Dating a Po*nstar is Hard

22: Ya Dun Goofed

I slip out of the makeup room, still feeling the adrenaline rush from the scene. My neck throbs where Leo’s fingers had gripped it, maybe a bit too enthusiastically. The marks are angry and red, perfectly visible.

I need to see his face. I need to know if he’s learned his lesson about flirting with Morgan.

I walk briskly toward the viewing area, rehearsing my explanation in my head. I’ll tell him the truth, that I was angry, jealous even, after seeing him with Morgan. That the scene with Leo wasn’t real, just a performance meant to make him feel what I felt. We’ll talk it through, and everything will be fine.

But when I reach the folding chairs, Adam’s seat is empty.

My heart stutters in my chest.

I scan the studio,

“No, I mean… Whenever you’ve sent Lana with meals to set, she used to share them,” Morgan explains, a genuine smile warming her face. “Those little Tupperware containers of homemade pasta, those amazing cookies. I found them exquisite.”

I blink, surprised both that Lana shared my cooking and that Morgan remembers it. “Oh. Thanks.”

Morgan’s expression shifts, becoming more businesslike as she straightens up. “I’ve heard all the stories from Lana about what a perfect little house husband you are. She says you’re great at cleaning, folding clothes, keeping everything organized.”

I shrug, uncomfortable with the praise. “I just like things neat.”

“Well, this place,” she gestures expansively at the kitchen and beyond, “don’t get me wrong, it’s not gigantic, but it’s eight bedrooms, and I really need help.” She takes a step closer, her green eyes locking with mine. “I was wondering if you would want a job as my housing manager and part-time chef.”

I blink, caught completely off-guard. “What?”

“I don’t want five-star dinners,” she continues, her voice softening. “I just want the kind of homemade, lovingly prepared food you cooked for Lana. In fact, your life would be largely similar.” She pauses, watching my reaction carefully. “I have a room available for the position if you want it to be live-in.”

The offer hangs in the air between us, unexpected and strangely tempting. I have nowhere to go, fourteen dollars to my name, and a broken heart. And here’s Morgan, offering me shelter, purpose, and an escape from the humiliation I just endured.

“I don’t know,” I say hesitantly. “This seems... sudden.”

Morgan walks to an elegant wine rack built into the wall, selecting a bottle. “Think about it practically, Adam. You need a place to stay. I need someone to help manage this house. It’s a mutually beneficial arrangement.” She uncorks the wine with a soft pop. “No strings attached.”

As she pours two glasses of deep red wine, I find myself considering her offer more seriously. The alternative is crawling back to my parents, admitting I’ve been living off a porn star who just publicly humiliated me.

“What would the job entail exactly?” I ask, accepting the glass she offers.

“Basic house management, keeping things clean, organized, stocking the pantry.” She takes a sip of her wine, watching me over the rim of her glass. “Preparing meals.”

I sip my drink, the wine is rich and complex on my tongue, probably costs more than I used to make in a day at my old job.

“And in return?” I ask cautiously.

“Room and board, plus a generous monthly stipend. I’d rather pay someone I trust than hire a stranger.”

“You trust me?” I ask, genuinely surprised. “You barely know me.”

Something flickers in her eyes, there and gone so quickly I can’t identify it. “I’m a good judge of character,” she says simply. “And I’ve seen how you care for things... for people.”

I clear my throat, feeling a sudden lump forming there. “Look, Morgan, I know I seem like I’m handling all this well, but honestly...” My voice cracks embarrassingly. “I’m not as tough as I’m trying to appear right now.”

Morgan bursts into laughter, the sound echoing off the expensive marble countertops. It’s not cruel, but it’s definitely not sympathetic either.

“Oh honey,” she says, wiping a tear from her eye, “you don’t look tough at all. You look positively broken.” She gestures vaguely at my entire being. “Snapped in two, like a twig someone stepped on.”

I flinch at her bluntness but can’t argue with the assessment. Morgan sets down her wine glass and moves behind me, her hands finding my shoulders. Her fingers dig into the tense muscles with surprising strength.

“But that’s okay,” she continues, her voice softening as she massages my shoulders. “Sometimes we need to shatter before we can rebuild.”

Before I can respond, she guides me toward one of the high-backed stools at the kitchen island, gently but firmly pushing me down onto it.

“I saw you break today, Adam,” she says, her green eyes studying my face with unsettling intensity. “I was going to offer you this job anyways, but now I really want to help you.” She leans closer, her perfume enveloping me. “I said it before, but I don’t think you’re cut out to date an active porn star.”

The truth of her words hits me like a physical blow. Tears spring to my eyes before I can stop them, hot and humiliating. I blink rapidly, trying to hold them back, but one escapes, trailing down my cheek.

Morgan’s expression softens further, something almost maternal crossing her features. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks, reaching out to wipe away the tear with her thumb.

I swallow hard, embarrassed by my emotional display. “I don’t want to trauma dump on you,” I mutter, staring down at my hands.

“Trauma dump?” Morgan laughs again, gentler this time. “Adam, you trauma dumped so much when you got blackout drunk at the hotel that night. Why not a little more?” She refills my wine glass with a generous pour. “I really don’t mind.”

The memory of that night at the hotel is lost. But there’s something comforting about Morgan’s straightforward approach.

“You really don’t mind?” I ask, my voice barely audible as I grip the wine glass like a lifeline.

Morgan leans against the counter, her crimson lips curving into a gentle smile. “Darling, lay it on me.”