Cougar (Chauvinist Stories Book 2)

by Elise Faber

  Another warm smile. “Vacation.” A beat. “And a man.”

  I grinned.

  “What about you?”

  “Work.” I paused then figured, what the hell. “And a man.”

  Beverly laughed and clapped her hands. “I love it when I’m right. Okay, okay, tell me everything. How’d you meet him? What does he look like? Is he loaded?”

  “He does okay,” I said. “But I think I probably have been around longer.” I grinned at her perplexed look. “I produce films for a living.”

  Her eyes widened. “Anything I’ve seen?”

  I named a few of my more popular films.

  Those eyes went wider. “Wow. I’ve never met a real-life movie star before.”

  I grinned. “Definitely not a star. I just present the stories to the actors and directors. They’re the ones who bring them to life.”

  “It’s still amazing,” Beverly gushed. “How did you get into it?”

  The truth burned a hole in the back of my mind, but I forced my lips to curve up into a smile. “I got lucky.” A beat. “And worked hard.”

  Beverly patted my arm. “I bet you did,” she murmured, and I frowned briefly at the tone, but then she began talking again, quicker and more enthusiastically. “Okay, that was work, so now I want to know the really juicy bits. Who’s the man?”

  I shook my head. “It’s silly and really new. I’m—” I sighed. “Truthfully, I’m not even sure what we are. Dating? Boyfriend-girlfriend?” Lovers? More? I thought, though didn’t say that aloud. “I just know that I’ve never really been interested in more than temporaries with a man . . . until Pierce.”

  Lips curved up. “Based on the blush on your face, I’m guessing he’s attractive?”

  “The most gorgeous man I’ve seen in my lifetime,” I said.

  “Is he an actor?” Beverly asked. “They tend to be . . .”

  “On the pretty end of the spectrum?” I said with a smile, to which she nodded. “Not an actor. A director and brilliantly talented.”

  “Should I repeat my previous question and ask if he’s made anything I might have seen?”

  I laughed. “Sure. And yes, if you’ve seen or heard of—” I named Pierce’s huge box office superhero film.

  “Really?”

  I nodded. “Really.”

  “Wow,” she said. “A power couple in the making.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I replied as the plane hit the runway with a bump, both of us fighting the lean forward as we came to a halting stop. The next few minutes were spent taxiing to the gate then gathering our things—another perk of first-class flying meant we got off the plane quickly.

  “Well, it was nice to meet you,” I said as we went our separate ways.

  “You too, Artemis,” Beverly said, smiling widely up at me. “Meeting you just absolutely made my week.”

  It wouldn’t be until later that I found out why exactly I’d made Beverly’s week.

  And it broke my heart.

  Eighteen

  Pierce

  It was an entirely different animal working with Artie on set.

  I felt her presence the whole day.

  Not in a frustrating or oppressive way, but my body was very much in tune with the fact that she was there, and she was close, and . . . I couldn’t touch her yet.

  She’d arrived on set that evening, when we’d still had several hours left to shoot, and had been totally professional. Friendly, curious about how things were going, but also distant.

  Which hadn’t been a surprise, exactly.

  Our relationship wasn’t public and on set, the film had to come first.

  Hadn’t meant I wasn’t aching to tug her into a private corner and kiss her until she lost all control and tried to climb me like a tree again.

  Instead, I was forced to content myself with a kiss on her cheek and a quick hug before we got back to work. The shot list that evening was going to be a tough one, balancing the need for enough light to show what Eden was doing—in this case ferreting secret messages to the Allied forces during World War II along a rugged coastline that was supposed to replicate France, because we didn’t have the budget to shoot in both France and Scotland. She’d have several scenes hiding from pursuers, a few more in frantically preparing messages, and an emotional one where she had to leave behind a friend who’d helped her.

  Later in the week there would be a water scene, my heroine being picked up by Nazi forces, just after she safely sends a message with their next Allied targets enclosed, and the viewer would be left wondering what happened to our hero as the Allied troops scrambled to get into position to meet their foes.

  Spoiler alert—she’d be rescued by the friend she’d been forced to leave behind, and both would return safely back to Scotland.

  But those scenes would be filmed in two weeks.

  Tonight was fleeing and hiding and transcribing by torchlight.

  The only thing I was looking less forward to was the boat scene.

  Still, we managed to get through them with minimal takes and Rhonda, Artie’s suggestion for director of cinematography, did a fabulous job of capturing the wonderful acting Eden was giving. The scenes were beautiful, the tension palpable, the leaving of her friend heartbreaking.

  I was immensely proud of our team, but we were all exhausted and ready for the day tomorrow . . . or well, for the rest of that day.

  The next call time would be a full twenty-six hours from now, and I fully intended to spend them in Artie’s hotel room.

  Wrapping up only took me another fifteen minutes, and I looked around for Artie as I headed for my car, feeling disappointment sweep over me when I didn’t spot her anywhere. We hadn’t made plans to meet up, and it was late, after she’d had a full day of travel. She’d probably gone back to the hotel and was catching up on much-needed sleep.

  Which I’d been hoping to do.

  With her.

  Sighing, I tugged open the driver’s door and collapsed into the seat. One movement to turn on the ignition, the next to buckle in.

  “Hey.”

  I jumped.

  Nothing to explain it away. I startled and whirled in the seat, spinning to see Artie sitting next to me, legs primly crossed, hands folded neatly on top of a set of files in her lap.

  But her smile was anything but prim.

  “You ready to put those superior oral skills to the test?” Her teeth nibbled at the corner of her mouth. “Or maybe you’re too tired.”

  I grinned. “I don’t think I’ll ever be too tired for that.”

  “Good.” Her eyes darted from side to side when I just continued to stare at her. “Um. Are we going to go?”

  My hand came up, cupping her cheek and running my thumb across the silky skin of her jaw. “You’re beautiful.”

  Her eyes dropped.

  “Missed you.”

  Pretty blue eyes back on mine. “We’re new.”

  For once, I wasn’t on that same wavelength. “What do you mean, sweetheart?”

  “I—um—well, don’t you think it’s a little early to be really missing me? I mean, we haven’t really even been on a date yet.”

  “You’ve met my family,” I countered.

  “Still not a date.”

  I slid my hand down her throat, her arm, linking our fingers together and squeezing lightly. “Well, in that case, I guess I owe you a date.”

  Her head shook. “That’s not what I meant,” she said quickly. “I—”

  “I know.” A beat. “But we’ve been working toward this for more than half a decade, I think that means we can agree to miss each other when we’re not together.”

  She traced her thumb over the back of my hand. “I do like talking to you on the phone.”

  “How many dates does that put us at if we consider more than five years of me pining and all the text and phone calls over the last few weeks?”

  “Three,” she said.

  “Three?” I repeated, eyes wide.


  Her smile was sultry. “Yup. Three,” she affirmed. “Because I heard that’s the magic number for women to put out.” Chagrin crept into the edges of that grin. “Well, women who don’t put out on the first date, that is.”

  “I seem to remember you saying that age is just a number at some point.” I squeezed her hand lightly and reached for the gear shift. “Shouldn’t that number attitude also apply to dating?”

  She considered that as I pulled away from the set and onto the road. “I’ll concede the point.”

  “Victory is mine!” I said, adding my best evil laughter for effect.

  “Oh lord,” she muttered. “A younger man. What have I gotten myself into?”

  “Superior oral skills and boundless energy?”

  Her lips curved. “Oh, yeah. That.” A blip of quiet. “How soon until we’ll be back at the hotel?”

  I pressed the accelerator down just a bit more firmly.

  The next few days passed in a blur of filming and fucking.

  Ha.

  My two favorite things.

  But by the weekend, the entire crew had one final day off before the last push to finish up the movie. I was thrilled with how the dailies were looking, and it was beyond amazing working with Artie on a project like this. She was an excellent producer. I’d known that, of course, solely from reputation and how we’d worked together during the lead up to filming, but it was a different animal altogether when it came down to being with someone day in and day out, navigating stressful circumstances.

  Artie seemed to take it all in stride.

  When our lead, Eden, had a breakdown, she took her off to the side so they could talk it out.

  When the local police came out, unhappy that the crew’s equipment was in a field—even though it had been permitted and preapproved by the council—she handled it with aplomb, charming the officers with craft services, and giving the chief constable a cameo in the film.

  When it rained for two days straight, we sat together and reworked the schedule so we could get what we needed in the minimum amount of time in the elements.

  It was easy.

  She wasn’t one of those producers that took over or micromanaged or threw hissy fits because she didn’t agree with someone else’s vision. She trusted the people she’d put in place, and she complimented the process as a whole.

  But tonight was our final day off before we headed down the home stretch, and I was going to make it count.

  With a date.

  I grinned and towel-dried my hair, having slipped back to my room for a quick shower and to change while Artie had been on a conference call.

  I knew she’d been teasing about me owing her a date, but it was true that our courtship had been anything but . . . courtship. We’d fallen into bed, had limited contact, then had slowly built a friendship. Then my family had cornered her in the airport, and we’d jumped into . . . something intense. So, no, we hadn’t had a first date, but this was an oversight I intended to remedy.

  First with flowers. Then with a gift—and not jewelry because while my girl did have a certain appreciation for all things sparkly and gem-related, based on what I’d seen her wearing at awards shows and industry events over the years, I also knew that wasn’t the way to her heart.

  I picked up the bouquet of flowers and the envelope with the script I’d scored the rights to, shoved my cell and wallet into my pockets, then headed back out of my room, feeling lighter than I had in years.

  First, I was working on a project I was really excited about.

  Second, I was working on that with Artemis.

  Third, we were going on a date that would hopefully make her smile.

  Tucking the envelope under my arm, I knocked softly at her door. She answered, eyes warm, phone still on speaker in the background. I handed her the flowers and she took them, blowing me a kiss. Hesitating on the threshold, I mime-asked if I should leave, but she shook her hand and waved me in, holding up two fingers and mouthing, “Two more minutes.”

  Moving to the bed, I sat on its edge, trying to get my mind off the fact that I’d put my so-called oral skills to work on it just that morning. This was not about that. It was about giving Artie what she deserved.

  And also, not to be all woo-woo-my-feelings-are-so-important, but it was also about allowing myself to have what I deserved and wanted.

  Six years ago, I’d felt like I’d had the greatest treasure in the world only to have it torn away. Now I was getting a chance to build something with the woman I’d been in love with practically since the moment she’d given me the first shovelful of sass and definitely since she’d given me the book whose adaptation we were currently filming.

  We both needed slow.

  Me to trust that she wouldn’t retreat again.

  Her to trust that she didn’t need to.

  And for that, we got a date—or well, hopefully the first of many dates when our schedules allowed for them. But for tonight, it was about us and eating good food and laughing and talking and—

  “Awfully serious after such a good day,” came a husky voice in my ear.

  I shivered, turned to press a kiss to her jaw. “You call being stuck outside in the driving rain a good day?”

  “When we capture what we did,” she said, weaving her hands into my hair, “then yes.”

  Shifting my head slightly, she kissed me and just like every other time our mouths touched, all the thoughts disappeared from my mind. I could only focus on her floral scent surrounding me, her soft lips against mine, the slight sting from her fingernails against my scalp.

  She pressed me down onto the mattress.

  And I wasn’t going to lie, it wasn’t like I was trying very hard to stop her.

  A hot handful of Artie on top of me? Yeah, I’d take that every time.

  Her palms slid down to my chest, worked at the buttons of the shirt I’d put on, all while her pelvis moved against mine and her tongue was deep in my mouth. I reached down to grip her hips then winced when the back of my hand was jabbed by something sharp.

  The envelope.

  The date.

  A very sexy and turned-on Artie.

  We could—

  I mentally smacked myself on the back of my head in a move that was very similar to what my mom would have done if she’d been there and slowed the kiss, pushing us both back up to sitting.

  “What?” she said, pulling back slightly.

  “As much as I like kissing you,” I said. “I wanted to give you something.”

  “Besides the flowers?” she asked.

  I nodded, extracted the slightly crumpled, but still mostly intact envelope out from under my hips, and handed it to her.

  Brows pulling together, she took it, her eyes searching mine as she opened the flap and extracted the script.

  Nerves suddenly hit, and hard. I remembered that she couldn’t stand a lot of my films, even though I adored and had learned so many things from the projects she’d done, from the way she managed to make films that always captured elements of the characters that made them distinctly human and yet distinctively captivating.

  I thought she might like this one.

  But what if it was shit?

  She’d given me Carrot, and I’d give her . . . manure.

  I resisted the urge to snag it from her hands. “You probably won’t like it,” I said. “I just thought . . . anyway, you don’t have to—”

  Her finger dropped to my lips. “Shh.”

  “The physical stuff is easy,” she murmured, stroking her hand lightly over the top sheet of the script. “It’s all the rest of it, that’s scary.”

  I sucked in a breath.

  She rested her hand on my thigh. “I know you’ve been the one to make a lot of the big leaps, dragging me along next to you in tiny baby steps, but I’m in this, Pierce. I’m not saying I’m not scared my past will affect us or that I’ll panic and ruin things. I’m not sure I can live my life in something that isn’t temporary. But I also know that I
never even understood that I might be missing out on something by living in temporaries until I met you.”

  “Sweetheart.”

  She shushed me again. “I might as well get this all out. I knew the moment you strolled into that meeting six years ago that you were different. I knew that you could burrow in, could be dangerous, and yet I still took your hand and brought you back to my apartment.” Her lips twitched. “I ran afterward, of course. Because I’m good at running, good at avoiding everything by just keeping my head down and working and working and working. But you were always there, Pierce. I fought so hard to make it just friends between us because I knew that you had the potential for more, and I was”—a sharp breath—“still am terrified.”

  “I’d be lying if I didn’t say I wasn’t terrified right along with you,” I told her, wrapping my arms around her and tugging her close. I bit back the words, the fact that I wanted to tell her that I loved her so fucking much. This wasn’t the time to press further. This was my chance to bolster her, to support the fact that she’d put it all out there and had made herself vulnerable.

  “Words of comfort,” she quipped, nuzzling my throat.

  “Words of truth,” I said. “And that’s how we’ll move forward. Slow and easy and with honesty. If something’s not working, we talk about it.”

  “And what do we do when our schedules make it so we can’t?” she asked. “I’ve seen couples who have a hell of a lot fewer problems than we have not make it because they’re apart too much.”

  There was a lot to unpack in that statement.

  “First,” I said. “What are all these problems that we’re having?”

  She leaned back, began ticking off on fingers. “Our ages, for one. Our backgrounds, for another. The fact that we work in such an insane place as Hollywood. Temptations on film sets. Pressure and budgets and—”

  “So, work is your major concern.” I didn’t touch the age thing yet.

  A sigh then, “Yes, I guess it is.”

  “Have you ever had an on-set romance?” I asked and when she shook her head, I chuckled. “Me neither. Because I tend to leave those to the actors.”

  “That’s not to say—”