untainted innocence." Hello, false advertising. And wishful thinking on my mom's part.

But without a better choice available, I add it to my pile of jeans, boyshorts, and bra to carry to the bathroom.

Next door, the distinct beep-grind of the lock releasing sounds, and I look toward the entrance to Chase's room, my heart pumping extra hard. The doors between our rooms aren't very thick. Noise travels.

He left about forty-five minutes ago, so early it was dark out. That's what woke me in the first place. Not that I was sleeping all that deeply, anyway.

The anxiety of spending the night in a strange place for the first time in years had combined with the unexpected feelings Chase had stirred up.

As I lay there in bed, my mind replayed the careful way he'd touched me, arranging my fingers just so, and the steady concentration in his expression. He really thought my learning to punch would help, and he wanted me to feel better.

But because my mind is a fucked-up maze with monsters around every corner and no guiding thread out, the second I dozed off, Chase would turn into Jakes, transforming a gentle touch into an unwanted, greedy, and painful one.

That meant hours tossing and turning in sweaty sheets and misery, halfway between sleeping and awake.

So when I'd heard Chase's door open and close earlier this morning, my eyelids snapped up. We hadn't discussed a schedule or a meeting time.

I'd sat up sharply in bed and waited for the knock on my hall door, though it would have made more sense for him to knock on the door between our rooms.

But the knock never came.

He's back now, though. The hall door closes with a loud thud, and then I hear the small sounds of him moving around the room. Footsteps. Mini-fridge opening. The clatter of something hard landing on a table or counter.

I fidget with the edge of my towel. Early meeting? Breakfast? Gym? Girl? I have no idea. I'm a little uncomfortable with how much I don't like the last option.

Chase Henry doesn't owe me anything, especially not like that.

I grab my stack of clothes to go to the bathroom and get ready.

I'm passing the door to his room when a horrible idea hits. What if he saw those feelings in my expression and that's why he bolted?

The image of me beaming up at him, like a pathetic fifteen-year-old with a crush, completely oblivious to his discomfort, flashes front and center in my brain, and humiliation burns through me.

I'm struggling to remember exactly what I said and did and to what degree, when I hear close-up movement on the other side of the adjoining doors.

Like someone approaching, getting ready to knock.

I flee for the bathroom.

Twenty minutes later, I'm slightly calmer, soothed by routine. I'm dressed-in a shirt I hate-with my hair mostly dry and mascara and concealer applied, which is the extent of my makeup repertoire.

Swallowing hard, I make myself walk out of the bathroom. After wrestling the table back into its normal place, I collect my cell phone from the charger and my key card from my jacket and step reluctantly to the doors between our rooms.

Unless you're going to quit and go home, this is your only option.

I flip the lock on my side and pull the door open. Chase's door is already unlocked and cracked an inch or two.

My nerves returning, I knock as loudly as I can without pushing the door open.

"Yeah. Come in." Chase sounds muffled, distracted.

I push open his door to find a room a little larger than mine. To my right, a sofa and coffee table in front of a big flat-screen TV and mini-fridge in an entertainment center. To my left, a table and four chairs.

Straight ahead is a half-wall, dividing the living room from the sleeping area.

Chase is on the room phone in the bedroom section, the black receiver between his ear and his shoulder as he tugs an off-white shirt down over his chest.

Or tries to, anyway.

His hair is darker, damp from a shower, and sticking up in places, with water dripping down his neck.

He evidently didn't bother much with the towels, as inadequate as they are, because his skin is visibly damp, which is why the fabric is sticking to him, giving him trouble as he attempts to pull it into place.

And giving me plenty of time to look. The hair under his arms is darker than the blond on his head, and the skin there is lighter, but what catches my attention is the curve of muscle from his side to his stomach. I don't know what it's called, but I like it.

He doesn't have the ridiculous fake-looking bubbles of abs, the ones those guys in the Perfect Pushup infomercials are so proud of.

Instead, his stomach is flat with those yummy unknown muscles on the sides, calling attention to his belly button, which I'd never previously thought of as a sexy feature, and the top button of his jeans, which is, fortunately ... or not, fastened and in place beneath his belt.

It's his job to look this good. I know that. And yet, I feel the effects like an actual physical blow, taking my breath from me in a not unpleasant sensation.