by Ember Casey
Crap, I think, bending down and praying it isn’t broken. Karen will kill me if it is.
Unfortunately, Christian bends over at the same time. I pull back just short of banging my head against his, but that just leaves us awkwardly close to each other, face-to-face as we’re both halfway crouched.
If this were a romantic comedy—and if I weren’t head-over-heels lusting after Orlando—this would be the moment where the music swelled and our eyes sparkled and we both knew we were destined to be in love. Instead, it’s just incredibly awkward. Especially considering the strange way Christian is looking at me.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “I didn’t see you there.”
“That’s okay. I wasn’t looking either.”
Christian reaches out to help me up, and I take his hand gratefully. Every woman knows that straightening from a crouch in heels is the hardest leg workout known to mankind. I wobble slightly, but Christian is there, steadying me.
And suddenly Orlando is there, too. With fury in his eyes.
He’s not furious with me, though. Instead, all that anger is focused on Christian. If looks could kill, then Christian Tremont would be on the ground, bleeding from a dozen stab wounds. And also on fire.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Orlando demands.
Christian, no surprise, just blinks at him in confusion. “What?”
“I asked what you were doing,” Orlando repeats, his voice hard. “I thought I made my policy about flirting very clear.”
Flirting? Christian and I haven’t even said two words to each other. Who the hell is flirting?
Christian seems to think the whole thing just as ridiculous. He actually laughs.
“Look, Orlando,” he says calmly. “We just bumped into each other, that’s all.”
His flippancy seems to make Orlando even angrier. “I warned you, Christian. I told you what sort of behavior I expected. And yet you still—”
“He’s telling the truth,” I cut in before Orlando jumps to any more conclusions. “We just bumped into each other and I dropped the tablet.” Which, I see with relief, appears completely unharmed.
Maybe it’s my words—or my sudden grip on Orlando’s arm—but his eyes soften. Slightly. It takes him a minute to compose himself, though, and when he does, his murderous look has been downgraded to a mere glare.
“You need to be more careful,” Orlando tells the other man. “Pay attention to your surroundings. I won’t have you running over the other actors.” He glances at me. “I’m sure Ms. Blankenship would like an apology.”
I shake my head. “Really, I’m fi—”
“Apologize to her,” Orlando orders the other man.
Christian still looks confused. But as his gaze passes from Orlando to me, understanding seems to flicker in his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Blankenship,” he says, as calmly as ever. “I’ll be more careful in the future.” His eyes drop to the tablet in my hands. “And I’ll pay for the tablet if it’s broken in any way.” If he’s upset by any of this, he doesn’t show it. If anything, he looks…curious.
“Good,” Orlando replies, but a flame continues to flicker in his eyes. One of his hands still grips my arm, and he seems to realize it at the same time I realize I’m still gripping his. We both drop our hands simultaneously.
“I’m going to go grab some lunch,” Christian says. He strides off as if he doesn’t have a care in the world, leaving Orlando and me alone by the windows.
I’m not really good in situations like this. And by “situations like this” I mean “occasions where my super-hot celebrity crush is telling off a guy for accidentally touching me.” Because, you know, things like this don’t usually happen to girls like me. There’s no playbook for these sorts of things.
Finally, I settle on being indignant. It only seems appropriate. I prop my hands on my hips and turn to face him head-on.
“What the hell was all that about?” I demand in an aggressive whisper.
Orlando looks slightly abashed—but only slightly. And his eyes still bear that startling intensity as he stares me down.
“I’m protecting you,” he says, keeping his voice as low as mine. “I made it clear to every member of the cast and crew that I wouldn’t tolerate behavior like Ford’s, not from anyone.”
“Did you honestly think Christian was trying something with me?” I demand. “Those were the first words he said to me all day!”
“I wasn’t going to take any chances,” he replies. “Not with this.”
“Why did you even hire him if you thought he was capable of what Ford did?” I ask. “Or are the two of you not actually friends like everyone says?”
“I have no idea what ‘everyone’ is saying.” He frowns. “But I wouldn’t have called him in if I thought he’d cross any lines. But—”
“Then you’re just jealous.” I cross my arms. “Is that it? You don’t want any other man to talk to me?”
The resulting flash in his eyes makes me suspect I’m pretty dang close to the mark. It’s all I can do not to burst out laughing.
“You’re jealous,” I say, more sure of myself this time. If he’s jealous, that means something. “I don’t know why. You know you can have me whenever you want.”
There’s another flash in his eyes, only this one sends a delicious jolt of anticipation through me.
“Don’t tempt me, Maggie,” he growls. “You know why I can’t.”
He draws himself up straight, as if with great effort, and forcibly relaxes the muscles in his arms and shoulders. His jaw remains rigid, though, as if he can’t quite ease all the tension in his body. He glances over his shoulder, making sure no one is close enough to overhear.
“While I have you here…” he says, dropping his voice even more. “Yesterday was fun, but I shouldn’t have let that happen.”
“I didn’t mind,” I tell him sweetly.
“Mind it or not, it can’t happen again. Not during this production. And before you say anything, I’m not letting you quit. We just need to establish some boundaries.”
The only one worried about boundaries is him. But I want to respect his decision.
“Do what you think is best,” I tell him. “But you know where I stand on this.” Hopefully my actions have made it clear enough.
The look he gives me confirms it.
“You’re not going to make this easy on me, are you?” he says.
I shrug. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
He shakes his head, but there’s humor in his expression.
“I have work to do,” he tells me. “You should grab some lunch while you have the chance.” His words are dismissive, but there’s something in his eyes—a promise—that makes me smile.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll see you later.”
I sense him watching me walk away, but no matter how much I want to—and I really, really want to—I don’t let myself look back. I’m enjoying this sense of power I feel around him.
I’d enjoy it more if he weren’t stuck on that stupid rule of his, I think. After the last couple of days, though, I’m wondering if it would be very hard to wear him down. He’s made his desire known in a dozen ways, after all. Does he really have that much self-control?
Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I stop and glance back toward the crew. Orlando has already moved on, and he’s discussing something with one of his assistants. Another assistant jogs up and shoves a sandwich into his hand, which he takes without even glancing her way. He’s already switched back into director mode, already let his work consume him once more. Has he forgotten me again so quickly? Some of my feminine confidence from a moment ago deflates.
But then I feel guilty. Here I am, internally whining about the fact that Orlando Fontaine isn’t completely absorbed with me, while the poor guy is just trying to make his movie. He’s worked his whole life for this, and he’s pouring his heart and soul into this film, while I’m just standing here, selfishly thinking
about nothing beyond my own physical needs. What kind of girl am I?
Not the kind who’s worth risking a dream for, I remind myself. I have no real prospects in life, no savings account, and up until this week, no money coming in. I wish I could say I’m hot enough to make up for all of that, but it’s simply not true. Yeah, Orlando said I made him laugh. And he’s made it clear he would screw me if given the chance, but both of those things prove that I’m simply a diversion, a way to relieve a little stress.
Face flaming, I turn away and head over to the craft services table. How could I let myself think, even for a moment, that there was any more to this thing with Orlando than that? What right do I have to get impatient with a guy who, by all accounts, shouldn’t have given me a second glance in the first place?
As usual, the craft services table is piled with sandwiches, bags of chips, and pieces of fruit. I grab two bags of chips and a soda and turn to go outside. Unfortunately, that puts me right in the path of Christian Tremont.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I say, stopping just shy of running into him. “I should probably pay more attention to where I’m going, especially now.” I throw another glance in Orlando’s direction, but he’s still absorbed in his conversation. “And I apologize for what just happened.”
Christian’s gaze follows mine.
“Orlando gets a little intense during filming,” he says. “Don’t worry—I’m used to it by now. It’s one of the guy’s few faults.” Christian doesn’t sound the least bit bitter or angry. Maybe they’re good friends after all. “He doesn’t usually fly off the handle about little things like that, though.” His eyes return to me. “I’m curious—do you know anything about this no-flirting rule of his? He said there was an incident?”
“I’m sure the crew can tell you all sorts of rumors,” I say dismissively.
“Maybe,” Christian replies. “But I don’t know…I got the sense that it was a little more personal than that.” He raises his eyebrow in a question, and my already-pink face probably gets a few shades darker.
“I wouldn’t know,” I tell him.
“On the contrary, I think you do. I won’t press you, though.” His smile is friendly. “Orlando is a good man, but when he’s in the middle of a project, he’s married to his work. I’ve never seen him this distracted.”
“This is Orlando distracted?” I’d hate to see what he’s like when he’s focused.
Christian laughs. “Sometimes I think he’s two different people. When at home with his friends or family, he’s one of the friendliest people you’ll ever meet. But when he’s in the director’s chair, he’s like a mountain, hard and serious. It’s like night and day. This, though…” He gestures toward Orlando. “I don’t know what this is.”
He looks at me again. “I suspect you know something about that, too.”
“I’m just an extra,” I tell him.
“Maybe you are.” His smile reminds me that I’m not a very good actress. “Apparently you draw comics, too?”
“Huh?”
He points at the tablet I’m still holding.
Crap. I need to start remembering to erase this the moment we’re done shooting.
“It’s just some doodles I did between takes,” I tell him. He doesn’t need to witness the full exploits of Panty Girl.
“Funny, it reminded me of something.” He shrugs. “Well, my poor assistant is trying to wave me down. I’ll let you enjoy your lunch.” He gives me one more friendly smile before strolling off, and as I watch him walk away, I happen to glance back at Orlando. His brow is furrowed, his eyes dark as they follow his friend.
He can push me away all he wants, but he’s still jealous, I think with satisfaction. Maybe I can work with that.
Hope renewed, I grin and run off to find a place to eat my lunch and make a plan.
CHAPTER EIGHT
My approach ends up being fairly simple.
I avoid speaking with Orlando the rest of the day. Avoid even looking at him. As far as I’m concerned for the time being, he doesn’t even exist.
But I’m overly friendly with everyone else. I chat with the crew, even if it’s just asking about how certain pieces of equipment work. Between takes, I talk to Omar and Christian. Omar seems more interested in his phone than in holding a conversation, but Christian is willing to speak with me. He throws a few wary glances toward Orlando the first time, but to my disappointment—and Christian’s obvious relief—our director isn’t intending to charge over here every time a man talks to me, despite his earlier behavior.
Damn it, I think as Christian tells me about some upcoming project he’s excited about. I was hoping this would be enough. It’s really, really hard not to look around for Orlando, to see if he’s watching us. It would be encouraging if he were glaring or something.
As the day wears on, though, I’m forced to acknowledge that he’s not going to take the bait. And when we finally stop for the day and I finally risk a glance at him, he’s so deeply absorbed in a conversation with Karen that he doesn’t even seem to notice me walking by.
Well, that was a bust. Here I was, thinking he’d be cornering me in a broom closet by the end of the day, and instead I’ve only made it easier for him to ignore me. Good job, Panty Girl. Looks like you failed to save the day this time.
I’m in a sour mood when I get home, but thankfully Justin is out for dinner with some new girl he’s seeing. I heat up a frozen dinner in the microwave and then retreat to my room for the night. They don’t need me on set again for another few days. I’m just going to watch some bad TV and then go to sleep.
I’m getting comfortable on my bed when my phone rings. My heart stops when I recognize the number.
“Hey,” I say with forced casualness, propping the phone beneath my ear.
Orlando doesn’t bother with niceties. “You knew what you were doing today.”
“What do you mean?” I ask with feigned innocence.
“Maggie…”
“One minute you want me to back off, the next you’re upset I’ve been ignoring you. You’re sending me mixed signals, Mr. Fontaine.”
He sighs heavily. “You’re doing this to me on purpose.”
“If you’re that upset, you can always fire me.”
He pauses for a beat, and I wonder if he’s actually considering the idea.
“We can’t keep doing this,” he says finally.
“From where I’m standing, we haven’t done much of anything,” I point out. “And you’re the one who called me, not the other way around.”
He chuckles, though the sound is strained. “God, sometimes I wish I were a different man. One without principles.”
He sounds tortured enough that I start to feel bad again. Maybe I should end the call. Give him some peace.
But I’m not quite strong enough.
“We don’t have to do anything,” I tell him. “We can just talk.”
He actually seems surprised by that. “About what?”
“Anything. We could talk about Shakespeare.”
I can almost hear his smile. “Of course. But I warn you—once I get started, I could talk about Shakespeare all night.”
“I finished Henry VI, Part 3,” I tell him. “I loved it.”
“His best work,” Orlando says. “The Bard had a way with drama, didn’t he? Have you read or seen any of his other plays?”
With that opening, I launch into a spiel about my hatred of both Hamlet and Romeo and Juliet, and he tells me I need to read Cymbeline, one I’ve never even heard of even though the Complete Works of Shakespeare is still sitting right on my nightstand. Now that I’ve got him talking about his passion, he doesn’t want to stop—he tells me about his favorite passages of Shakespeare, the first time he ever saw Othello performed, even about one of his early screenplays that was based on Macbeth.
“But you don’t want to see that,” he adds with a laugh. “It was awful. Horrible. It’s better for everyone if that manuscript never sees the light of day. I�
��ll just leave the screenwriting to Dante.”
“You don’t think you’ll ever make a movie you wrote yourself?”
“I did. My very first film, actually. And it was not very well received.” There’s a tightness to his voice now. “I learned my lesson then. Sometimes you can just be too close to a script, and I’ve never been particularly good with words. I helped Cameron with the plot and story for Death and Deadly Night, but he did all the writing. He’s nearly as good as Dante, but don’t tell my brother that. Sometimes you just have to learn where your real talent lies. We can’t all be good at everything.”
“True.” I tug at the corner of my pillow. “Then I’ve got another question for you. Why didn’t you work with Dante for this movie? Or Luca? I’m pretty sure the whole world is dying for you and your brothers to do something together.”
He pauses much longer than usual, and I sit up a little straighter, worried. Did I say something wrong? Did I press too far?
But after a moment, Orlando sighs. “You’re not afraid of getting right to the heart of it, are you? Yeah, I admit that having my brothers involved with this film might have garnered it some additional buzz, but…I needed to do it on my own. My whole life I’ve been in the shadow of the rest of my family—not just my father, but my brothers, too. I don’t want a career like that. I want to be known as one of the great directors simply on my own merits. It might take years before I reach that point, but I will do it.”
And I don’t doubt for a second that he will. I can only sit here in stunned silence, soaking in his words. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone so alive, so driven. It’s like he’s vibrating at a frequency high above that of us ordinary folk, and just listening to him speak fills me with an energy I can’t name. The sort of energy that makes me want to climb mountains and swim across oceans and conquer the world. It’s amazing and overwhelming and I’ve never wanted him more than I do right now.
But I stifle that desire for the moment. I want him to keep talking. Orlando has other ideas, though.
“That’s enough about me,” he says. “Christian tells me you drew quite the comic on your tablet today.”
