by S. M. West
“You sit here.” She adjusts her headset, throwing a death glare at my phone, still in my hand. “And turn that thing off.”
Nodding, I close the email, regretting work and my obligations. All I want to do is find out as much as I can about the men named in the email.
Massive lights and cameras are everywhere, and in the middle is a bedroom except there’s no ceiling and one wall is missing. From one side, Sonia nears the bedroom with an assistant expertly running a makeup brush over her angular face and down her neck to the teasing vee of her cleavage.
A champagne silk robe hugs her curves, falling to midthigh and tightly cinching her slender waist. What scene in the movie is this?
Eli emerges from the shadows, and my mouth dries. My agitation at being here, the desire to investigate those men—all of it evaporates. Everything about him makes me dizzy and steals my breath.
He’s in loose lounge pants and is bare-chested, hair tousled and a five o’clock shadow on his chiseled jaw. Holy hell.
This is my first time seeing so much of him. Bronze skin and a light dusting of dark hair trails down his lower stomach to the waistband. Magnificent.
Sadly, we were near fully clothed at The Salon. But I’d felt his broad shoulders, hard pecs, and knotted abdominal muscles through his shirt.
And while my fingers now burn, almost reliving the feel of him under my touch, they also itch to do it all again. Skin on skin. The heat of his hard flesh under my hands. Stop it!
What am I doing? This is pure torture.
I drop my head into my hands and squeeze my eyes shut, wiping my mind clean of Eli. Once composed, I raise my head.
Bryce talks to both Sonia and Eli, and after a few minutes, he nods once, claps his hands together, and jogs over to a camera.
“Quiet on the set. Places,” someone calls, raising both hands. “Action.”
Silence falls upon the room, and Sonia lazily glides over to the edge of the bed before uttering her first words.
A dreadful queasiness threads through my stomach at the connection between her lines, the bedroom, and the script. Sonia and Eli make love in this scene.
No, this is acting. Martina and Adrian make love. I repeat this over and over in my head while the two of them kiss and their hands roam each other’s bodies.
Hot then cold rushes over me, and my breath stalls when Eli removes her robe. She’s wearing a lacy bra and thong, and it’s hard to watch even if they’re acting, but I make myself. This is part of the job.
And Eli is nothing to me. Nothing.
There are many takes. Too many. Bryce stops and starts the scene at various parts throughout, and by the end, I appreciate when actors say there is nothing sexual or intimate about love scenes. It’s painstakingly technical.
Bryce calls the scene, and assistants run onto the set, handing Sonia a robe and water. Another gives Eli a towel, and as he walks off the set, his gaze snags on me.
Altering his path, he comes to me. “Hey, were you here for the entire scene?”
He rubs the towel over his chest and the back of his neck, and I will my eyes to stay on his despite how much I want to traverse the glorious planes of his body.
“Yes. Bryce asked me to sit in. He thought it would be good for that first scene where Adrian and Daniel argue.”
He nods, grinning. Bryce then interrupts, “Good job, Eli.” He slaps him on the back and moves to take me by the elbow. “I need a word with Pru.”
“I’ll see you shortly, Pru.” Eli drops the towel to his side. “We have our coaching session in a few, right?”
“Yes.” I catch one more glimpse at him before the director drags me away.
“So, what did you think?” Bryce beams like someone high on life.
“It was fascinating.” Surprisingly, it was even with the countless takes.
“Good. Do you understand what I mean now about playing up the wedge of intensity between them?”
“Yes. I get it.”
He’s right, witnessing the dynamic between the husband and wife does help to determine how best to coach he actors. Bryce continues to ask more questions, sprinkling in more direction while escorting me to the trailer.
Throughout the walk, while we’re talking shop, I half expect him to fire me, but he doesn’t. In fact, he looks pleased with me and turns to me outside Eli’s trailer.
“Okay, I’ll leave you to it.”
“Um, thanks.” I turn the handle and step inside. It’s cooler and quieter in here with a weird sense of emptiness. “Eli, it’s Pru.”
I stroll into the room, scanning the large open space. There’s no sign or sound of him. The bedroom door is open, and it’s empty save for a king-sized bed. Where is he?
Then a door opens behind me—the bathroom—and I twirl on my heel, stopping dead in my tracks.
Sweet mother.
Eli is in only a towel. I just saw him on set without a shirt, but one look at him and it makes my thighs clench.
Beads of water cling to his chest, and his dark hair is wet, slicked back from his face. All his scruff is gone, and he reminds me of the night we first met. As if reading my mind, a hand runs across his jaw, stopping to press his thumb into his bottom lip while he studies me.
“I wondered if you’d come.” His tone is a rumble, tingling through me.
“I’m here.”
“I waited before taking a shower.”
“Bryce wouldn’t stop talking.” I shrug, suddenly conscious of how close he is. The fresh clean scent of soap and something citrusy warms me.
“Yeah, he can get like that.” He brushes a hand along my cheek, tucking my hair behind my ear.
I can’t help myself. My eyes briefly flutter closed, and I lean into his palm.
“This is good. Finally. Us. Alone.” His words cause an electric jolt of need to spiral inside of me.
I stare up at his amused expression, his lips curling into a smile. Okay, time to switch gears.
“The other night you said ‘Feeling Good’ by Muse. I beg to differ. While the cover is good, nothing beats Nina Simone.”
His deep chuckle rings through me like a promise of naughty goodness. “Now that was a test, and you passed.” He’s directly in front of me, barely any space between us. “Both versions are awesome. If you think about it, the song was appropriate for the moment.”
The song is about new beginnings, hope, and the beauty of what can be. Is he talking about us? And if so, why do I find that both exhilarating and terrifying?
“Uh-huh.” I’m incoherent and shudder when his hand slides around the nape of my neck, tugging me toward him.
“I should never have kissed you the other night.” His face is dangerously close to mine.
“Uh-huh.” No longer in control of my brain, my paltry response is met with another sexy grin.
“Do you want to know why?”
I’m nodding and shaking my head, not knowing how to answer. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, but something inside of me is shouting abort. Back up. This is wrong.
We shouldn’t be doing this, well, not here anyway, but I can’t seem to pull away or stop this. Whatever this is.
“Because one kiss is never enough.” His mouth crashes onto mine, and he’s kissing me and pulling me into him.
His chest presses into my breasts, strong hands sliding around my back as his mouth plunders mine, and my lower half rubs against his hardening crotch.
It’s hard to miss his impressive erection digging into my stomach, and my pulse hammers in my throat. My body thrums with an insatiable need for this man.
It’s foolish to think I could work this closely with him and not want more. One time of anything with him will never be enough.
He expertly delves into my mouth, teasing and tasting, and we kiss and kiss for how long, I don’t know.
His teeth nip at my bottom lip, dragging the plump flesh into his mouth, and I release a long whimper, melting farther into his embrace. My hands, joined around his
neck, break free. Like prisoners on the run, they make wild, jerky movements, roaming his body.
“Pru.” He releases my lip, and I groan as his mouth moves down the column of my throat, along my collarbone, stopping to brush against the swell of my breasts.
An insistent pull gathers in my core, and one of my hands slides from behind his back, venturing past his waist and down the towel. I palm him through the terrycloth, long and heavy, and a sharp gasp sails past his now parted lips.
I want to taste him. My fingers slip beneath the terry cloth, and there’s a quick rap on the door.
We both step back as if burned, and my eyes widen and cheeks burst into flames. Brian sticks his head in the door in his usual manner.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
“Ah, sorry.” His pause is loaded, and while I refuse to look at him, I can only imagine what he’s processing.
Eli, in a towel, hard. My hair a mess, lips swollen, and nipples poking out of my blouse. There’s no more than a foot of space between us. It’s enough distance for the PA to figure out he’s interrupted something but not enough for anything indecent.
“Um, Eli, that package you’ve been waiting on arrived.” He holds up a thick, padded envelope and ventures inside, standing awkwardly at the door.
“Just put it on the table and go.” Eli’s voice is stern, and his tender gaze, pleading for me to stay, never leaves mine.
I can’t. We can’t do this where we work. This is supposed to be his coaching session.
“Ah, I have to go. I’ve got a meeting with…uh”—I rack my brain for a plausible excuse—“with Lydia.”
Not waiting for a response from either man, I dart out the door.
That was awkward, and things could get worse if Brian talks. What if this gets back to Bryce and shit, possibly Ross or Whitney?
I don’t care what anyone thinks about my sexual relationships, but mixing business and pleasure isn’t good. And I’m still dealing with the fallout of leaving CE. I still have to deal with Whitney and the lies she’s spreading in her campaign to have me blacklisted and to ruin my life.
I’ve never done anything like this before.
And that’s the thing, isn’t it? Eli makes me do things that aren’t me. Things I’d never do in my right mind.
I’ve lost my mind.
12
Eli
Good enough to eat
I hit the elevator button, and Crystal dances at my side, swinging her backpack and humming a song. Hitch, the dating app, is open on my phone, and I have many new notifications.
The women vary in appearance and age, and some leave generic greetings while others are more bold or flirtatious. None of them ignite so much as a spark of interest within me. And I’ve decided to put a pause on this for now.
There’s nothing wrong with any of them. All attractive and well-educated…but none of them are her.
I’m consumed by a certain blonde.
Pru.
After the night at The Salon, she’s been an intrusion I can’t seem to shake. In fact, I savor every thought of her, and at first, those moments were manageable. She was unattainable. I didn’t know who she was or how to find her.
Then she joined the crew of What Tomorrow Brings and everything changed. She’s no longer a memory of one wild, unforgettable night.
Now, I can’t get her off my mind. Drinks on Friday night only made it worse. No, the kiss in the elevator made it worse.
I don’t regret it, no matter how reckless it was. Fuck, no. I still can’t believe I stopped at just a kiss. I wanted much more. A repeat of The Salon, but with a bed and all the time in the world.
No, the kiss wasn’t enough, and I almost invited her up to my place after the bar. I wanted her naked, laid out before me so I could take my time with her.
Fortunately or not, I still can’t decide if it was self-preservation or stupid to walk away after our kiss. I’d like more with her, but we work together.
And I forgot that important fact or didn’t seem to care earlier today when I went for her once more, only to be interrupted by Brian.
She looked good enough to eat. Ocean-blue eyes sparkling with lust and her cheeks and lips, both the sweetest pink. Her pencil skirt hugged her hips and shapely legs, together with a tight-fitting blouse.
My eyes close and I clench my jaw, willing myself to get a grip before I lose all control right here in the lobby. In front of not only my daughter but other residents.
The elevator dings, and a whiff of wild strawberries and vanilla hits my nostrils. My eyes blink open, my pulse quickens, and a strange tingling starts at the back of my neck.
For crying out loud. I have it bad. Not only do I think about Pru all the time, now I can smell her too?
I blink again because there she is. Pru’s walking past us, head down, flipping through her mail.
My throat clears, loud and sharp, and she looks up. I hoped she would. Our eyes lock, but only for a beat before her gaze darts all over the place.
Her eyes land on the elevator behind me, then down to Crystal who’s tugging on my pant leg. “Daddy, let’s go.”
Pru’s bright eyes widen, pinning me, and her skin pales. A myriad of emotions flit across her features, and all I do is stand there.
I’m slow to process the moment whereas she’s the opposite. In an instant, it’s as if she shoved every emotion into a trunk and locked them away, her expression now blank.
“Eli, hi.” Pru glances at Crystal. “Is this your daughter?” The question is forced and without interest. She already knows my response.
“Yes.” I now look down at Crystal who’s enthralled by the pretty blonde lady.
I hesitate to introduce them because I rarely introduce my daughter to any of the women I date. But wait, Pru isn’t a date, one-night stand aside. We work together.
“You know, it’s funny.” Her tone is stiff, unnatural, suggesting nothing about this is amusing. “I now remember someone in Trojan had a daughter.” She tucks the mail under her arm. “For some reason, I thought it was Gray.”
Forced laughter, almost brittle, breaches her thinning lips, and she bobs her head from side to side as if looking for something to do.
“Hi, I’m Pru.” She holds out her hand, and my daughter, fearless and curious, takes it.
“Hi, who are you?” Crystal examines everything about Pru. The hair, face, clothes, even her shoes and the small shopping bag in her hand.
“Hey, why don’t you introduce yourself before you start grilling her?” I nudge her forward.
“I’m Crystal. How do you know my daddy?”
“We work together.” She glances up at me as if checking if it’s all right to tell her.
“Pru works for the movie. She’s helping me with my Spanish and Russian.”
“You speak Spanish and Russian?” My daughter’s eyes bug out like I’ve just said Pru’s an alien.
The woman laughs, this time genuine. “Yes, I speak a few languages.”
Like any child, she’s no longer interested in the topic of languages, and she points to the small, clear bag in Pru’s hand. “What’s that?”
“Ah.” She lifts the bag, and we all look, easily guessing its contents given the plastic is a translucent white. “Nail polish.”
“Oh, I love nail polish.” Then my daughter grabs for Pru’s hand, studying the almost burnt-orange painted on her manicured nails. “What color is this?”
“Um, I think it’s My Italian is a Little Rusty.” Pru rhymes off the name without any thought.
I chuckle at the clever line and how fitting it is for someone who speaks so many languages. Of course, my daughter doesn’t get it, looking at me like I’m a goof.
“Well, it was nice to meet you.” Pru takes her hand back. “I should get going.”
“What colors did you get?” Crystal asks at the same time I say, “Good night.”
She stops midturn. “Ah. One is a Big Apple Red.” She takes out a vibrant red bottle. “And the other
is my all-time favorite, Lincoln Park After Dark.”
“Can I see that one?” Crystal’s reaches for it, then quickly drops her hands back to her side, so eager to hold the bottles but remembering her manners.
“Sure.” Pru takes out the dark, almost midnight bottle.
The child makes a disgusted face. “Ugh, I don’t like that one.”
“Hey,” I chide, but Crystal doesn’t miss a beat, saying, “It’s black.”
Pru laughs. “It does look like black, but it’s really a deep, dark purple. Awesome on nails.”
“Which one are you going to paint your nails tonight?”
“Ah, I haven’t decided. Depends on my mood.” Pru places both bottles back into the bag. “Have a good night.”
“Why don’t you come have dinner with us? And I can paint your nails.” Crystal clearly doesn’t want her to leave.
Pru fascinates her, and I know the feeling.
“She’s right. Come on up for dinner. There’s more than enough.” It’s a split-second decision, no serious consideration to any potential outcomes of bringing my one-night stand into my home and into my daughter’s life.
And while I may not know what’s for dinner—thankfully, Janet takes care of that—there’s always too much.
“Well, um…” She plays with the handle of the bag.
“Please. Please. And could you paint my nails? I love that red.” Crystal bounces, smiling, her brown eyes now pleading.
Pru closes her eyes for but a second, perhaps gathering her wits. “Okay. But I need to go upstairs and change. I won’t be long.” Then she looks to me. “Is it okay if I paint her nails?”
I nod, her gesture robbing me of my words, and she smiles. “Okay. Text me your apartment number, and I’ll be there in fifteen.”
We’d exchanged numbers at the cocktail bar the other night, so I text her the information and watch her go. Crystal, once again, yanks at my pant leg when the elevator arrives.
Pru shows up in a pair of ripped jean shorts and a faded The Who Union Jack peace sign T-shirt. My mind scrambles with all the things I like about her, and I laugh.
“Great shirt.” I step back to let her in.