Over Exposed

by Stephanie Julian

  She didn’t think so and that was really going to be a problem.

  “You’re gonna be hell on my ego, aren’t you, kid?”

  A blush heated her cheeks. “I’m sorry. That’s not— I didn’t mean—”

  She stopped with a sigh as he continued to laugh.

  “Right. So I think I’ll just clean up these dishes,” she said. “I’m sure you want to get back to work. Or maybe you should get some sleep. You look like you could use it.” She rolled her eyes when she realized what she’d said and stopped in the process of picking up the dishes. “And wow, did I just sound like my mother or what?”

  He released another short, rough sound of amusement but when she flashed him a look, he wasn’t smiling. He stared at her with an intensity that made her feel like she was naked. Which didn’t help her rising blood pressure.

  “I’m not ready for bed yet.” He gathered his own dishes when she would have reached for them, and he motioned for her to lead the way into the kitchen. “I’ll give you a hand with these then we can check for dessert. I’m in the mood for something sweet.”

  Had he looked at her for any particular reason when he said that? It certainly seemed that way.

  But then he headed for the door and she got drawn along behind him. Achingly aware that he was only inches away from her, she tried not to keep looking at his very fine ass. Which was really, really hard to do because, oh, my God, the man had a great ass.

  And broad shoulders. And that hair.

  So not fair.

  But she was used to disappointment so . . .

  “You see anything in the fridge for dessert?” Greg headed directly for the dishwasher and would’ve taken the dishes out of her hands and loaded them himself if she hadn’t put them out of his reach on the counter so she could open the door on the machine.

  She was the one being paid to look after him, after all.

  Giving him her best “employee” smile again, she reached for his dishes. “I did see a few different pieces of cakes and pies in there. Tyler obviously knows you have a sweet tooth and stocked the kitchen for you.”

  She almost breathed a sigh of relief when he turned toward the fridge and she didn’t have to force that smile anymore.

  “Huh. He’s clearly trying to make me fat. Jesus, how the hell many Termini Brothers cannoli does he think I can eat? There must be twenty in here. How many do you want?”

  Truthfully, she wanted about five right now. She ate when she was nervous and right now, her nerves were jonesing for sugar.

  “Oh, none for me, thanks.”

  “Don’t like cannoli, huh? Then you don’t know what you’re missing. There’s chocolate cake in here and strawberry pie and . . . I think that’s carrot cake.”

  Setting the dishwasher to run, she headed for the opposite side of the room. “I think I’m just going to head up to my room for the night. I don’t want to get in your way—”

  “You’re not getting in my way.” With a sigh, he shut the refrigerator door, the tray of cannoli in hand. Then he gave her that smile again, the one that made her thighs clench. “And truthfully, I could use the company.”

  * *

  Greg watched Sabrina struggle for a way to decline his not-really-all-that-polite invitation.

  If he were a decent guy, he’d give her an out. Tell her, sure, no problem. See you tomorrow.

  But he wasn’t going to. He wanted to spend more time with her. Screw it. It wasn’t like she was underage. Hell, he knew older men than him who dated eighteen-year-olds. Of course, they were pricks but . . .

  Goddamn it, he liked this girl. If she could get over the whole guest/employee thing, and get comfortable with him, they could have an intelligent conversation. For the past week and a half, he’d talked to no one except Camilla Banks, the first caretaker Tyler had sent. She’d had the grandmother-type down perfectly. Probably because she was, five times over.

  But he hadn’t had the faintest desire to talk about his screenplay with her.

  He wanted to talk to Sabrina.

  Yeah, he wanted to do other things with her, too. But that wasn’t going to happen.

  And maybe if he continued to tell himself that, he’d actually make it happen.

  Leaning back against the counter, he watched her struggle for an answer. He couldn’t tell if she really didn’t want to spend time with him or if she did but didn’t think she should.

  He did know he’d seen her awareness of him in her eyes, seen the attraction.

  With a barely audible sigh, he watched her worry her bottom lip with her teeth. Christ, if she wanted to stand in the kitchen for hours and discuss the merits of pie over cake, he’d dress up like the Pillsbury Doughboy and let her poke him in the stomach.

  Was that the alcohol talking?

  Probably not. He hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind since the night they’d met. It had become a real problem. And now that he had the opportunity to spend some time with her, maybe he’d be able to work her out of his system.

  Without an actual workout in bed.

  “Sure,” she finally answered, and that shy smile she gave him forced him to swallow a groan. “I can do that.”

  With the cannoli in hand, he led her back to the lounge and waved her toward the couch. He set the pastries on the coffee table then fell onto the other end of the couch.

  “Did Tyler tell you what I’ve been working on?”

  She shook her head. “No. Just that you’re here to work. I did see something online about you writing a screenplay, though.”

  Had she been checking him out?

  And there goes that ego again.

  “But there really wasn’t a lot of information. Will you tell me about it?”

  Grabbing a cannoli, she settled back into the couch, watching him. Waiting. Like she was truly interested.

  “It’s an idea I had a few years ago. A parlor piece that takes place in the same house over the course of a weekend. A group of friends gathered for a wedding. Sort of The Big Chill with a little Match Point thrown in.”

  “You mean the Woody Allen movie?”

  He laughed. “Yeah, have you seen it?”

  “Oh, I loved that one. I don’t go to the movies much but my mom has a thing for Woody Allen so she and I went to see it. I couldn’t believe how much I wanted that guy to get away with murder. I mean, it was just so—”

  “Amazing how Allen made you root for the villain?”

  Her bright smile made it hard for him to breathe. “Exactly. I thought about that for days.”

  “Yeah, it’s a great piece of film. That’s what I want to create.”

  Her lips remained curved in a sweet smile and he wanted to lean forward and kiss it off her face.

  “Don’t you think your other movies are great pieces of film?”

  He shrugged. “I’m not in the business of making art. I make popular entertainment and I make damn good popular entertainment. I’ve produced two movies I think can be called art but I’ve never made one myself. This is my shot.”

  As soon as the words left his mouth, he wanted to take them back, even if they were the truest words he’d ever said. He hadn’t said them to anyone else. Why he’d told Sabrina . . .

  As she tilted her head, her hair fell over her shoulders again. He couldn’t tear his gaze away as she brushed it back. His hands curled into fists from wanting to wind the strands through his fingers.

  “So you’re writing the screenplay, too? I thought you didn’t write anymore. That you mainly produce now.”

  He caught back a grin because, again, she must have done some research on him. Juvenile? Yes. Did he care? Fuck no.

  “Yeah, I’m doing the screenplay and directing. We film in December for four weeks. We’re doing it here in Pennsylvania.”

  She nodded. “I did read about tha
t in the newspaper. Why here? And in December? It could be miserably cold and snowy. Although”—she smiled as she motioned toward the window—“I guess you’re not safe anytime.”

  Good question. It was the one everyone was asking, from his business partner to the media to every actor who thought they had half a snowball’s chance in hell of getting a role.

  People were lined up on either side of the divide between It’s a desperate attempt to regain credibility with a low-budget art-house production or His production company’s in trouble and this project is a desperate, last-ditch Oscar-bait to give the company leverage when it comes time to sell.

  “Because I’m tired of the fucking rat race in Hollywood and I wanted to make a movie as far from the system as I could get.”

  He waited to see the doubt in her eyes, the cynical “Yeah, he’s totally lost it” look he would’ve gotten from anyone in the business.

  Sabrina just shrugged. “Sounds good. I can’t wait to see it.”

  As she took a bite of her cannoli, Greg shook his head. Amazing. He felt like a ten-ton weight had been removed from his shoulders. While his jeans got tighter.

  Fuck. He really needed to keep that under control.

  When he didn’t answer right away, she looked at him through narrowed eyes. “What? Don’t believe me? I do actually enjoy movies that have a decent plot and not just half-naked guys running around saving the planet.”

  She stared at him, eyes wide, but a smile lurked around the corners of her full mouth. Christ, he felt like a fucking kid, wanting to lean forward and kiss the hell out of her.

  He’d wrap that hair around his hand, pull her close, and keep her there. Plaster that lush body up against his and seal his mouth over hers.

  And then . . .

  “Greg?”

  The amusement left her eyes and he wanted to kick his own ass.

  “Yeah?

  “Are you laughing at me?”

  “Hell, no. I’m laughing at myself.”

  “Why?”

  Because I want you so badly, I fucking ache and there’s no way I can seduce you into my bed and still be able to look my closest friends in the eyes again.

  “Because I can’t decide if I’m finally having a midlife crisis or if it really is time for me to get the hell out of Hollywood for good.”

  Her eyes narrowed and he swore he saw worry in those dark depths. Worry for him as a person, not as a commodity.

  “Don’t you want to make movies anymore?”

  “Making movies isn’t the problem.”

  “Then what is?”

  Good question.

  A grin ghosted at the corners of his mouth for a second. “When I figure that out, I’ll let you know.”

  She didn’t seem to know what to say to that, so she nodded and nibbled at her cannoli.

  Hell, she practically played with the damn thing, her tongue licking at the cream filling, her teeth taking tiny bites.

  He had to tear his gaze away before he leaned forward and kissed away the tiny speck of filling at the corner of her mouth.

  They sat in silence as they finished the cannoli, with the music barely audible over the sound of the wind blowing snow against the windows.

  After a particularly harsh gust, she turned to stare out the window. Greg continued to stare at her.

  Beautiful.

  Her profile was softly rounded, like the rest of her. No sharp angles. A pug nose, curved chin, high cheekbones, and those gorgeous eyes.

  He wanted his Nikon, the one he’d used to take photos of her in Kate’s lingerie. He didn’t want to film her and that shocked him. He wasn’t framing her for a shot. Usually when he saw a beautiful woman, his brain automatically envisioned her on a big screen.

  What did it say about this one that he didn’t?

  “I can’t believe it’s snowing this badly in November.” Her voice had softened and he found himself almost mesmerized, waiting for her to continue. “I guess you don’t see a lot of snow in L.A. Do you miss it?”

  “Miss what?”

  Drawing her legs up beneath her, she turned back to face him with a smile that made him feel like he’d been kicked in the stomach.

  Jesus, what the hell was he going to do with her?

  Not one damn thing.

  “The change of seasons. I’ve never been to L.A. but I imagine it’s warm most of the time.”

  Not as fucking hot as he was right now, that’s for sure. “Not a lot of snow in L.A., no. If I want to see snow, I go skiing in Colorado.”

  Her nose wrinkled in a way that made his jeans even tighter. He needed to go to bed because if he stayed here with her much longer, he couldn’t be sure he wouldn’t seduce her.

  His buzz had faded and rationality was seeping back. And rationally, he knew she was old enough to decide what she wanted.

  That night, months ago, she’d wanted him. And he’d shut her down pretty damn fast, taking the moral high ground. He was quickly losing his footing up there now.

  And what happens when she finds out you had sex with Kate?

  “You will never get me on skis. Speeding down a mountain on two long pieces of wood? I seriously don’t get the appeal.”

  He shoved away thoughts of Kate. “Not one for pushing limits, huh?”

  “Not ones that potentially end with me in a body cast, no.”

  He laughed at her dry, sarcastic tone, soaked in the warmth of her smile, and felt his muscles unkink. He hadn’t realized how tense his shoulders had been, how tight his arm muscles had been bunched.

  Relaxing farther into the couch, he let himself sink into the conversation. He didn’t pick it apart for underlying meanings or hidden agendas. He just enjoyed talking to her.

  The girl had no guile. If he’d met her in Hollywood, he would’ve predicted she’d be on the first bus home after two weeks. She didn’t have an ounce of hardness about her—until he asked about her father.

  All she said was, “He left when I was young,” and since he didn’t want the conversation to get too heavy, he let that one go, even though he wanted to know everything he could about her.

  The writer in him always wanted to know more, know everything. He’d asked a lot of inappropriate questions his first few months in California before he’d finally learned to rein in his mouth.

  As the conversation continued, it ranged from family and politics to music and movies. Sabrina didn’t seem to mind his questions and he couldn’t seem to stop asking.

  The night grew dark around them, the glow from the fire the only illumination in the room. They’d finished off the cannoli—she’d had two and, for some reason, he liked that—and neither of them let the conversation lag.

  She wasn’t a pushover. If she had an opinion, she spoke it. If she didn’t, she listened to him and seemed genuinely interested in what he had to say. And not in the “Ooh, you’re so interesting, Mr. Producer, please put me in your movie” way.

  And every time she laughed, he wanted to reach for her, pull her across the empty cushion separating them and kiss the ever-loving hell out of her.

  He wanted to put his hands on her skin, cup those breasts and bring them to his mouth so he could suck on her. She’d be so damn sweet. Then he’d pull her on top of him so he could smooth his hands down her back and over her ass.

  He wanted her naked, wanted to be naked and pressed against her. Wanted to slip his cock between her thighs and—

  “Greg, I think I’m going to head upstairs.”

  “What?”

  He blinked out of the fantasy he had going on in his head and narrowed his eyes at that little smile he knew wasn’t real.

  “You seem to be zoning out on me, so I figured it was time for bed. It’s getting late.”

  His gaze automatically went to the small brass clock on the mantel above the fi
replace. The hands pointed almost straight up.

  Damn. For her, it probably was late. She had an actual job so she probably kept regular daytime hours and liked to sleep.

  He didn’t like downtime. If he wasn’t in a meeting, he was dealing with the day-to-day business of running his successful production company. That meant he often took calls at two or three in the morning from raging directors and weepy actors.

  His ex had learned to put up with it, but then Daisy had been in the business. And Daisy hadn’t been some self-obsessed twenty-year-old with mental health issues.

  At the time, his ex had been a twenty-seven-year-old with a damn fine head on her shoulders who had a penchant for drinking too much, which had become more pronounced the more obsessed he’d become with building his company.

  Well, he’d built the company but he’d lost the girl. And now, he might lose the company as well.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you up. I’ll probably do some more work.”

  He usually did his best writing in the dark, and he should be glad to send her off for the night so he could work.

  But he didn’t want her to leave, even though he was wide awake now. And sober. He could probably get a couple of pages done now that his head was clear.

  She bit her lip, as if she didn’t want to say anything else, but apparently curiosity got the better of her. “Aren’t you finished yet?”

  They hadn’t discussed the film again while they’d been talking, which he realized was probably because he’d directed the entire conversation and he’d wanted to listen to her talk. Her voice mesmerized him.

  “It’s written. It just needs polishing. I’m trying to refine what I’ve got but it’s harder than I remember. Then again, it’s been a few years since I’ve written a screenplay.”

  And he hadn’t been in the right frame of mind lately.

  Now, he actually felt like he could get some decent work done. But he wasn’t ready to let her go.

  He wanted to pump his fist in the air when she didn’t move.

  “I can’t even imagine doing what you do.” Her nose wrinkled. “I had to take a creative writing class in college because I needed the credits. It was either that or a psych class and I figured making stuff up had to be easier than reading a whole lot of books about crazy people.”