LIAM

I walk through LAX Airport, my ball cap pulled down low and sunglasses over my eyes. After my audition, I just had time to grab a drive-thru coffee before racing back here. I spent the entire flight out memorizing lines and didn't check into my hotel until after five this morning.

I'm running entirely on caffeine and the kick of adrenaline I get every time I reread Ada's message from last night, which I've done more times than I'll ever admit.

YOU were perfect.

Sure, I've had fans say things like that to me before, but they're talking about the guy they see on the show, not about me. That text is twisting me up in ways I never would've imagined. I mean, I just nailed the audition for the role that could save my career, and all I can think about is Ada.

The worn soles of my shoes squeak against the linoleum, catching the attention of a girl around my age. Her eyes go wide as she stares at me. She raises her cell phone and I see her snap a picture before I have the sense to look away.

Clearly, I need more caffeine.

If she posts that shot, it'll be like a pistol announcing a foot race. L.A. paps love to hang out at LAX. Celebrities are easy prey here. Since I currently feel—and probably look—like an extra on Dawn of the Dead, I'm not exactly thrilled by the idea of being photographed.

I walk faster, hustling through the airport, which smells like a combination of floor wax and Cinnabon. If I'm fast, I might be able to make it to the private, celebrity-friendly terminal before the photogs catch up to me. Only in L.A. would something like that exist.

My phone vibrates. I pull it out as I speed walk, squinting at the text through my glasses.

Ada: Hey Superstar! Hope I'm not bugging you. Just wanted to see how the audition went.

I slow my pace enough to type because my dumbass isn't capable of waiting until I get to the terminal to write this girl back.

Me: You could never bug me.

Ada's response comes quick. I glance around to see if any photogs have arrived before reading it, but I'm in the clear so far.

Ada: Ha. I don't think the Liam Anders I met a few weeks ago would've agreed with that.

Me: Well, that guy was an idiot. You should definitely forget everything he said.

Me: And the audition was great. Thanks for asking.

Despite my utter exhaustion, I hit all my lines this morning. When I talked to Ackerman and the casting director afterward, I got the vibe they thought so too. The way they said they'd be in touch very soon made it sound like they'd be reaching out with good news.

Ada: Of course it was. You're an amazing actor, Liam.

I stop walking right there in the middle of the hallway. A guy rolling a suitcase and yammering into a phone runs into my shoulder. He glares back at me, and I mutter an apology, but I'm barely paying attention, because this girl legit just made my damn heart flutter.

"Liam!"

Flash. Flash. Flash.

Shit. I look up to see several photographers hurrying in my direction. I heave a sigh.

The old me would've pulled his hat down lower over his eyes and booked it into the V.I.P. area where the cameras couldn't follow. But the new me is a lot more concerned with keeping his job. And unfortunately, playing nice with the paps seems to be an unavoidable part of that.

Besides, if Ada is one of them, then they can't all be that bad.

I take off my sunglasses, sliding them into my back pocket, and smile politely as they surround me, cameras flashing incessantly. Other people stop to stare at the spectacle I've unintentionally created as they pass by, dragging luggage and carrying a menagerie of comfort animals.

"How's it going?" I nod at the photogs as they fire away, forcing myself to make small talk with them like Mia always used to do. It's no wonder she's the darling of the tabloids. She might be a pain in the ass, but she did always treat the photographers like human beings, which I failed to do.

"Good to see you guys," I say. I might not mean the words yet, but I'm getting there. Ada was right about me needing the press if I want to stay relevant, and they really are just doing their job.

"Look at this guy laying on the charm. I know you've got a thing for us snappers now, but I'm afraid I'm taken, mate," a man with a thick British accent jokes.

I bark out a laugh, and to my surprise, it's genuine. It's been years since I've chatted with the paparazzi like this. It's almost fun.

"Yeah, me too," I say, and they all laugh. I'm pretty sure nearly every person on the planet is well aware of my relationship status.

"Does that mean you and Ada Datchery have made things official then? Are the two of you exclusive?" a man holding a video camera asks.

A month ago, the invasiveness of his question would've sent me over the edge. Now I'm weirdly fine with telling everyone how I feel about Ada—especially Ada herself. I hope she's watching. Knowing my paparazzi girl, she will be.

I look straight down the barrel of his camera and wink. "If she'll have me."

"Aw, now that's just bloody adorable right there," the British guy says.

I'm about to walk away when I hear a commotion from the back of the group. Someone shouts, "Wesley!"

My head jerks up, and I see my friend edging his way through the swarm of photographers.

"What's up, man?" Wes thrusts his chin at me. His arms are laden down with a duffle bag and a giant cup of coffee.

"I didn't know you were out here." I clap him on the shoulder before thanking the paps. We turn and walk down the hall into the V.I.P. area.

"What brings you to L.A.?" I ask as Wesley drops his duffle on the floor, and we take a seat in the luxurious leather chairs. A waitress practically runs over to take our drink orders.

"Just an audition." Wesley scrubs a hand over his eyes, looking as spent as I feel.

"Same. What part were you auditioning for?"

"Uh," Wesley clears his throat, suddenly interested in the tile floor. "Alaric on Where There's Smoke."

It takes a second for his words to sink in. Because he can't possibly be going after the part he knows I've been busting my ass to get for months now. I stare at him, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the ground.

All I can say is, "Oh."

"My agent wanted me to at least audition," Wes explains. "You know how it is, man."

"Yeah. I know how it is," I say, even though I don't. Wesley's got two major movie deals lined up after Cipher wraps. He didn't need this part. I can't believe he did this now, when things were starting to turn around for me. He might as well have punched me in the face.

"We're cool, right?" Wes asks, finally looking me in the eye.

"Sure. We're cool." I force a shrug.

But we are most definitely not cool. I never would've gone for a part I knew Wesley wanted—no, needed—this badly. My friends are like my family. I wouldn't do that to any of them. Maybe Wes and I aren't as tight as I thought we were.