She's about my age, maybe a little older. She's wearing an ID badge on a lanyard around her neck, and a black T-shirt with Coal City Nights in swirling cursive print. Her skin has the healthy glow of someone who goes outside, and her blond hair is pulled into a perky ponytail that brushes her shoulders.

Her gaze skates over me without recognition and dismisses me in favor of focusing on Chase.

She regards him with a mixture of awe and concern. "Are you okay, Mr. Henry?" The sugary-sweet deference in her tone makes me squirm.

"Chase." He lifts his head and gives her a smile, but it doesn't make his eyes crinkle and there's strain around the edges.

Doesn't matter, though. The desire to give her laser "back off" eyes is a steady drumbeat in my veins.

"Okay. Chase," Emily says with a big smile, her eyelashes fluttering.

My jaw clenches so tightly I hear my new, perfect teeth squeak in protest. Batting her eyelashes? Seriously, who does that outside of cartoons?

"I'm fine, thanks, Emily," Chase says with another tight smile.

Her face lights up, hearing her name. Should I even be here, interrupting this lovefest?

"Just thirsty," he adds, rubbing his eyes with a harsh laugh, though nothing about what he said was funny.

I frown.

Emily doesn't seem to notice. "I have water!" She turns and rummages at her feet and produces a small bottle damp with condensation, her face glowing with pride.

I realize suddenly this is probably what Liza would have been like around Chase yesterday, if I hadn't been in the middle of the mess.

And if Liza's version of flirting didn't include harsh backhanded compliments and critiquing a guy's grammar. I've seen her in action. It's ugly. The girl equivalent of pulling pigtails.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watch Chase take the water with a polite nod of thanks. He cracks it open and takes a sip, but his expression is more of mirthless amusement instead of relief.

Then it clicks.

He's a recovering alcoholic. I don't know much about the disease; my family has plenty of issues, but not that one. I'm guessing, though, that stress-like, say, oh, trying to jump-start your career, or running an unexpected gauntlet of paparazzi with a certified head case clinging to your arm-might make things worse for someone who's trying very hard to avoid temptation.

Emily beams at him and then produces a clipboard from somewhere.

"You'll have about twenty minutes to change in your trailer before you're supposed to be in Hair and Makeup," she says with an anxious glance at Chase.

He nods with no outward indication of irritation. I have no idea if that amount of time is actually an issue or if she's being ridiculously obsequious again.

While they're preoccupied, I dig my phone out of my pocket and do a search. One good thing about being stuck in the hospital or in the house for extended periods of time is that you learn pretty quickly how to make the internet cough up anything you need, on demand.

It doesn't take me long to find what I'm looking for.

While Emily is going over schedules, locations, and other stuff I should probably be paying attention to, I download the app and enter what I think is the zip code for Wescott, or close enough.

When I've narrowed the results, I nudge Chase with my elbow.

Instantly his attention shifts to me, and I feel the weight of it like it's a physical sensation. It's as if I'm the only person in the world who is of any interest to him.

My face grows warm under the intensity of his gaze, and for a second, I understand exactly what Emily's feeling when he smiles at her, even if it is forced.

Then I remember myself and shake it off, tilting my phone screen toward him.

He squints at it until I lift it a little higher: MEETING FINDER: AA Meetings in Wescott, PA, General Area.

Relief and gratitude mix with shame on his face, and he nods.

I click on the one listed at 6:30 p.m. in the basement of the courthouse.

"Still shooting then," Chase says to me quietly, watching over my shoulder.

Knew I should have been paying attention to Emily's schedule rambling.

I search again and find one that's later: 9:30 p.m. at St. Paul's Lutheran Church. I don't know how far it is from where we will be, but Wescott's not that big.

"Yeah," Chase says. "That could work." His smile is crooked and tired, but real, as far as I can gauge it.

I highlight the information to send it to him, only to realize that I have no way of doing that.

Before I can say anything, he takes my phone from me, types for a few seconds, and then hands it back.

It's open to Contacts, and I have a new one: Chase Mroczek. And a cell phone number with a 323 area code.

Liza would know for sure, but I'm guessing that's his real last name rather than another alias.

Something about the fact that he not only trusts me with his number but also lists himself by his real name makes me slushy with warmth.

I text him the information because he's watching me, and I feel the buzz of his phone in his pocket against my hip.

My breathing catches, and he's still watching me.

We are sitting so close, and ... it's not bothering me. It's the opposite of bothering me.

Emily makes an obnoxious throat-clearing noise, snapping the delicate thread of the moment and startling us into looking at her.

"Sorry," she says but mostly to Chase. "I just really need to get through this." She waggles her clipboard in a gesture that manages to be both hurt and snippy.

"No, that's my fault," Chase says easily with a hand up in apology, as if vouching for his sincerity. "I'm sorry. Go ahead." He gives her an encouraging nod.

And it's like watching time-lapse photography: Emily blooms under his attention like a long-neglected African violet positioned under a sunlamp. Even though it's been, what, three minutes since he last talked to her?

Geez.

With a blush and more eyelash fluttering, Emily continues her clipboard recitation. Chase keeps his full attention on her, asking questions or clarifying details just frequently enough that she can't help but feel engaged. Engaging, even.

I lean back in the seat, watching their interaction. It's partially an act, I think. Not insincere, but he's working to make her feel comfortable.

He's good at what he does. Very good. Giving pieces of himself away to her.

To me.

It makes me wonder if he gets to keep anything for himself. It also makes me wonder how much of it is real.

It doesn't take us long to get to where they're shooting.

Three beefy security guards stand over sawhorses borrowed from the Wescott police and possibly Home Depot, based on the orange color. The barricade blocks the street, holding back a cluster of photographers, who snap pictures as our vehicle passes them.

Once we're dropped off on the other side of the barrier, Emily leads us to a row of trailers parked along a side street in a mostly deserted industrial area.

Empty-or mostly empty-warehouses with broken-out windows dominate the scenery, though there are small square houses with overgrown yards about a block away.

I shudder. It would be even creepier, but the whole area is buzzing with activity. People in the black Coal City crew shirts and hats are hustling with a purpose. Some of them have walkie-talkies and clipboards like Emily. Others are carrying random pieces of equipment: moving blankets, two plants in terra-cotta pots, a shiny metal screen, one of those fuzzy microphones on a long pole.

Unidentifiable black cords stretch between the trailers, X-taped to the ground, and somewhere nearby there's the loud, persistent hum of a generator.

Across an open field that might have once been a warehouse parking lot, I can see behind one of the other abandoned warehouses, which is where most of the activity is centered. There are tall lights on metal stands, what look like small railroad tracks on the ground, and a couple of big cameras. And that's just what I can pick out.

From the look of it, they're already filming something. Or maybe just testing equipment? I have no idea.

At this point, I'm utterly out of my element.

"Here we are!" Emily stops in front of the second trailer from the end. It has horizontal orange and brown decorative stripes along the side. Chase's name is on the door, written in black marker on a crooked strip of white tape.

The utter lack of glamour is shocking. Not just with the trailer but the whole setup. It doesn't look like a movie set as much as a moderately upscale trailer park. I wonder if Mia knows this is what it's like, if that would change her mind or her ambitions at all.

Probably not. Mia comes with glamour-and drama-included. Just add water and air.

Emily climbs the two metal steps, pulls the handle to swing the door open, and then hops down, making room for Chase to ascend.

"Remember, twenty minutes," she says to Chase in a stern voice, which she then ruins by giggling.

I hurry to follow him in before she can close the door on me. She's staring at me like she can't figure out what I'm doing here.

Honestly, I'm not sure either. I don't have any specific task. That was done as soon as we pulled away from the hotel and the photographers.

The door snaps shut after me, and I'm squinting in the dim light to see.

Chase steps in deeper and fumbles for the switch.

After a second, my eyes adjust and ... wow.

"It's really, uh, peach in here," I say, reaching to touch the edge of a curtain. It's a hideous Southwestern pattern in the aforementioned washed-out peach with blue and green as accents. The whole trailer-couch cushions, walls, countertops-follows the motif. It's blindingly ugly.

Chase snorts. "Yeah."

"I didn't even know wood paneling came in this color," I say.

"I don't think it's wood," he says.

I'm not sure what I was expecting. Something with a heart-shaped Jacuzzi in the floor? Strobe lights overhead? A special cocaine drawer, the handle a custom-designed star in 24-karat gold?

But it's a standard RV, aside from the stunning decor choice, and smaller than the one my grandparents used to take to Arizona. The right side holds a small seating area with a bench sofa and a table that folds down. To the left, there's a tiny stove top and sink set in a kitchen area with narrow wooden doors that, if the layout is similar to my grandparents', lead to a pantry and a bathroom.

Through a doorway at the opposite end of the kitchen, I see a double bed covered in a spread that matches the Southwestern pattern, only with blue as the dominant color.

Unsurprisingly, that does not help.

It smells mildewy in here, with a faint hint of cleaning spray, as if someone opened the door, squirted some 409 in the air, and then ran away.

When Chase moves past me to the table, it stirs the air and the musty, moldy scent grows stronger. For a moment, I'm back in Jakes's basement. The smell of the thick black mold in the leaky shower and the barely functional toilet pervaded the dim and shadowy room, the boarded-up windows allowing nothing more than thin slivers of light.

I reach out and steady myself with a hand on the kitchen counter, curling my fingers around the sharp edge of the corner, grounding myself in reality.

I must make a noise, because Chase pauses in emptying his pockets onto the table and turns to face me, his phone and script pages still in hand. "All right?" he asks, his forehead furrowed with concern.

I nod, concentrating on my breathing until the moment fades. Which it always does, but it's hard to remember that when it's happening.

"What about you?" I manage.

He blinks and his gaze skitters away from mine. "It comes and goes," he says finally, putting his phone and pages down next to his hotel key card on the table with more care than necessary. "Eleven months sober. It's ... I'm a work in progress, I guess."

"I know the feeling," I say.

He gives me a rueful grin. "Yeah."

After a quick look around, he locates the wardrobe bag hanging on the bedroom door.

He doesn't bother shutting the door to change, though. He's stripping off his shirt before my brain catches up with what's happening.

I turn quickly, but it's a split second too late for true self-preservation. I shut my eyes for good measure. But that turns the black curtain of my eyelids into an uninterrupted screen on which to play that moment of Chase undressing himself. Over and over again ... in slow motion ...

Kicking off his shoes, he reaches over his head, grasping the neck of his shirt and pulling it forward. Revealing those muscles in his stomach, the ones that so entranced me this morning. They shift and flex beneath his skin with the movement.

And watching him take clothes off is so, so much better than watching him put clothes on.

What are those muscles called? They should have monuments built to them. Statues in museums. Paintings by the masters.

But, mainly, to truly appreciate them, I'm beginning to think I might want to touch them.

Just the thought makes me shiver, though whether in excitement or fear I'm not sure. How quickly it might slide out of control, and that's if he didn't run away screaming at the idea first. With my history and hang-ups, I'm a tricky prospect, more than most guys would likely want to deal with.

With that cold slap of reality, I swallow hard and try to focus on something, anything else.

"It's safe, Amanda," Chase says after a moment, the amusement plain in his voice. Clearly, it doesn't bother him, getting dressed and undressed in front of strangers. Probably a job requirement.

But I think he and I might have different definitions of the word "safe" in this context, so I wait until I hear the zip of a zipper going up and the jangle of a belt buckle before I risk peeking over my shoulder.