by Witt, L. A.
I laughed. “Wouldn’t the tabloids have a field day with that? ‘Pritchard-Samuels Romance Rocked by Rumors of Misplaced Feline Affection.’”
Levi choked on his drink, nearly spitting it all over the offending feline.
Carter snickered. “Well played, Anna.”
“Thank you.”
“Fuck you both.” Levi coughed a couple of times. He took another swig of Coke. “So, any guesses who Anna’s hooking up with?”
“Hooked up with,” I corrected. “Once.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Carter’s eyebrows jumped. Then he looked at Levi. “Told you Natalya was into girls.”
My jaw dropped. “How the hell did you two know—”
Carter laughed. “Because every time you ogle her, he points it out to me.”
Levi nodded. “And when Natalya ogles Anna.”
The heat rushing into my cheeks wasn’t embarrassment this time. It wasn’t just in my face, either. Squirming as subtly as I could, I said, “She . . . she does?”
“All the time,” Carter said. “What? You didn’t notice?”
“Um. No.” I cringed. “Do you think she noticed me? Checking her out, I mean?”
Carter shrugged. “Well, you two did, um—”
“Oh God.” I covered my face with my hand. “How blatant was I?”
“Relax,” Levi said. “You weren’t that obvious. I just noticed because I haven’t seen a woman turn your head like that in years. I know it takes someone really amazing to catch your eye like she did.”
Wasn’t that the truth? I shook my head as I lowered my hand. “Yeah, she really is amazing. But . . . it’s just not a good time.”
“Not a good time?” Levi raised that damn eyebrow again. “Or not good because you work together?”
“Both. But mostly . . .” Well, which was it? “Just . . . both.”
“You never know, though,” he said. “Maybe you two can make it work.”
“And if we can’t? We still have to work together.”
“Yeah.” Carter rested a hand on Levi’s leg. “That part definitely makes things more challenging, but if you’re really into someone—” his eyes flicked toward Levi, and they both smiled “—it’s worth it.”
Damn it, Carter—whose side are you on?
“It’s a little easier for you two, though,” I said.
They both raised their eyebrows.
“Easier?” Levi snorted. “I almost lost my job over it, remember?”
Oh, I remembered. And he probably didn’t know just how close he’d really come to losing his job, and how hard Hunter Easton and I had fought the powers that be to keep him.
I shook my head. “It’s really not going to work. As much as I’d love it to, there’s just . . . between our breakups and our jobs . . .” The fact that I don’t want to lose another woman to a man. “Maybe she doesn’t want anything anyway. But if she does, there’s too much stacked against it.”
Levi studied me, his lips slightly quirked. Then he shrugged. “You know your situation better than I do.”
Carter eyed him. Levi met his gaze, and something unspoken passed between them. Carter shrugged, sipped his drink, and didn’t push the issue.
“So.” Levi gestured at the screen. “In the mood for another movie?”
“Sounds good to me,” I said.
“Me too,” Carter said.
I didn’t know if I had the headspace for another movie tonight, but I didn’t have the headspace for anything that wasn’t sitting in a theater with Levi, Carter, and their cats. I probably wouldn’t remember anything about the film later. But at least no one would notice if I was staring blankly at the screen while—despite all my issues and hang-ups—my mind went through last night again, and again, and again.
Because hey, even if it wasn’t something we should repeat, there was nothing wrong with basking in the memory.
Chapter 6
I was a nervous wreck on the way to work the next day. It was just as well Jeremy was driving—I probably would’ve blown every stoplight and then run off the road. My brain was completely disengaged, and no amount of coffee was going to fix it this time. What that meant for my ability to work, well, I’d figure that out when we got there.
Jeremy pulled into the secure parking lot outside the set. I scanned the lot, and one glance at Natalya’s car sent my heart into overdrive. She was here. I was here. It was inevitable we’d cross paths even if we didn’t have to work directly together today, and I was pretty sure I’d seen at least one meeting on my schedule that involved the stunt department.
And I was pretty sure that meeting was one of the first things on today’s agenda. Crap.
Or maybe not. The second I stepped out of my office after locking up my purse, Emily, one of the directorial assistants, was right in my face with a revised agenda.
“You’ve got a meeting with the writers at one fifteen,” she rattled off in her usual rapid-fire way as we walked toward the soundstages. “After that, there’s a read-through with the cast, and then Finn wants the blocking completed for . . . hang on, he kept giving me different episode numbers . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. He emailed me.” I exhaled. The worst part of having a day off? Coming back to the chaos that ensued in my absence. “What time do I meet with him?”
“Just a second here . . .” She flipped through something on her tablet. “Two thirty.”
That seemed like enough time to get sufficiently caffeinated—at least enough to be borderline functional—so I settled a bit. The rest of the meetings would be easier to deal with. Or skate through, if need be. Not something I did frequently, so it wouldn’t be the end of the world if I—
I stopped dead as we stepped into Soundstage One. Emily nearly collided with me, and from the corner of my eye, I saw Jeremy catch her elbow and keep her from stumbling. But all I could think was . . .
There she is.
Natalya was dressed for comfort, and as always, rocked the look. Heavy work gloves obscured her elegant, talented, strong hands. The relaxed-fit jeans still hinted at the shape of her hips, and the unbuttoned white shirt over her purple tank top did nothing to mask her gentle curves.
Some women were convinced if they lifted weights—especially if they lifted heavy—they’d bulk up and look like bodybuilders. Natalya was living proof that the result of heavy lifting was nothing short of gorgeous. Every muscle was sculpted and powerful, but every inch of her physique was feminine and utterly mouthwatering. She looked nothing like a bodybuilder. No, Natalya looked like a woman who could kick some serious ass and then put on a dress and put every woman in Hollywood to shame.
And I’d had her. All to myself, all night long, in my bed with tequila in my blood and our clothes on the floor, I’d had her.
But where did we go from here?
Oh God. What had I done? It had made absolute sense in the moment. Hell, who was I kidding? I wouldn’t have even needed to be in a bad mood with veins full of booze to accept an advance from Natalya. I’d been crushing on her—apparently not as subtly as I’d thought—since the studio hired her on, and the other night was about a million fantasies come to life.
None of which changed the fact that it was still a really, really, really bad idea. No matter how much Carter and Levi tried to talk me off the ledge, I couldn’t ignore the fact that Natalya and I worked together. If it wasn’t my episode, I tried to be as hands-off as possible and let the director run things, because nothing made a director’s life harder than an executive producer stomping all over the production.
Nevertheless, whether I was acting in the capacity of a director or a producer, when I barked an order at her, she nodded sharply and passed it on to her crew without hesitation. Would that change now that we’d blurred some lines?
Yes, this was definitely too complicated since we worked together. And that was more than enough reason to end this without even mentioning my issues with her being bisexual, so maybe we could body-swerve th
at entire topic altogether.
We needed to talk, though. No two ways about it.
Question was . . . when? I wasn’t directing this episode, but she was working on it, so she was at Simon’s beck and call, and couldn’t stray far from the set without a damn good reason.
Well. She had breaks like everyone else—eventually—so the best thing I could hope for was to put a bug in her ear that we needed to talk and let her come to me.
As I moved from meeting to meeting, I kept an eye out for her, ready to pounce on the first opportunity that came along.
When it did, she was on the set, helping one of the stuntmen with his complex harness for an explosion sequence. We were filming the first few episodes of a new season, and this season was going to be even more amped up than the one before. So the action was getting bigger and more complicated—not to mention dangerous. Natalya and her crew were going to be busy for a while.
She said something and made a sharp gesture, and another stuntman murmured, “Yes, ma’am,” and jogged off. When she said “jump,” they said “how high, ma’am?” Even the producers and directors didn’t make waves in the stunt department if they could help it—nobody wanted to get on Natalya’s bad side.
With Jeremy on my heels, I approached where she was working. “Natalya?”
She spun around, features tight and hard as if she were ready to bite my head clean off. The instant our eyes met, though, she straightened, and her expression softened. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I managed a smile. “When you get a chance, could you come by my office?”
She glanced at the rig she’d been working on, and when she faced me again there was nothing but bone-deep seriousness in her eyes. “I’ll be there when I can. Probably an hour.”
Just as terse and professional as always. Maybe that was a good sign. Things didn’t have to get weird, did they?
“Sure. Whenever.”
I left her to her work and headed back to my office. Aside from meeting her there, I had plenty of work to do. Phone calls to make, meetings to schedule, bitchy emails from Finn Larson that needed immediate responses so the whole damned world didn’t end. Anything to keep my mind off the woman who’d been a walking, talking distraction even before I’d seen her naked.
I glanced at Jeremy to make sure he was there, and he was trying his level best not to smile.
“Not a word,” I said.
He showed his palms. “I didn’t say anything.”
“But you’re thinking it.”
“Thinking what?”
“You tell me.”
“Hey, you’re the one who’s accusing me of thinking something.”
I shot him a playful glare. “Because I know you.”
He burst out laughing. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He glanced past me, and his expression darkened a little. Brow pinched with sympathy, he said, “But I have a strong suspicion the next three words out of your mouth are going to be along the lines of ‘Fuck my life.’”
I cringed. “It’s Finn, isn’t it?”
Jeremy nodded.
“And he’s coming this way?”
Another nod.
“Looking at me?”
Again.
“Fuck my life.” I took a deep breath, schooled my expression, and turned around just as the be-Rolexed bastard producer stomped up to me. “Good—”
“Anna, this shooting schedule isn’t going to fly.” He shoved a file folder into my hand. “We need to condense these shoots so we keep the unions happy.”
And good morning to you too, asshole.
I rolled my eyes. “The unions? Or the bean counters at the studio?”
His lips thinned. “Look, we’re already pushing our luck with feature-film-level effects. The budget is—”
“This show is making the studio money hand over fucking fist,” I snapped. “And for your information, the union loves this schedule.” I shoved the file back toward him. “We’re well within union regs. No one’s working excessively long hours. What exactly are they bitching about?”
He scowled, and if I hadn’t been so annoyed with him, I’d have grinned smugly. Yeah, busted. He knew damn well I toed the line with all the unions involved with production, and in fact, tended to spread shoots out over multiple days rather than condense them into one long, long shoot. Yeah, it meant more money spent on labor, but it kept my people fresh and happy. And cut down on accidents.
Finn just didn’t like what it did to the show’s bottom line.
“Look, I know you don’t give a shit about the money,” he said through his overly whitened teeth. “But the studio—”
“Excuse me?” I stepped into his space and looked him right in the eye, distantly aware of Jeremy bristling behind me, as if he were bracing to step in. “I don’t give a shit about money? How about you don’t give a shit about the people who bust their asses out here and—”
“They know what they’re—”
“Finn. Jesus.” I barely kept my tone within the realms of professional. “Both of those scenes are incredibly physically taxing on the talent and the crew. We’ve got two dangerous stunts, and we’re dangling three people from a goddamn rafter. I’m not exhausting everyone to the point that mistakes happen and people get hurt.”
“Yeah, fine. Whatever.” He opened the folder and stabbed a finger at the schedule. “But look at this. You’ve got two fourteen-hour days for footage that could easily be filmed in one day. The way you have it, we’ve got to pay makeup artists twice as much, and—”
“And we won’t have to go back and reshoot because it was done sloppily thanks to everyone being rushed and fatigued during production.” I put up a hand. “Save it, Finn. You lost me when you tried to make me think the unions were unhappy with this. If the brass are bitching, go suck their dicks until they’re happy again, and then they’ll—”
“For fuck’s sake.” He shook his head and turned to go, shoving the folder under his arm as he went. I thought he muttered a choice name or two under his breath, but I let it go.
“I really think you should report that guy to OSHA,” Jeremy grumbled.
“Eh. Nothing he proposes is actually a violation of any codes or anything like that.”
“No, but I think he qualifies as a workplace hazard.”
I laughed. “Okay, that I can get behind.” We exchanged glances and chuckled. Then we continued toward my office.
Though the new soundstages had plenty of office space, I still had my rickety trailer outside the warehouse we’d been using when we first started shooting. Out here, I was separated from the noise and chaos of the set, and if a meeting got heated—which they often did, considering some of the egos involved in this production—the set was insulated from us too. Though that probably didn’t help the speculation that if Finn Larson ever turned up missing, they’d find his body in here.
Not far from the truth if he keeps being a dick.
I keyed us into the office. There were three scripts stacked on my desk, each with about four billion brightly colored tags and sticky notes sticking out from between the pages. Probably revisions for the episodes we’d sent back to the script writers a few weeks ago. Though they wouldn’t be filmed for quite a while, we had all learned how long the script writing process took with Hunter Easton involved, so we started working on them way in advance.
And Hunter had obviously had a look at these, since the tags were his trademark. Better than half of them probably said No, Fuck no, and Are you fucking kidding me? The sticky notes had likely come from Kevin and were slightly more diplomatic expression of No, Fuck no, and Are you fucking kidding me?
I laughed as I carefully arranged the scripts on top of all the other stacks of papers and folders amongst the clutter on my desk. The other producers usually tore their hair out when Hunter and Kevin dug their heels in over something. I didn’t mind it. In fact, I usually agreed with most of their comments, so it made my job a hell of a lot easier when the resistance ca
me from them instead of me. God bless Hunter for having the foresight to demand approval of every script for every episode.
What do you want me to do? I could innocently ask Finn with a straight face. Hunter won’t sign off on it if we do things your way. I know his vision is more expensive than yours, but if he won’t budge . . .
Some days, it was almost worth it to work with the asshole when I got to make him sputter like that.
“You know it scares me when you do that, right?” Jeremy jarred me out of my thoughts.
“Hmm? When I do what?”
Eyebrow arched, he gestured at me. “When you’re smirking like that for no apparent reason. It’s kind of terrifying.”
I laughed. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mm-hmm . . .” He regarded me suspiciously, but let the subject go.
I dropped into my chair and picked up one of the scripts. Since I wasn’t meeting with anyone for the moment, Jeremy hung out in the office, lounging in one of the chairs and playing on his phone while I read through the script and the myriad I don’t fucking think so notes from Hunter and Kevin. He faced the door, and he could roll to his feet in a heartbeat if someone came in here who didn’t belong.
While he played Angry Birds or whatever, I had work to do. Calls to make. All the shit that piled up while I was directing one episode and had to be caught up before I started directing the next one. Sometimes I thought the period between episodes was the worst—instead of the long hours on the set, it was long hours of wanting to choke someone through the phone or give Finn Larson a lethal paper cut in between slogging through reams of forms and crap.
The air conditioner hummed in the background, the fan clicking intermittently. That click usually drove me nuts, but today I could barely hear it over my thumping heart. Natalya would be along eventually. And I had things I needed to do, and I needed to concentrate on them now, but would I be able to focus with this conversation hanging over my head? Would I be able to focus afterward?
God, I was a mess. What the hell? So we’d had sex. I’d had one-nighters before. Levi and I had even dated while working on a film together eons ago, and that might’ve worked out if we’d been straight. There was no reason it couldn’t work. Right?