by S. M. West
“Glad to hear it.” He waltzes to the other side of the desk. “How are things with Pru Edwards?”
On my way to the door, I falter. Why’s he asking? How could he possibly know she was the cause of my distraction?
“Uh, the language coach?” I stumble over the words, failing to come off nonplussed.
“Yeah, the blonde hottie.” He waggles his eyebrows, and my jaw clenches at his inappropriate comment, no matter its truth.
“Things are great. We went over our first scene yesterday, and I have my next session right now.” I grab the knob, easing the door open.
“Okay. Let me know if it’s not working or anything.”
“What do you mean?” A knot forms in the pit of my stomach and I turn to face him.
“She’s never worked in film or coached anyone before. I’m not sure she’s right for the job, but for the time being…”
“What? She’s doing a great job.”
He glances at me, eyebrows arched and gaze sharpening. Did the worry in my tone, concern for her job, betray me and reveal my interest?
“Really? Isn’t it too early to tell?”
“I guess.” I shrug like I don’t give a fuck.
If only that were true. I’m unsure if I can focus and produce good work with her around and yet, here I am, trying to ensure she doesn’t go anywhere. What the hell?
“But isn’t it too early to write her off?” I slip on a bored tone and try to relax.
“Maybe, but I’d started the search for a replacement when…” His face resembles a guilty man’s expression.
He’s the reason the last dialect coach quit. He had an affair with Alina, or so the story goes, and cheated. When she found out, she left. Bryce, the hypocrite, then had the audacity to lecture the entire cast and crew about not shitting where we eat.
“Well, I don’t want to delay filming, so we’ve got Pru for now.” He folds his arms over his chest.
“Does that make sense?”
“What?”
“Getting rid of her.” I run a hand through my hair, trying not to come off as challenging even though that’s exactly what I’m doing. “I mean, we’re establishing a rapport with her, and we start filming soon. You’re just going to switch her out?”
I’m talking out of my ass since this is my first time working with a coach. For all I know, Pru could be terrible at it, but he should at least give her a chance.
“Maybe.” He shrugs. “Maybe not. We’ll see. Just let me know if you’re having any problems. I want you and Tristan to nail your scenes.”
“Got it.” I turn away from him, coming face to face with a tall, willowy brunette.
“Hello.” Her red lips slide upward into a smile, and she extends her hand. “Eli Lansing, I’m Whitney Carmichael. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Ah, yes, the star factor. This woman reeks of a New York socialite, living off her family’s wealth, or her husband’s if the easily six-carat rock on her ring finger is any indication.
“Ms. Carmichael. Pleasure to meet you too.”
Carmichael? Any relation to Bryce? And as if reading my mind or needing to remind us he’s present, the director harshly clears his throat.
I peer over my shoulder at him, and the intense displeasure emanating from his narrowed stare causes my hackles to rise until I realize his annoyance isn’t aimed at me. This woman, whoever she is to him, isn’t welcome.
“Whit, what are you doing here?” His jaw is clenched so tight his lips hardly move.
In a blink, her congenial demeanor morphs into a haughty sneer, and she tips her chin upward. “I told you we needed to talk.”
“We spoke on the phone this morning.” Hands fisted at his side, he rounds the desk. “I told you I’d look into it. There was no need for you to come down here.”
“Looking into it,” she uses a mocking tone to mimic his words, “isn’t good enough. I want you to take care of it. Pru Ed—”
“Enough!” His finger shoots out at her, pointing in a way to suggest she dare not utter another word, let alone move or breathe.
Whitney fails to stifle a gasp of air from rushing past her open mouth. Eyes wide, her shocked gaze slices to me as if she’s grateful I’m here. Bryce wouldn’t hurt her, would he?
“Eli, you can leave.” His tone brooks no room for misunderstanding.
I hesitate, not wanting to leave. While I’ve no idea what I’m in the middle of, I’m more than curious to know what she was going to say about Pru. Is it related to Bryce’s question to me about the new dialect coach? And if so, why?
And judging from Whitney’s tone, she doesn’t like Pru. At all.
8
Eli
Don’t tell me you forgot
Reluctantly, I slide past Whitney as she runs a hand down her Armani dress while offering me another smile. Although this time, it’s strained and doesn’t reach her eyes.
I pause just outside the door, wondering what would happen if I left it open. Could I get away with eavesdropping?
Yes, this is what I’ve stooped to for a woman I barely know, and while it’s wrong, I don’t shut the door. But it doesn’t matter because Bryce orders Whitney to do so, and the second she does, raised yet faint voices seep into the hallway.
They’re bickering, and regrettably, I can’t make out a word of it. Tense and frustrated from the conversation and tired from the night before, I leave. Last night was a long one.
Once back at my trailer, Pru’s there, and I smile as something loosens in my chest. “Hi, sorry to keep you waiting.”
Today, she’s more casual in a summer dress and ballet flats. She looks great and more relaxed. “Hi. That’s okay. I wasn’t waiting long. Do you want to get started?”
“Sure, but before we do…” I hesitate, not really giving thought to what I’m doing.
Generally, I make it a point to stay out of things that don’t concern me. Pru’s career isn’t my business. But I can’t shake the urge to warn her about Bryce, protect her. And even mention Whitney Carmichael.
It’s crazy. I hardly know the woman, and looking out for her isn’t my place. Yet, if it were me, I would want to know.
He asked me for feedback on her abilities which means he’s probably done the same with Tristan. My co-star’s a good guy and won’t have any problems with Pru, but he also isn’t the type to stick his neck out for anyone.
If Bryce wants to get rid of her, Tristan isn’t going to speak up. And neither should I if I know what’s good for me. But I’m not the kind of person to play it safe if someone’s being wronged. And I’m not about to start now.
“Eli?” My name on her lips pulls me back to the here and now. “What are you talking about?”
“Bryce might be looking to replace you.”
“What?” Worry mars her features. “He said that? Why?”
“Not in so many words. He’s concerned you’re new to all this.”
She nods, eyes downcast, and now, she’s pacing.
“Hey, he might not do anything, but I thought you should be aware.”
Her gaze snaps to me. “Thank you. He’s right. I haven’t done this before and from the sounds of it, he isn’t willing to give me a chance.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, is this job your way of getting into film?”
“No.” She chuckles. “I’m not in the least bit interested in movies or anything entertainment related. This is temporary. I’m kind of in between careers right now. And if Bryce lets me go, well…it won’t be the first time.”
She strolls over to the table where she left her things and plops into the chair, muttering, “I might be making a habit of getting fired.”
“Fired?”
“Never mind. Let’s get to work.”
“Before we do, when I left his office, Whitney Carmichael came to talk to him.”
She stiffens and her lips flatten as if this news upsets her, but she remains silent.
“Do you know her?” I push. “She
mentioned you by name.”
“Yes. She’s Ross Carmichael’s wife.” She must see the questions on my face and continues, “Ross is my ex-business partner and Bryce’s brother. That’s how I was introduced to Bryce and this opportunity.”
“I see. You seem troubled by this news about Whitney. Do you want to talk about it?”
“No. But thank you for telling me. I appreciate it. Let’s get to work.” Picking up the script, she dives in where we left off yesterday.
After an hour or so, I suggest we act out the scene in character, not just run the lines. Despite my sense of her anxiety, she agrees, and I walk her through the scene and character motive before we start.
The scene is intimate and poignant, a turning point in the movie, where my character reminds the leading lady, his wife, why they’re good together.
Once Pru delivers her line of rebuttal, I advance on her and she tries to retreat but has nowhere to go. Her back hits the wall, and her deep blue eyes smolder as her rose-red lips part.
Electricity flows through my body at our proximity, sending shivers up my spine. It’s hard to remember this isn’t real. We’re acting.
My head bends, bringing our lips close for the scripted kiss. Fervently anticipating her taste, I lick my lips.
“Ah, no.” She flattens a hand with hypnotizing, black-painted fingernails on the center of my chest.
The pads of her fingertips push hard against my muscles, and my balls tighten. She wants space between us, and I resist, wanting nothing between us.
“We aren’t doing this.” Her voice wavers, weakening her conviction.
“Why not?” I hold up the script, not budging with less than a foot between us. “It’s just acting.”
We’re so close that her shudder sends a ripple through my chest, and she tenses. “We don’t need to act out everything from the scene.”
I don’t miss the way her pulse throbs at the base of her neck. She’s rattled, and if I were to go out on a limb, it has nothing to do with the movie and everything to do with me. Everything to do with how close we are.
“Practice makes perfect.” One corner of my mouth twitches upward.
“You’re a good actor.” Her delivery suggests I’m acting right now. “You don’t need the practice.”
“Well, thanks.” My tone is dry. “Although I don’t know how much weight the compliment holds, seeing as you’ve never seen me act before.”
She purses her lips and squeezes her arms between us to cross them. It’s defensive, and her forearms press against my chest. We hold each other’s gaze, and I lean into her heat, her scent. Amused, her lips slightly part but she remains soundless.
“Come on,” my voice is a soft growl of insistence, and she shakes her head. “Why not?”
“Because.”
I lower my head and voice. “We’ve already slept together unless you’ve forgotten. Don’t tell me you forgot.”
To give her the much-desired space, I inch backward and bring my hand to the center of my chest as if to protect my heart.
“Like I could,” she mutters under her breath.
“What was that?” Teasing, I tilt my head to one side, giving her my ear.
“You heard me. I’m not about to repeat it. You already have thousands of adoring fans. You don’t need your ego stroked.”
“Ah, that would be millions.” I wink.
“Whatever.”
“Come on, Pru.” I capture a chunk of her golden, chin-length hair and thread it around my finger.
It’s a mistake.
How did I think I could go through life without touching her again?
Her glossy strands glide between my fingers, and the raw intensity of my desire for her surprises me. My body closes the gap and so many parts of me brush against her.
Her arms drop to her sides but hands hover, close to my waist, and her fingers curl and straighten as if fighting the urge to latch on to my body.
To touch me.
Do it.
I lower my head, and she glances up at me. Our lips are so close, just another breath…
“Hey, Eli.” Tristan bursts in, stopping short at the sight of us pressed against each other, and stares. “Ah, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
But that’s exactly what he did, and oddly enough that’s what his character does in the same scene in the movie too.
Grudgingly, I tear myself away, now about two feet from Pru. “Tristan, we’re in the middle of a scene.”
“Oh? Is that what they’re calling it these days?” He’s sarcastic, eyes glittering with glee at catching us with our hands in the cookie jar.
Pru slips out from between the wall and my body, maintaining eye contact with Tristan the entire time. Bold—and I like it.
She isn’t letting his arrival embarrass her. Good. Neither of us have anything to be embarrassed about.
“What did you want?” I’m terse and frustrated.
He saunters in like he owns the place, winking at Pru as he drops to the sofa. “I thought it’d be cool for us to run through the scene once.” He has the script curled into a cylindrical shape and waves it around like a wand.
“We’ve only gotten started.” I drop my script onto the table and pull out a chair. “I think it’s too early for that.”
“Sure, but Pru and I had a great session yesterday. I want to get a sense for how we’re going to work together.” What is he talking about? We’ve already filmed countless scenes together.
“I just—” I start, but she places her hand on my forearm and says, “I think what Eli is getting at, and I agree, is each of you need a little more time with the material.”
He’s about to object, and anticipating this, she sits next to him on the couch. “Let’s you and I go through it a few more times tomorrow and same for Eli, with the goal of running through the scene on Friday?”
Her calm, collaborative tone works on him. He nods, grinning like it was his idea. “Cool.”
I steal a glance at Pru, who’s worrying her bottom lip while scanning the script. Tristan isn’t going anywhere. We were near kissing before the interruption. She was no longer fighting the attraction between us.
What am I doing?
We agreed to keep things professional, not to recreate the night at The Salon. This is business, and I need to remember that. What’s most important is what’s good for the film and my career.
Besides, no matter how hot Pru is, or how freaking amazing the chemistry is between us, a one-night stand isn’t lasting. Something that spectacularly red-hot is bound to fizzle out fast or blow up in our faces.
I want a long-term relationship. I went on a flipping date last night, even if there wasn’t a goodnight kiss. I need to be doing more than that.
Then why do I want to put a hold on dating altogether? Why can’t I stop thinking about having more with Pru?
9
Pru
The fledgling
“Aw, come on, P.” Tristan springs another panty-melting smile on me, or at least I imagine most would toss their unmentionables. “Kiss me.”
Don’t get me wrong, he deserves all the admiration when it comes to his looks, but he doesn’t affect me.
“No.” I stomp my foot to emphasize my decline.
Undeterred, he leans toward me, and I spring from the stool, fleeing to the other side so as to put the kitchen counter between us.
“You kissed Eli, and I’m a much better kisser, better actor…well, better everything.” His eyes gleam with utter delight. Confident and unapologetic.
“Ah, no.” I roll my eyes, deflecting any signs of the truth. “I didn’t let Eli kiss me.”
Complete lie.
Well, we didn’t kiss last week in his trailer, which is what Tristan’s referring to, but Eli has kissed me before.
And, oh boy, what a kiss. Or more like kisses.
If Tristan didn’t interrupt us…there would have been a repeat. My body trembles at the memory—the close call. I’m not so sure
I’d have been able to stop at just a kiss.
“Pru,” Tristan says my name as a husky plea, and I vigorously shake my head.
My lack of attraction to him makes my firm resolve easy, but he won’t give up easily. His ego is ten times the size of the Statue of Liberty, and he can’t possibly fathom a woman turning him down.
“Tristan, I’m not the talent, and like I told Eli, I’m not acting out anything. Do you hear me? Anything.”
He chortles, eyes shining and thoroughly enjoying our banter, and I shove the script into my bag. Time to leave. It’s Friday, and the second week of the job is almost over. I now have a two-hour session with Eli and then I’m done.
Our session is later than I’d like given we’re only hours from the start of a weekend, but I don’t have a say in that. I just do as I’m told.
All things considered, things are going well, or at least, I think so. As for Bryce and what he thinks of how I’m doing, who knows.
We haven’t talked since my first day. Since then we’ve exchanged nods and obligatory smiles once or twice, but that’s it. Who knows if he still plans on getting rid of me.
“Okay, Tristan, I’ll see you Monday. Have a good weekend.”
“Hey, what are you doing tonight?”
Unease and tension creep into my shoulders. This guy has no boundaries, and I don’t even want to guess where this question is headed.
“Um, I’ve got plans with a friend.” I’m casual, continuing toward the door.
“Oh. Is it a date?” He flirts, letting loose another killer smile. “Or is it something where another friend could tag along?”
“It isn’t a date, but what are you getting at?” I could have lied, but that’s not my style. My life is mine, and I don’t make any excuses for who I am.
His intentions are clear, and I haven’t made up my mind as to how to respond. He wants to join Harley and me tonight. Ugh.
I don’t like attention, and if he comes with us, even if it’s for drinks at a quiet bar uptown, Tristan Kingsley is going to draw a crowd.