Chapter 1

1

Now

As if she needed another reminder, the fact that Lilah Hunter was once again trapped alone in a room with Shane McCarthy was confirmation that her life had gone completely off the rails.

She should’ve prepared herself. It was only a matter of time. Luckily, he hadn’t been on her flight to New York, and they hadn’t run into each other at the hotel. She knew she’d be seeing him tonight, obviously. But she’d naïvely assumed that things would be hectic enough that there would always be some kind of buffer between them—that they wouldn’t have to acknowledge each other, let alone interact. Not yet, anyway.

At first, she’d been correct. Just an hour ago, the backstage holding area for talent at Radio City Music Hall had been bustling with people, all assembled for the same purpose: the annual UBS upfronts, part of the most important television event of the year. Over the course of one week in May, every major network took turns revealing their fall schedules to potential sponsors, flying out their biggest stars to make their presentations as flashy as possible in an attempt to lure in advertising dollars.

She’d avoided Shane from the moment she’d entered the greenroom, but really, he’d avoided her first. When she’d walked through the door, their eyes had met immediately, and her spine had tingled with that familiar, involuntary frisson of disgust. She should’ve prepared herself for that, too.

If he’d seemed at all happy to see her, or even just neutral, she would’ve gone over and greeted him warmly like everything was fine. Really, she would have. Instead, he’d paused for a moment, face clouding, mouth tightening, before returning to his conversation, angling his back resolutely toward her. Fine. If that was how he wanted it. She’d squared her shoulders, sauntered into the room, and struck up some small talk with the first familiar face she saw.

Slowly, though, the crowd had dwindled, as people were escorted to the stage in small groups. Intangible’s slot was last on UBS’s agenda that evening: the grand finale. They’d somehow successfully managed to keep Lilah’s return to the show a secret ahead of the big reveal, which, even in a gathering of the network’s best and brightest, had caused a stir when she’d first shown up backstage. She’d been a little embarrassed by the attention, but relieved for the distraction.

Now it was just the two of them, slouched on couches on opposite sides of the room, ignoring each other. Even though they’d been in the same room for more than an hour, it had still been nearly three years since they’d spoken. Since the night of her final wrap party.

Lilah felt heat rise to her face. That was the last thing she should be thinking about right now. She needed to focus. They would be called to the stage at any moment, and he was enough of a distraction as it was.

He had a beard now. His hair was longer, too, dark as ever but wavier than she’d thought it would be, the back of it almost brushing his collar. But she knew all that already. It had been impossible to avoid the ads for the last few seasons of Intangible. The ones without her. Shane’s newly hairy face had been plastered, solo, over every billboard on Sunset.

Her throat tightened as a memory popped up, unbidden, of the first time they’d spotted an Intangible billboard with the two of them on it, back before the first season had even aired. They’d taken turns posing for pictures in front of it, laughing and giddy. Once they’d sent them off to their respective parents, Shane had slung one arm around her shoulders and stretched the other out as far as it could go, capturing a single blurry selfie of them together, the billboard barely in frame. That one had been just for them.

She let out an exhale that was louder than she intended, so loud it bordered on a sigh. Shane’s eyes flicked over to her, just for a heartbeat, then away again. Lilah stared at her lap. This whole thing was a mistake, the latest in a long line of them. She couldn’t unburn this bridge, no matter how much money they’d thrown at her to rebuild it.

Lilah whipped her head up to see Shane looking at her, almost bored, from under half-lidded eyes. Her hand flew above her shoulder, fingering the ends of her hair involuntarily. She’d cut it to her chin several months ago in a fit of acute emotional distress (as was the case with most drastic haircuts).

His tone was so bland that it was hard to tell whether he was being sincere or sarcastic. When it came to Shane, the least charitable reading was usually the correct one. He wasn’t wrong, though. This particular cut, still overly feathered and layered even after months of growing it out, wasn’t doing her any favors. It looked okay tonight, after being professionally wrangled ahead of the event, but most days it felt like one more mistake staring back at her in the mirror.

She dropped her hand and crossed her arms, trying to match his sardonic inflection.

Unfortunately, his beard did look good, but hopefully her delivery was ambiguous enough to plant those same seeds of self-doubt. If it worked, he showed no sign of it.

He held her gaze for a long moment, inhaling sharply like he was about to say something else. But instead, he just shook his head slightly, smirked, and looked away.

He met her eyes again. “Bet you never thought you’d end up back here again, huh?” The superficial friendliness only made the bitter undertone more stark.

There was no point in responding. It wasn’t a real question. Of course she never thought she’d end up back here. He obviously hadn’t, either. Otherwise they wouldn’t have spent her final weeks on the show adding a few last-minute items to their endless list of grievances against each other.

He shifted positions, leaning forward to rest his elbows loosely on his knees. From the way his neck craned toward the door, he was clearly as eager to get out of there as she was. He muttered something under his breath.

He turned back to her. “I said, this is bullshit.” Every word was perfectly enunciated this time.

She forced herself to take a deep breath, but it didn’t help; her tone was just as venomous as his. “Well, it wasn’t my idea. Believe me.”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face, relieving some of the tension pulsating between them. “Oh, I know. I saw your movie.” He winced.

Lilah fought the blush rising to her cheeks as she glowered at him.

It had seemed like a no-brainer to leave the show at the time. She’d been there for five seasons, her contract was up, her star was on the rise, and things between her and Shane were as bad as they’d ever been. They barely said a word to each other that wasn’t in the script. So, naturally, she’d jumped at the offer of what seemed like her dream role: a feature adaptation of an award-winning journalist’s memoir about his relationship with his troubled mother, helmed by a legendary director she’d been dying to work with.

In retrospect, the fact that they were willing to cast a twenty-seven-year-old in a role that spanned the ages of thirty-five to seventy should’ve been her first hint that things were creatively awry behind the scenes. Still, Lilah had thrown everything she had into her performance, ignoring the misgivings that piled higher and higher as the shoot went on, writing them off as the standard insecurities that came from pushing herself as an actor for the first time in years.

She’d known for sure that she was in trouble before they’d even wrapped, when an unflattering candid picture of her on set in her old-age makeup had leaked and gone viral, instantly taking off as a humiliating meme. Her own sister had texted it to her with the caption “You after seeing this picture for the millionth time.” That was the only one she’d laughed at.

The movie itself had fared even worse, hailed as a career low for everyone involved. Not just mediocre but laughably bad—an instant camp classic. When she’d first received the script, she’d been practicing her Oscar acceptance speech in the shower; by the time the movie was released, she was contemplating whether to go pick up her Razzie in person. For the next year, she couldn’t get an offer for anything more substantial than a birth control commercial.

But, thankfully, Intangible had been just as desperate as she was. Despite their best efforts, the ratings had plummeted without her. Lilah didn’t let it go to her head. They’d be in the same situation if Shane had left instead of her. No matter how the two of them felt about each other when the cameras were off, it was the chemistry between their characters, Kate and Harrison, that made the show worth watching. She knew it. He knew it. The whole fucking world knew it.

And so, mistake or not, she’d agreed to come back for one last season.

At first, it had seemed like a lifeline. A starring role in a hit TV show wasn’t a worst-case scenario by any standard. But she’d gotten a taste of what was in store for her when she’d stepped backstage and every head in the room had turned practically in unison. Some people had seemed happy to see her, sure, but there’d been just as many that had raised their eyebrows and turned away, her former (and future) costar leading the charge.

She didn’t blame them. She understood. She’d abandoned the people who’d given her her break, then come crawling back once her reach for bigger and better things had exceeded her grasp. Her stomach roiled at the thought of how the cast and crew of Intangible would treat her once she was back on set.

Based on the icy reception she was getting from the cast member sitting across from her, it wasn’t promising. But that was par for the course with him.

Just then, the door cracked open, and a production assistant poked her head in.

Lilah stood, smoothing her skirt, and quickened her pace to catch up with Shane, who was already halfway out the door. With the boost from her not-so-high heels, they were the same height—six-two, give or take a slouch. She’d always been grateful that she was allowed to wear comfortable shoes whenever they had to stand next to each other, since she’d be taller than him in anything above three inches (which would obviously confuse and distress the audience). She jutted her chin high, trying to elongate herself as much as possible as she walked beside him, matching him stride for stride. She wanted whatever edge on him she could get.

The PA led them to a spot in the wings and handed each of them a cordless mic. “Just wait here until he introduces you,” she stage-whispered before disappearing again.

Lilah stood still, every muscle rigid, trying to ignore the sensation of Shane’s eyes burning into her. Her stomach twisted when she caught a whiff of his soap—faint, but still painfully familiar. Only when he looked away again did she allow herself to sneak another glance at him.

Now that she was closer, she could see the light from the stage glinting off the handful of new grays threaded through his dark hair. Her gaze moved past the angular jawline she knew was hiding under his beard, drifting down to his suit—oxblood, expensive-looking, perfectly tailored to shoulders and biceps that were definitely broader than they used to be.

The first time they’d done this, he’d shown up way overdressed, wearing a cheap rented tuxedo that was somehow too big and too small at the same time—not that she had room to judge, in an obnoxiously trendy dress she’d maxed out her credit card to buy, carefully tucking the tags back inside after she’d zipped it up. She’d teased him about it anyway: I didn’t realize we were going to junior prom.

What do you want me to do with your corsage, then? he’d replied with a grin.

With effort, she redirected her attention back to what she could see of the stage. Hal Kagan, the president of UBS, was presenting the Tuesday night lineup, sounding only moderately stilted as he read off the teleprompter.

Hal stepped off to the other side of the stage, and the lights dimmed. Though Lilah couldn’t see the screen, her brain easily filled in the images from the pilot that accompanied the blaring audio. Kate and Harrison’s first meeting had been her audition sides. By now, eight years on, most of the material was a blur—memorized, shot, then promptly forgotten—but she could still recite that scene by heart.

The next five seasons flew by in a montage set to a high-octane cover of the theme song: the two of them bickering, bantering, solving supernatural mysteries (most of which conveniently took place in the L.A. metro area), and, of course, staring longingly at each other when they thought the other one wasn’t looking.

The overarching storyline for the fifth season had centered around Kate and Harrison’s mission to restore Harrison’s corporeal form, bringing him back to life. In the season finale, it seemed like they’d accomplished it, falling into each other’s arms at long last—only for Kate to go limp, her life force drained as an unexpected side effect.

Shane’s overamplified sobs filled the theater.

Lilah swore she could hear scattered sniffles throughout the auditorium. Even she had to admit that she’d been impressed by Shane’s performance; she hadn’t thought he’d had it in him. She’d been less impressed by the garlic bagel with extra lox he’d eaten right before shooting it and had used every last scrap of her training to keep her face relaxed as he exhaled cured fish breath directly into it.

The video ended to applause, and the lights came back up as Hal returned to the stage.

The end of his sentence was swallowed by riotous cheers. Lilah could practically feel the annoyance radiating off Shane in waves. Hal continued, “Please welcome to the stage the stars of Intangible: Shane McCarthy and Lilah Hunter!”

At least Hal had said Shane’s name first, she thought ruefully. That should pacify his ego a little.

Lilah slapped on a smile and angled herself out toward the blinding lights, walking a few steps behind Shane, both of them waving as the audience roared. Shane and Hal shook hands, and Lilah ducked down to kiss Hal on the cheek.

Shane turned toward the crowd and raised his microphone. “Thank you.” He cleared his throat, glancing over at Lilah. “I think I speak for both of us when I say that we’ve been so grateful for this entire journey, especially the fact that we get to finish it the way we started: together.”

He took a step toward her, and her stomach bottomed out. Before she knew what was happening, he’d reached down and taken her hand, drawing her closer—platonic, but undeniably intimate. All she could do was gape at him, and there it was: The Look, larger than life, his face inches from hers, without even giving her time to brace for impact. It was so fucking unfair that it still had this much of an effect on her after all these years, after everything they’d been through. Lilah struggled to regain her composure.

Numbly, she followed him offstage, unable to feel her legs, the cheers echoing in her ears. Another PA escorted them down to the stage door, where a long line of town cars was waiting outside to ferry them back to their hotel.

Lilah glanced at the tense set of Shane’s jaw, the hard line between his eyebrows. His face was already scrubbed clean of every last trace of the warmth and affection he’d oozed moments earlier. She wondered if he was thinking about the same thing she was: their first time at upfronts, exactly eight years ago, right after Intangible had been picked up.

The first time they’d slept together.

They’d closed down the hotel bar after UBS’s presentation, the attraction that had been simmering between them since before they’d shot the pilot coming to a boil at last. The pseudo-innocent touches—accidental knee brushes, lips murmuring against cheeks, hands pressed to forearms or lower backs—becoming more intentional, more heated, until she’d returned from the bathroom and he’d slid his arm around her waist, pulling her into his lap like it was inevitable. Like she’d been there the whole time.

Being back here with him now, all those firsts and lasts and never agains were as sharp and vivid as they’d ever been, forming a knot of unease in her chest that made it difficult to breathe.

It wasn’t until Shane met her eyes that she realized she was still staring at him. Lilah quickly redirected her gaze straight ahead.