by Elise Faber
I just knew I wanted to help make a difference.
“Hey,” Damon said, coming up behind me. He held a cup of coffee over my shoulder and I took it as he wrapped his arms around me.
“Thanks.”
He rested his chin on my shoulder, both of us staring out the window . . . or maybe that was just me because a few moments later, he pressed his lips to my throat and murmured, “You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
I snorted. “You’ve been around beautiful women your whole career.” I took a sip from the mug then set it on the small table and spun to face him, my lips tilting up. “Not that I’m saying I won’t take the compliment.”
He slipped his hand into my hair. “Is that all it takes to get into your heart, sweetheart? Some pretty words?” His lips brushed mine.
“I’m easy,” I teased.
“Not that,” he murmured against my mouth. “But nothing worth it is ever easy.”
“Mmm,” I said and took his hand, leading him back toward the bed. “Well, come and show me how easy you are.”
“What about the coffee?” he asked. “I fought with the coffeemaker for thirty minutes just to make that one cup.”
I slipped the T-shirt I’d been wearing over my head, dropped it to the floor.
“What was that about coffee?”
He scooped me up into his arms and tossed me onto the bed. “Forget coffee.” A brushing kiss to my lips, a nip to my throat. “How long until you have to be on set?” he asked.
“Hours yet.”
He grinned then began kissing his way down my chest, my stomach, taking a moment to divert to my breasts.
I moaned, my fingers weaving into his hair, holding him to me.
“I think I can work with hours,” he said against my skin.
A nip, a kiss, a flick of his tongue . . . and I knew he could, too.
I also knew he could work with days, with months.
With years.
And that I finally could, too.
Epilogue
Damon, Thanksgiving
“I can’t wait until Christmas,” Colleen exclaimed. “Damon can be little orphan Annie again and—”
“Not on your life,” I muttered.
Eden turned from where she was peeling potatoes over the sink. “I don’t know, I’d love to see you in that curly red wig. Or better yet, with a perm.”
I narrowed my eyes at her, but she just winked at Colleen and turned back to the potatoes. I’d known they would get on thick as thieves, but I hadn’t expected the natural consequences of that.
Namely, that they’d turned their collective attention toward teasing me.
I protested and pretended to hate it, but in reality, I was thrilled that Eden had fit so perfectly into my family. She spoke to my mom almost more often than I did, had called Colleen several times before we’d met up for Thanksgiving. Cindy hadn’t been able to get time off from work, but we would all be together at Christmas.
But besides the communicating, she’d jumped right in when we’d arrived two days before, teasing and joking, cooking—more than just blueberry pancakes—and sharing set secrets with Colleen and my mom.
In many ways, she was unrecognizable from the woman I’d known over the years.
And yet, she was the same.
Just . . . freer.
I nipped her ear and reached past her to grab the now naked potatoes, bringing them to my cutting board and cutting them into smaller chunks as my mom had ordered. Then into the pot they went. The turkey was done and cooling on the counter, the stuffing crisping in the oven, corn and bean salad on the table, along with rolls, and a side of tortillas Eden had insisted on making because she’d perfected the process.
She brought me the last potato when she finished it, which I cut and put into the pot.
Now finished with our assigned jobs, I snagged her hand and tugged her out into the backyard. My mom, elbow deep in pie crust, gave me a knowing look as we went.
Knowing because she knew what was in my pocket.
What was burning a hole in my pocket.
“Everything okay?” Eden asked.
I tucked my arm around her and guided us over to the steps, sitting down and tugging her into my lap. “I’m good. Just wanted a moment alone with you.”
“A moment away from your family and the risk of you wearing that red, curly wig?”
“It doesn’t go with my complexion,” I deadpanned.
She laughed, rested her head on my shoulder, but didn’t press me further.
We’d had a lot of moments like this over the last months, quiet and still, enjoying each other. Though, they were usually bookended by cameras—on set and on the street—and yelling—by fans or directors or paparazzi—but eventually, we always found our way back to quiet.
“Here,” I said, reaching into my pocket and dropping the contents into Eden’s palm.
Her eyes widened, mouth dropping open in surprise when she saw the dough I dropped into her hand.
Reasonably so, since it was out of left field.
“Um.” She squeezed it lightly. “Is there a reason you’ve given me raw tortilla dough?”
I kissed her neck. “Not tortilla dough.”
She spun to face me. “What?”
“It’s pizza dough.”
Her brows pulled down. “Still not making sense, baby.”
“It’s Thursday,” I said.
“Yes, Thanksgiving typically does fall on a Thursday.”
Those brows came up.
“It might be Thanksgiving, but it’s still Pizza Night.”
I saw the moment it clicked on her face, green eyes warming, her shoulders shaking, arms wrapping around me, lips pressing to mine. I kissed her for long minutes, but when we broke apart for air, I took her hand with the dough in mine and brought it between us.
“You’re supposed to look inside.”
“Look inside the ball of dough?”
I nodded.
One red brow lifted. “Are balls of dough known for containing surprises?”
“This one is.”
She glanced from me to the dough then back again.
Sighing, I took it from her and tore it open . . . to reveal the ring inside.
Her breath caught. “Damon?”
“I love you, Eden,” I said. “And I want to marry you, but if this is too much too soon, we’ll shove it back into the ball of dough and keep it for another Pizza Night, one far into the future, one when you’re ready.”
“You’d put it back?” she asked, eyes serious.
I nodded, gut clenching. With everything going so well, I hadn’t thought this would be too soon . . . but we hadn’t even been dating a year and had been apart some of that. Not to mention her past.
“Yes,” I said, stomach clenching. “I would.”
“Because”—a shuddering breath—“this is a lot and—”
Mischief.
Creeping across green eyes.
I would have missed it if I didn’t know her so well.
“Eden.”
She giggled.
“I think I’d better put it back.” I reached for the dough, started to fold it back around the diamond ring.
She gasped. “Don’t you dare!”
I stood, dumping her onto the step next to me. “Nope. You don’t want it and—”
Eden lurched off the deck and into my arms. “Stop, Damon. Don’t get any more dough stuck in that gorgeous diamond setting. I want it. I want the ring and the Pizza Nights and I want you.”
My heart leaped.
Her fingers brushed my jaw. “I love you so much and want everything I never dreamed I’d have.”
I tossed the dough aside and slipped the ring on her finger. “I want everything with you, too,” I told her. “I want our Pizza Nights and to keep finding ways to slip you away from set to sneak in a kiss. I want FaceTime and in person time and to hold your purse while you stand in front of the cameras capturing you in a be
autiful dress at your premieres. But most of all, I just want you in my arms, as much as possible, for as long as possible.”
She smiled. “I want that, too, Damon.” A beat as her lips lowered to mine. “But sometimes I might wear pants.”
“Well, I’ve already established that your ass looks amazing in pants, so I can deal with that.”
She smacked me lightly.
I cupped her cheeks.
Then I kissed her.
And kept on kissing until Colleen threatened me through the kitchen door with that curly red wig again.
Eden giggled as she broke away, tugging me toward the house.
“Can’t have that,” she said as we went. “That’s special for Christmas!”
Green eyes warm with laughter, with happiness and hope. Armor hung up on pegs.
The past. The present. A new family. A bright future.
Eden finally had it all.
And she’d given it all to me.
Epilogue
Part Two
Maggie
My cell vibrated just as the minister declared, “You may kiss the bride.”
Slipping out of my chair as Eden and Damon locked lips, but before they vacated the altar, I sprinted down the aisle and toward a tree, hustling behind it.
Only five people were currently on Do Not Disturb.
Eden—who was otherwise occupied.
Three additional equally important clients. All of who were either in attendance—and Pierce and Artie were not likely to be on the phone as they watched the bride and groom get hitched—or on the opposite side of the globe—and Talbot was probably sleeping.
The last was my father.
Who never called unless something was on fire, someone was bleeding out, or an asteroid was heading toward the planet.
I glanced at the screen, not realizing how much I’d been hoping it was Talbot with some earth-shattering crisis until I saw “Dad calling” flashing across the surface. “Shit,” I muttered, swiping a finger and bringing it up to my ear. “Hi, Dad. Everything okay?”
“It’s not Dad.”
Hot then cold. Goose bumps on my arms. The past shoving its way firmly into my present, because his voice was ice and it broke my heart.
Aaron.
My ex Aaron.
My ex because I’d left.
“What’s wrong?”
“Your father fell,” Aaron said. “He’s in the hospital.”
“What?” I gasped, my head falling back against the tree, my heart pounding. “What happened?”
“He decided he had to shovel the driveway—”
“What?! But I hired someone to come and do that—”
Cold infiltrated the airwaves. “Except that someone didn’t show up and your father decided he couldn’t wait for me to come over and do it.”
So many things wrong with that statement.
Why the company I’d hired hadn’t shown up, why Aaron would still be seeing my father, why my father would think it was a good idea to go out and shovel his driveway at sixty-nine years old after surviving four heart attacks.
“Is he okay?”
“He needs surgery.”
I gasped. “Oh my God! I—”
Cheers erupted from the audience behind me, Damon and Eden probably making their way down the aisle.
“Never mind. I can tell you’re busy. I shouldn’t have called,” Aaron said, still cold, still so similar to how he’d sounded when I’d told him I was leaving—moving to L.A., leaving Ohio behind. So different from how he’d sounded when we’d been together. But I’d made his warmth disappear as easily as freshly baked pumpkin pie around my father.
My father.
Shit.
Eyes burning at the thought of him all alone in the hospital. “I’ll be on—”
Another cheer, voices coming my way.
“Enjoy your party, Mags.”
I’d been about to say I’d be on the next plane home, but Aaron hung up.
And I was left with silence in my ear, a worried and aching heart . . . alone but somehow still surrounded by people.
Alone, but not.
That was fitting.
Sighing, I shoved my phone into my pocket, went to retrieve my coat and purse, bypassing the bride and groom, not wanting to spoil their special day. Then I called a Lyft, headed to the airport, and hopped on the first plane to Ohio.
To Aaron—
No. To my father.
Only my father. Because Aaron was strictly in the past. We were over. There wasn’t a future for us.
I’d made certain of it.
But as the plane soared across the sky, closing the distance between present and past, I was having a hard time remembering why I’d made certain of it.
I missed him.
And I’d . . . never stopped loving him.
End Scene
Maggie and Aaron’s story is coming August 24th, 2020
Preorder at www.books2read.com/EndScene
Love, Camera, Action
Dotted Line
* * *
Action Shot
* * *
Close Up
* * *
End Scene
Love, Camera, Action
Did you miss any of the other Love, Camera, Action series books? Check out excerpts from the series below or find the full series at http://elisefaber.com/LoveCameraAction
Dotted Line
Love, Camera, Action #1
Get your copy at books2read.com/DottedLine
Olivia
The cold voice hit my spine before I made it to my chair.
“What did you say?”
Cole McTavish.
A tall hunk of a former hockey player, all muscled thighs and towering height, with a face that would have been classified as beautiful if not for the several-times-broken nose, the jagged scar along his jaw, and the small, smooth one bisecting his left eyebrow.
Further that, he was about as opposite from me as anyone I’d ever met.
Relaxed, always ready with an easy smile, Cole never raised his voice—at least off the ice. On it, he’d been a terror, a virtually unstoppable force who’d fought when needed and didn’t back down from protecting a teammate.
I’d also been his agent while he was playing.
After he’d retired, I’d transitioned him over to Devon, who’d helped him refine his brand for post-playing opportunities. Now, he was the face for a few hockey companies and one well-known corporation that sold watches. Though, to my and the rest of the female populace’s dismay, he’d turned down the swimwear ads.
I’d been with him in the locker room enough to know what was under those flannel shirts and jeans.
It was definitely billboard worthy.
Lane started to push by him, but Cole grabbed his shoulder and stepped into my office, forcing Lane back.
Devon Scott trailed them in, a stormy expression on his face.
I glanced at my boss and shook my head, silently telling him I’d already handled it, but Dev shook his head firmly back at me. Which was when I realized that what Lane had said must have been worse than I’d thought. Normally, Devon would never get involved in an argument between my employees and myself unless I asked him to.
Which I didn’t.
Since I handled my own shit.
“Tell her what you said.”
My gaze flashed to Cole and his darkened face. “It’s—”
Emerald eyes locked onto mine, sparking fire. “Tell her,” he said, and Lane must have realized exactly how deep of a pile of shit he’d dived into because when I broke Cole’s stare to glance at my assistant, his face had gone pale.
I rested my hip against my desk. “I don’t need to hear it. Lane, get the file.”
Devon crossed his arms. “Tell her,” he said. “If you’re man enough to mutter it under your breath, you’re man enough to say it aloud.”
Lane shook off Cole and spun to face me. “Fine,” he snapped. “I said that you’re suc
h a fucking bitch.”
My lips curved and I huffed. “Okay, great, thanks. Now, back to work.”
Lane’s jaw fell open.
A curl of amusement crept onto Dev’s face.
Cole appeared even more infuriated.
Lane somehow went paler. “Wh-what?”
“I’ve got a ton of work,” I told him, “and you say bitch like it’s a bad thing.” I transferred my gaze to Cole and Dev. “All of you are acting like it’s the worst insult in the world.” I laughed. “Believe me, I’ve been called worse.”
“It’s unacceptable,” Dev said, and I loved the guy for it.
But this was also the way of the world.
Most men despised strong women. We were told to smile or look happy or be fine with the scraps they tossed our way. If I’d had an issue with men calling me a bitch, I would have quit this male-dominated field ten years ago when I’d been a lowly assistant like Lane and my boss had been a lot worse than a bitch.
But I hadn’t.
I’d put my head down, got my shit done.
And I’d learned to not give two craps when a man thought I was a bitch.
Because it had become my anthem.
When I negotiated my client to have equivalent perks in their contract, I was a bitch.
When I demanded a different client have access to the same off-season training as the rest of the team, I was a bitch.
When I secured a bonus that was similar to the rest of the big names on the roster, I was a bitch.
So, fine.
I was a bitch.
Great. Congrats. Moving on.
—Get your copy at www.books2read.com/DottedLine
Action Shot
Love, Camera, Action #2
Get your copy at books2read.com/ActionShot
“You’re Artie.” Pierce Daniels, the aforementioned handsome, young director, answered his own question and sat in the chair opposite me.
