Her gaze drops to the floor. "I do okay most days now. But on bad days, in really bad moments," she says carefully, "sometimes I have to work hard not to retreat to the closet." An ugly red floods her face at the admission.

And in spite of that, she's here, and she's trying. I want to stare at her in awe, but that will, I know, only make her self-conscious.

I clear my throat and bump her arm with mine. "You're the bravest person I know."

Her hand still in mine, she shifts closer to me, resting her head against my shoulder. "Doesn't mean I'm not scared. I hate it; I wish I wasn't. But I am."

"Still the bravest person I know," I say, my voice thick with emotion. I press my mouth to the top of her head, her warm soft hair.

Her throat works audibly. "Thanks," she says after a moment. "And you're not a fuck-up," she adds.

I give a tired laugh. "Wait till you know me better."

"No," she says, her voice gaining ferocity. "By definition, a fuck-up doesn't care, somebody who's given up. That's not you."

She pulls away from my shoulder, sitting up straight. "I think you're just scared."

I look at her sharply. "Maybe," I allow after a moment. "But if so, it's with good reason." The litany of my failures is burned into my brain from frequent repetition, and it's not short.

"Being scared isn't a bad thing," she says, reaching a hand toward my face. Her dark eyes are intense, but her fingertips are light against the corner of my mouth, the lines I've noticed cropping up by the sides of my eyes, and the edge of my eyebrow-the one with the scar. All my flaws.

"Means you're just like the rest of us." Her mouth quirks in a smile. "But you have to decide if you're going to let it stop you. Other people may give you chances, but that doesn't matter if you won't let yourself take them."

My eyes are burning in spite of myself. No one has been this forgiving, probably because I've never deserved it.

Amanda starts to pull her hand away, but I catch it and press an open-mouthed kiss against her palm. And then, watching to gauge her reaction, I move down to her wrist, against the line of the scar there. Kissing it, not to make it better, but so she knows she doesn't have to hide it from me.

She sucks in a breath, and I have the distinct pleasure of watching her eyes change, the pupils expand to deep pools.

"You have to tell me. You have to talk to me. If it's going too fast or a direction you don't like," I whisper to her.

"Yes." She nods quickly, a tremor running through her, but I'm shaking as hard as she is.

I let go of her hands to frame her face, which is small and fine-boned beneath my fingertips. Her breath moves against my skin before I lean in and brush my mouth against hers, my fingers tangling in her hair.

Her lips part, a soft sound escaping.

That's an invitation I can't ignore. I lick the soft line of her lower lip, just on the inside of her mouth.

She moans, and I feel the vibration as much as hear the noise. I deepen the kiss, sweeping my tongue over hers, and she clutches at my arms, her hands warm against my bare skin.

I freeze for a second, not sure.

"It's okay," she says against my mouth, panting. "I just wanted to touch."

God. "Yeah, okay," I say, in a strangled voice.

Her hands skim over my biceps. "That's ... yeah." Her touch has rendered me basically incoherent, and she knows it, by the mischievous look in her eye when she smiles at me.

Then she presses her mouth to mine again, her tongue sliding hesitantly between my lips, and I'm the one groaning now.

Pulling my hands from her hair, I move them to her hips and tug her closer, until she's half in my lap, and then she throws her leg over both of mine.

Her heat is radiating against my hip, and it's hard not to rock against her. To pull her fully on top of me until we're lined up and rubbing against each other. Those tiny boxer sleep shorts she's wearing wouldn't be much between us and neither are my shorts.

It's instinct and that desire to feel her moving against me that has me shifting, turning toward her and pulling us up higher on the bed.

The motion settles me between her legs and brings her breasts against my chest. She wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me tighter.

I press my hands against the bed to support my weight, but when I start to lower my arms to bring us both to the mattress, she stiffens suddenly and pushes her hands against my chest. "No. Wait."

Breathless, I pull back.

She pushes herself upright and away from me, shoving her hair back, which is messy from my hands in it.

"Too much, too fast," I say. "I'm sor-"

"Don't," she says quickly, her breathing still uneven. "Don't apologize. Please." Her eyes beg me not to make a big deal out of it. "You didn't do anything wrong. It's just me." She gives a rueful eye roll. "It's like there's a level in my head, you know, with the bubble?"

I know what she's talking about; my grandfather had one in his wood workshop in the barn.

"Only in my head, the center is green, and the bubble tipped from the green to red. I'm not sure I can do ... that. You on top of me." She flinches.

"Maybe that's enough for tonight," I say, backing toward the edge of the bed.

"Maybe," Amanda admits reluctantly. But she won't look at me, her gaze focused at some undefined point on the dresser instead. "I was just hoping..."

Her sadness and disappointment pull at me. "Hey," I say gently. I move to kneel on the floor in front of the dresser, so she'll look at me. "This kind of stuff is going to take time, figuring out what you like. What's okay for you."

She opens her mouth to object.

"Not just for you, either," I add. "Everyone." I hesitate, not sure how much she wants to hear, but oh, what the hell.

"I've been with a few girls, women," I begin.

"A few?" Amanda smirks.

I hold my hands up. "I'm not trying to brag here, just make a point," I say. "None of them have been exactly the same, the things they liked, the things they didn't. It's just more complicated for you is all."

She nods, still looking too solemn and down on herself.

"But I could brag, if I wanted," I say, more to get her reaction than anything.

Amanda scowls at me.

I hold her gaze steadily. "I promise you, before we're done, you're going to know exactly what you love, exactly what you want. And you'll be asking me for it."

Her mouth opens slightly, and heat flickers in her gaze again, pushing back the fear and discouragement.

Mission accomplished.

"Okay?" I ask, standing up.

"Yeah," she says, watching me move with a hunger that sends pride streaking through me.

"I'll see you in the morning," I say, turning toward the door. I'm already looking forward to it, to more time with her. My head is full of Amanda-her courage, how she smiles at me, the calm, reasoned way she talks, and that soft noise she made when I kissed her and how I might get her to do that again. All of that should probably scare the hell out of me, but it doesn't.

"Chase?"

I glance back at her.

"Thanks," she says with a shy smile.

And then, I remember all that I've done to use her and her name. All that I'm still doing, technically, and guilt slams into me hard.

"Don't. I'm not a saint, and this isn't an act of charity." It comes out sounding harsher than I mean it to, so I try to smile. "I like you, remember?"

She plays with the edge of the comforter, and I expect her to object but she just nods.

Once I'm back in my room, I discover my phone has vibrated halfway across the coffee table, thanks to the texts from Elise that fill the screen. At a glance, each one is angrier and pushier than the last.

But her plan is already working, as she has so frequently pointed out. And with the email from Rick in my inbox, I know she's right.

It doesn't have to go any further. Who cares if people think Amanda and I are made up? It's probably better, given what just happened, if they do.

And if Elise gets pissed, what can she really do? She'll find a way to take it out on me, I'm sure. But she won't go public with what we did because that would only hurt her career. Make her look bad, too. Worse, maybe, even than me. I was just the pretty face following her orders, or that's how it'll seem anyway. Because that's always what people think of me, and she knows it.

I tap my phone against my palm, thinking of Amanda and that smile. The kind of guy she thinks I am. The person I want to be. After a second of hesitation, I click on the latest text from Elise and without reading it, I type, No, I'm done. We're done.

Then I delete all the apps and Elise's ridiculous drafts before I can second-guess myself, and I put in a call to the front desk to have new room keys sent up.

For a moment, it's like I'm free-falling with the ground rushing up at me. But the weight on my shoulders is gone.

19.

Amanda "Amanda?" Chase's voice intrudes, softer than normal.

I hear him, but I can't see him. I'm in the middle of a crowd, and I'm lost or I've lost someone. I'm not sure which. And it doesn't seem to matter against the rising tide of panic in my gut. People are shoving against me, their elbows in my sides, their shoulders pressed in my face, until I feel like I can't breathe.

I rise up on my tiptoes, looking for him. But all the faces around me keep blurring together, making it impossible to tell who's who. Choking back terror, I turn ...

"Amanda?" Chase asks again. "You awake?"

I open my mouth to call his name, but before I can speak, there's the lurch and spin of a new reality settling into place.

Suddenly I'm awake in the dark, lying down, staring up at the ceiling. My body aches with the heaviness of sleep, both the recent exit from it and the lack of enough.

"Amanda?"

It's a familiar scenario. Chase waking me up after one of Jakes's visits, wanting to talk, trying to convince me to fight, to keep hoping.

But no, something is different. The pillow behind me smells strongly of a pleasant detergent, and ... Jakes is dead. I'm not in the basement. Not anymore. Never again.

Struggling to orient myself, I blink a few times and my hand automatically moves to my wrist, confirming the presence of the scar, before I recognize that I'm in a hotel. In a big double bed, lying on crisp white sheets.

You're okay. The confirmation rushes relief over me in a wave.

The Chase Henry talking to me is real, the one staying next door, not residing in my head. The same one who made a stunning and still unbelievable promise to me last night, a promise that kept me awake for hours from equal parts anticipation and anxiety.

He's in the doorway to his room, backlit into shadow.

"Chase?" I ask, my voice croaky.

"I'm sorry; I knocked. A few times," he says, hovering behind the door.

I sit up and fumble to turn on the bedside lamp. Only the faintest hint of gray light emerges from beneath the curtains. "What's wrong? What time is it? I..." I squint at him. "What are you wearing?"

He grins at me from beneath a baseball hat and aviators. "Standard celebrity disguise."

I grab the glass I filled with water before bed and take a swallow. My throat is dry from the nightmare or dream, whatever it was.

"I don't think you're disguising much," I point out. If anything, he's calling attention to the fact that he's trying to hide, and besides which, that jawline is kind of unmistakable. Strong, a little stubbly at the moment, and kind of delicious, like maybe you want to bite it a little. Not hard, just a nibble ...

Or maybe that's just me.

Chase shrugs, taking off his sunglasses and hooking them in the collar of his gray T-shirt. "Doesn't matter. It's mostly a precaution. We're going out the kitchen exit anyway." He's filled with an excited energy I've never seen from him before. Though I would never have described him as slow, exactly-weighed down, maybe-there's a spark to him this morning, a new urgency that I don't ...

Crap. "Did I oversleep?" I shove my hair out of my face and throw back the covers, scrambling out of bed and barely noticing his appreciative look in my haste.

"Go to the set without me," I say, searching for my jeans. They have to be around here somewhere. "You can't be late." I finally locate my jeans on the back of the rolling leather chair and grab them.

"No, no." Chase holds his hands up in a placating gesture. "It's still early. Do you have anything to cover your hair?"

"My fleece has a hood," I say, confused. "What is this about?" I'm never my best in the mornings, but that is especially true after two successive nights with little sleep.

"It's a surprise," he says, rocking back on his heels with a very self-satisfied grin.

I stop, with one leg in my jeans. "You do realize why that might not be reassuring to someone like me."

He frowns. "It's a good surprise," he offers.

"Uh-huh," I say, unconvinced. "Good" is a matter of opinion.