by MK Meredith
Addi inhaled so quickly she choked and fell into a fit of coughs.
“Something to do,” Jimmy said with a wink and a sloppy salute.
Roque rubbed her back as she fought for breath. “Here, let’s get you a glass of water.” He grabbed her hand and led her into the kitchen. Addi could feel the calluses that ran along the upper ridge of his palm and wondered how they came to be. Roque was a working man but by no means a man of labor, not that she’d seen, anyway. She could feel the light abrasive rub against her sensitive palm all the way to her toes.
In the kitchen, she leaned against the counter and watched as Roque took a glass from the cupboard and filled it with water. He moved so fluidly, so sure of himself. She imagined no one questioned his capability about anything. That must be a good feeling.
Her coughs slowed, and she could breathe again—at least she could if Roque would keep his distance. Turning toward her, he offered her the glass and rested his hip against the counter, watching her take a few tentative sips.
“Better?”
She sighed and finished the glass. “Yes. Much.”
Addi stared at him, trying to read what was going on behind those brilliant blue eyes. He looked so serious with his brows drawn together and his lips pressed in a tight line. So stressed.
She reached up and ran her thumb pad from the inside of one brow to the outer edge. An unconscious move to help soothe his tension.
He stilled, and she froze with her palm against his cheek.
How in the hell did that get there? The heat of Roque’s cheek seeped into her skin, and she snatched her hand away, finding herself in need of a fan on an eighty-degree day.
Casually, she stepped away. “Here, let me get you some coffee. Or is it too late?”
He shook his head. “I’ll be up for a while yet. A cup sounds great.” Crossing his arms over his chest, he watched her.
Fidgety under his scrutiny—or her guilty conscience—she sighed. “What?”
“Just watching the master. So, what was it you had to tell me?”
She slowed in her process of measuring grounds into the French press, resenting the heat rushing up her neck. With a nervous laugh, she waved away his question. “Oh, nothing.” She wracked her brain to come up with something he’d swallow without too much difficulty. “I just got a rejection on my manuscript the other day is all, and I didn’t want to talk about it.”
He reached his hand out to rub her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I know that has to be so hard.”
Nodding, she poured hot water into the press. “It is. And never gets any easier. I just need a day or two to lick my wounds, but then I’ll keep moving forward.” She caught him staring at her mouth. “Onward and upward, right?”
He snapped his eyes back to hers. “Absolutely. You don’t quit if it’s your dream.”
“Any luck yet? Speaking of dreams.”
Dropping his head forward on a sigh, he turned his back to the counter and palmed the edge with his hands. “Nothing yet.”
She poured two cups, then handed him one. “It’ll all work out.”
He held her gaze, opened his mouth to say something, but never had the chance. Doug Kemper came storming in through the French doors. “Gallagher. I need a word.”
The ease she’d seen in him a moment before disappeared, his jaw clenched tight, and he pushed away from the counter. “Of course.”
The man eyed him, then nailed Addi with a look.
“Oh.” She grabbed her cup. “Let me just—”
Roque put a hand out to stop her. “No, Addi, finish what you were doing. And I hate to ask, but I left my dry cleaning at my condo, and I need my suit for a meeting tonight.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
He dipped his chin, looked at the director, then headed toward the back hallway. “Doug and I will speak in the back room.”
Addi raised her cup to her mouth for a sip. Her guest room door slammed, and she flinched. Quickly, she moved her cup out in front of her, trying to steady it before getting scalded. Apparently, the director wasn’t happy. Raised voices floated from the back room, and she bit her lip. She didn’t see Roque’s stress easing any time soon.
As she prepared the catered dinner for the crew, she volleyed a few questions about the heated argument in the backroom. Moving the meal onto the front porch for a change of scenery and to put as much distance between the back of the house and crew helped. Everyone seemed on edge, worried about what the argument meant, whether or not their jobs were at stake.
Addi raised her hand to stop the concerns. “You guys. Come on. You all know Roque way better than I do, but I am confident he wouldn’t keep any of you in a situation that would leave you hanging. Whatever’s going on, let him work it out. It’s what he does, isn’t it?”
Nods and grunts of agreement drifted into casual banter. They emptied their plates, shoved down a few cookies, and then headed back to work. Once the crew was in place, finishing a few last scenery snapshots, Addi grabbed her keys.
She made the trip to Roque’s condo faster than she thought. The building was only a few miles north on Pacific Coast Highway—Highway 1—and boasted ocean front property. Curious about the kind of home he lived in, she skipped the elevator and took the stairs two at a time. Thank goodness he only lived on the fourth floor. Breathless by the time she reached his door, she sucked in air and let herself in.
The first thing she noticed was the scent of him. Light and lingering, she’d know this was his place even if she hadn’t had his key. The lines were clean and simple, shades of gray with understated pops of orange. Neat, clean, and everything in its place. Just like the man who lived there.
Walking through the front room, she trailed her fingers along the smooth surface of his end tables and across the leather of his couch. The silence was a welcome break to her ears after days of people being in her house—and she was a people person. But even the most extroverted sorts needed some quiet now and again. No clothes hung from his living room chairs or the kitchen. Maybe in his bedroom.
She paused along the short hallway, smiling at a picture of him flanked by his aunt and uncle, Raquel and Martin Gallagher. They took it on themselves to know everything that was going on with their kids. And “kids” meant any thirty-something even remotely connected to the art community.
Hell, both of them had read the three manuscripts she had out on submission. Martin always gave great feedback on her craft, and Raquel never failed to help her flesh out content.
She studied the grin on Roque’s face, a crooked little smirk, really. He had to be all of eighteen in this picture. Her eyes trailed to the next one, and she stopped short. A beautiful woman, practically Raquel’s twin, smiled in the black and white glossy, crouched by a little boy with wavy black hair, his arms thrown around her neck. His mother. There was such joy in her face. He was most certainly loved.
Moving on down the hall, she entered his bedroom and spotted the suit on a bench at the foot of his bed. She draped it over her arm and turned to leave. An old black lacquered bookshelf caught her attention. Reel-to-reel films lined one side of each shelf, alternating from the top to the bottom. Then laser discs and VCR tapes were stacked as if they were art opposite the reels. Gone with the Wind, Casablanca, and Until We Meet Again graced his shelves. He was a classic movie junkie. She grinned. Another reason to like the man.
Resisting the urge to go through his medicine cabinet or check how he folded his underwear, she tightened her hold on his suit and left his condo, locking the door behind her. The practice of self-control cost her a lot. More than anything, she wanted to go back inside and snoop around. It was only fair since he and his whole crew had been through every square inch of her home, including her bathroom. But she’d already learned more about him than was safe. He was insanely tidy, loved his family, and collected old films. She found him intriguing. She liked him. And he was admittedly the sexiest man she’d ever laid eyes on. All sorts of ideas popped into her mind,
but she pushed them down, lifting her chin with pride. She could be an adult when she needed to.
Roque was on his way out when she pulled in, pausing long enough to grab his suit and tell her everyone had gone home and to be at the bungalow by eight sharp the next morning. She snorted. Eight a.m. was easy. After the hours they’d been keeping, eight a.m. would let her sleep in.
A light bubbling sensation filled her chest as she went inside and locked up. Roque’s check had cleared, which meant it was time to make it official and pay the lump sum she owed now. Half her battle had been successfully waged and won. She grabbed the bottle of champagne she’d been saving for the day she was offered a contract and scrambled up the stairs like she was being chased. She had never gotten over that sensation, no matter how old she was, and clicked on the lamp in record time with a sigh of relief.
With the light covered by a white pillowcase to help dim the brightness, she opened her laptop, then popped the cork on the bottle. Getting that contract would be the perfect occasion to enjoy a little bubbly, but so was saving her home.
Settling into her customary position, she pulled her computer onto her lap and set the bottle of champagne next to her bedding. A few clicks later, her finger hovered over the submit button. She wasn’t fooled into thinking this was it. She knew she still needed to save for next year’s taxes—the whole reason she was sleeping on the floor of her attic in the first place—which would be coming soon, not to mention general living expenses. But, damn, it felt all sorts of good to reach this point. With a small squeal, she pushed the submit button, effectively clearing her debt.
She lifted the bottle high in a silent toast of gratitude, sniffing against the tears burning behind her lids. She took a swig, and the bubbles eased the tightening of her throat. Warm feelings for Roque rushed forward as the champagne rushed down. She was thankful. She took another long swallow.
It was nothing but lust and transference. All her happy feelings about keeping her home needed a target, and apparently they were shooting for Roque. No matter; simple lust could be easily remedied. He liked her flirting with him, she could tell, even if he didn’t encourage her.
No.
Addi stared at her computer screen but saw nothing except Roque’s chiseled features—daring her. It wasn’t as if she was a permanent employee. If she were then the answer would be clear.
Her gig was temporary. A means to an end. But one she needed to keep until the film was finished and, in the meantime, get a writing contract. Maybe even a little freelance work to fill the gaps. Her job was temporary, so a little fling wouldn’t ruin anything.
Her conscience nagged at her, but she shut it down quickly. She wasn’t screwing over Roque; she was screwing over Hollywood. There was a big difference.
Which would leave her free and clear to actually screw Roque. A giggle drew her fingers to her lips. She drank from the bottle again, ending on a hiccup. There were a hell of a lot worse decisions than having a fling with a super-hot, driven man who had a penchant for bossing her around and watching classic movies.
Another burp escaped, and she slapped a hand over her mouth with a chuckle. She was doing damn well on her own. She no longer needed saving.
But Roque might.
She liked a challenge, and something told her he’d resist.
At first.
Chapter 8
Roque jogged along the sandy beach, hoping some of his stress would wash out to sea with the surf; and if not the stress, then he’d gladly be taken by a maverick wave at this point.
He’d spent the past forty-eight hours on the phone in between their weekend filming, trying to find an investor to replace Fairmont. For an industry that never sleeps, a hell of a lot of people were unavailable. Apparently, some folks actually had plans and a life over the weekend. Lucky fuckers.
The last few days, Addi had been his saving grace. Managing Kemper and keeping his crew steady had helped more than she could have known. The last thing he’d wanted was her underfoot, but he’d have been knocked on his ass without her. He shook his head. How the hell her professional organizational skills didn’t translate to her personal life was a mystery.
By the time he’d left the bungalow Friday night, he’d been ready to strangle someone, preferably Kemper. The damn director spoke to him as if he were doing Roque a favor, which was a load of bullshit times ten. Roque might be trying to separate himself a bit from the Gallagher name, but it was exactly because he was a Gallagher that Kemper signed on. Associating himself with Roque would only help his career. And that was the source of Kemper’s irritation. He didn’t like that Roque was better known in the industry than he was. Especially since Kemper didn’t think Roque had earned it. But the damn arrogant man didn’t need to worry. The whole purpose of this film was to launch Roque on his own. Kemper was lucky to be part of it. Roque might question his ability to find another investor in time, but he sure as shit did not question his talent, his vision, as a producer.
His lungs and muscles burned, but he dug in and ran faster. The pain was a welcome distraction from the frustrations with the film and the buzz of energy washing over him whenever he was around Addi. He smelled honey now even when he wasn’t with her. It was as if it permanently absorbed into his clothes and skin or some shit like that. And he couldn’t get past how jumpy she’d been the other day when he’d walked in to find her and Jimmy deep in conversation. The idea that there might be something between the two of them sent a surge through him, propelling him forward even faster. Why the hell should he care?
By the time he approached the deck of his building, his chest seized in protest, and sweat ran into his eyes, stinging as if he’d taken a plunge in the Pacific. Using the hem of his shirt, he swiped at his face and over his head. “Fuck.”
The sun slowly disappeared into the horizon, casting a warm orange glow onto the white Trex decking. He sunk to the steps, dropping his head between his knees, and concentrated on filling his lungs. He welcomed the effort, the need, to focus on anything but the phone calls he had to make that no one was answering. Besides, those who did answer only offered a regretful but firm “no.”
He made his way to his condo, pausing as he closed the door behind him. It smelled of honey. He chuckled in self-derision. Losing his mind really wasn’t going to fit into his schedule at this point. The scent must have been from when she stopped to pick up his clothes. Walking through his home, he imagine her there. Giggling at his photo or trailing her fingers along the back of the couch. He’d forgotten his dry cleaning had been on the bed, which meant she’d been in his room.
An image of her sprawled on his sheets in nothing but a look of sassy challenge rose unbidden in his mind, and he shook his head. What the hell was he thinking? Sex was a good stress cure, but he didn’t have the time for complications.
Besides, the last thing he needed was to disappoint another woman by not being there on time, forgetting a birthday party, canceling on dinners with parents. He furrowed his brow at the memories. He hadn’t meant to miss any of it. And it always seemed to be the most important events he screwed up.
After making quick work in the shower, he dragged himself to bed and made a list of contacts he’d call in the morning. Somebody would say yes. Somebody had to.
After a restless night of little sleep and a lot of worry, Roque stepped through the front door of the bungalow, greeted by the enticing combination of freshly brewed coffee and honey. What the hell did she do, bathe in it?
“Morning, boss.” Addi walked up in some sort of all-white jumpsuit thing, the straight edges of her hair skimming her shoulders. The crispness of it showed off the silky gold of her skin. And why the hell was he noticing her skin?
The corners of his lips pulled up on their own accord. “Morning.”
Taking the cup of coffee she offered, he headed toward the back guest room. “I have calls to make. Is Kemper in?”
“Not yet.”
“Let me know when he is. No other interrupti
ons.” He slowed. “Please.”
With a salute, Addi grinned. “Got it.”
He looked her over. She was practically glowing. “You look like you had a good weekend.”
“I did. I got a lot of writing done and fleshed out the motivation for one of my protagonists.”
“Good.” At least somebody was making progress. With a nod, he slid into the guest room.
A few hours later, Roque pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve some tension. Not one of his contacts came through, so he took a break and checked in with the film crew. The director was a no-show, so they focused on scenery shots. But they were losing light, emotions were running high, and egos were suffering a beating. Scene take after scene take, and it still wasn’t right.
They called to break and released the crew for the night. Nothing more to be done until tomorrow anyway. He sighed. How the fuck could this day go any worse?
The front door swung open, and he looked up to find Martin Gallagher sweeping into the room, half the crew swarming his uncle at once.
He sat back and observed. Martin Gallagher wasn’t called the father of Malibu for nothing. He mentored and taught, supported and created opportunities.
It was a special privilege to be one of the children. Roque had experienced the phenomena since birth. Raquel and Martin cared. They nurtured with high praise and higher expectations. It made his mood lighten.
A little.
Martin finished with his fawning fans and approached Roque. A firm hug and pat on the shoulder brought both men to stand side by side as the rest of the crew filed out the front door.
Martin waved as the last straggler made an exit, then turned back to Roque. “How’s it going, my boy?”
Roque sighed. “As expected. I lost a major investor. But you already know that.”
Martin furrowed bushy salt-and-pepper brows over his piercing blue eyes. Martin had the look of a Nordic Sean Connery—the kind of man women of any age still swooned over. Roque had made quite the study of it as a teen when all he wanted was to get laid.