The Only One He Loves novel Chapter 2

The crew erupted in whistles and applause while Olivia melted into Ryan's embrace, playing shy.

"Oh guys, stop! There's nothing between Ryan and me," she gushed. Ryan just held her tighter, saying nothing.

I bit back a groan, pushing away the metal rigging that had slammed into my leg, yanking out a jagged piece that had buried itself in my calf. I hobbled away to patch myself up. By the time I made it back to set, everyone had ghosted.

The mountain darkness stretched forever, punctuated by coyote calls.

I huddled against a massive oak, clutching a broken branch like a lifeline, my injured leg throbbing. No sleep, just pure adrenaline keeping watch through the endless night.

Dawn finally broke, and I started my shaky descent. Halfway down, my phone caught signal.

Ryan's voice exploded through the speaker: "What's your deal, Emma? Dodging calls, slacking off! Olivia got eaten alive by bugs during the night shoot. Get your ass to Walgreens and grab her some cortisone!"

Everyone in Hollywood knew Olivia James as America's sweetheart – the A-lister who famously did everything herself, no entourage required. But the public didn't know Ryan secretly managed her life, with me as his ghost assistant.

When I didn't respond, he snapped: "Emma, are you deaf? Thirty minutes. Get back to set. Now!"

"I'm still on the mountain," I said quietly.

The line went dead silent before his voice returned. "You spent the night up there? Alone?"

Scanning the trees, I could've sworn I saw amber eyes watching me, waiting. Something in me cracked. Delayed terror hit me like a tsunami, tears burning my eyes.

Ryan's voice softened. "Don't move. I'll come get you. Give me an hour." The sun climbed higher, hours crawled by. But Ryan never showed.

I dragged myself back to set on my mangled leg. When Ryan stalked into the trailer, I was finishing a call with a potential new assistant.

His eyes zeroed in on my phone, suspicious. "Who were you talking to?"

"Nobody you know," I said flatly.

Ryan assumed spam call. He didn't push, I didn't explain.

"Figured you'd be starving," he muttered, dropping a takeout container on the folding table.

The box reeked, leftovers visible through the cracked lid.

Ryan snatched it back, clearing his throat. "Maybe there are catering mix-up."

Hah. With the kind of people who dined at the same table as a famous actor like Jacob, how could possibly take the wrong box?