by Ember Casey
“What?” His head snaps up, his gaze locking on mine, and for a moment I waver slightly under the full intensity of that look.
But I won’t let him take the upper hand again. So I simply smile and say, “You heard me.”
And then I leave without looking back.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The movies lie. They make it look so easy and empowering to walk away from the guy who gets your panties in a twist. In reality, you spend the whole time alternating between wanting to run back to him and berating yourself for being an idiot. I don’t feel empowered at all. Just a little nauseated, actually. And sweaty, of course.
The movies don’t usually focus much on the time after the whole “walking away” thing, either—at least not enough to prepare me for the torture of the next couple of days. In the movies, the girl makes her big exit, then she waits smugly for the man to realize what he has to lose. One grand romantic gesture later, and the two of them are free to live happily ever after.
In reality, the girl doesn’t feel so smug. In fact, she probably eats an entire sleeve of sandwich cookies by herself. And tries to distract herself with hours of cute puppy videos online. And then replays their one toe-curling kiss over and over again in her head until she’s so tingly that she can’t think straight. Eventually, she turns to her journal, and she writes a bunch of nonsense about how the guy is going to regret ever turning her down. Which inevitably turns into her doodling his picture with hearts all around it, just like some love-sick fourteen-year-old.
I’ve mentioned I’m a mess, haven’t I?
Stop being an idiot, I tell myself, staring down at my latest sketch of Orlando. The eyes are completely wrong, but I’m beginning to suspect I’ll never be able to capture them perfectly.
Leave it to you to develop a silly crush on a celebrity. He’s Orlando Fontaine, for fuck’s sake! It’s not like you ever had a real chance with him! Why would he break his policy for some ordinary girl? Take the kiss for what it is—a good story. The thing you’ll brag about to all your friends. How many women can say they caught the eye, however briefly, of one of the Fontaines? That they know how soft Orlando’s lips are, or what it feels like to have his hands in their hair?
But it’s not just a silly crush. Orlando was kind enough to pay off my parents’ debt—which is no insignificant thing—and hire a security guard to look out for me. Maybe he has no interest in seeing my panties again, but this would be a lot easier if the man were some sort of heartless bastard.
It’s been two days of this. Two days of my emotions swinging up and down, two days of trying to distract myself from my scattered daydreams. I’ve sent out another twenty resumes. Binge-watched an entire season of some terrible sitcom I found online. I even read Henry VI, Part 3, and it was every bit as brilliant as Orlando said it would be.
With a sigh, I look up and stare out through the living room window. The security guard is sitting in his car next to the curb. The sedan’s door is marked with the logo for Peach State Security, and the man has done at least two laps of the building already this morning. I pull my sketchbook closer and do a quick doodle of the car and the guard.
I’m just putting the finishing touches on the tires when my phone rings. I recognize the area code as Californian, so I suspect it’s someone from the production, calling to update me on the new schedule.
“Hello?” I say, shoving the phone beneath my ear and picking up my pencil again. “Maggie Blankenship speaking.”
“Maggie.”
I freeze, recognizing Orlando’s voice immediately.
“H-hey,” I stutter. Act cool, you idiot. “How are you?” I want to smack myself for the words as soon as they’re out of my mouth. How do I think he is? He’s scrambling to get his film back on track. And I’m the distraction, the girl with the sob story about a sick father who tried to make him forget his no-sex policy at work. If my life is complicated, then his is even worse.
“I wanted to call and tell you that we’ll be reshooting your first scene tomorrow. Back at the Peachtree building.”
“Oh, okay.” I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed that that’s the reason he called.
“You still want to be in the movie, don’t you?” he asks.
I frown. “Why wouldn’t I?”
That question hangs in the silence between us for a moment. Oh. Of course. I rush on before he can answer for me.
“There’s no reason for either of us to feel embarrassed,” I tell him. “If I survived throwing my panties at you and almost getting run over by a car, then I can survive what happened on Sunday.” I don’t even mention the whole Ford thing, but that’s an entirely different can of worms.
Orlando’s tone gives nothing away. “I never doubted your resilience, Maggie. I just wanted to make sure I hadn’t scared you off.”
“It takes more than a kiss to scare me,” I reply. “Quite the opposite.”
His response is a warm, deep chuckle that sets my blood racing.
“Oh, Panty Girl,” he says. “I should have known from the moment you walked onto my set that you’d keep me on my toes. If things were different… If you weren’t a part of my film…”
“If I weren’t a part of your film, you wouldn’t even know who I am,” I point out. “I’d just be some normal girl looking for a job and spending her Saturday nights streaming reality TV in her yoga pants. You’d still be Orlando Fontaine. You wouldn’t look twice at me if we passed on the street.”
“You don’t know that,” he says. “If you’d flung your panties at me in the middle of the sidewalk I’m pretty sure I would have looked twice.”
In spite of myself, I smile. “You know what I mean.”
“What I know is that I haven’t been able to forget about the taste of you since that kiss.”
My knees immediately go all wobbly. “I haven’t been able to forget it, either.”
“I shouldn’t have kissed you,” he continues. “Normally I have more self-control than that. I could blame the stress of these last few days. Or the fact that I’ve had less than ten hours’ sleep since Friday. But when you bounded in there, looking at me as if I’d hung the moon in the sky for you…I couldn’t help myself.”
I sink deeper into the couch, hardly able to breathe.
“But that doesn’t change anything,” he continues. “My personal policy still stands. It must.”
“I understand,” I tell him. And I do, mostly. But that doesn’t keep me from feeling a longing ache in my gut. Or from replaying our kiss yet again in my mind.
“Believe me, Maggie,” he continues, his voice slightly rougher than before, “under different circumstances, we’d be having a very different conversation right now.”
“What would…” I let that thought trail off as my cheeks get hot. I might have felt brazen the last time we spoke, but it’s much harder after torturing myself for the last two days.
“What?” he prompts.
“I was just wondering…” I swallow. “How would it be different under different circumstances? What would you say to me?”
He hesitates. For a moment I wonder if I’ve pushed things too far, but then I hear the long exhalation of his breath on the other end of the call.
“You don’t want to know what I’d say to you, Maggie.”
Something in his voice makes me squeeze my thighs together. “Try me.”
He chuckles again, and my heart speeds up. “You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?”
“No.” My courage is building again. After all, I’ve already embarrassed myself plenty in front of this man—what more do I have to lose?
“Maggie…”
He says my name like a caress, and I’m glad I’m sitting down. I’m not sure my legs would support me.
“Maggie, if you weren’t working on my film, the devil himself couldn’t keep me from kissing you again.”
“Just kissing?”
Another wicked chuckle. “Far more than kissing. Bu
t we’d start there.”
I tug at the corner of one of the sofa cushions. “And then?”
He pauses. “Where are you right now?”
“At home. On the couch.”
“Are you alone?” His voice is thick, even a little rough.
“Yes,” I tell him. “All alone.”
Another pause. “You can still hang up, Maggie.”
“No,” I tell him. “I’d rather hear what you’d do to me after the kissing.”
I can sense him struggling with himself, even though his end of the line is silent. I didn’t mean for things to go this far, but now that we’re here, I don’t know how to stop.
Finally, he speaks again, and his voice is so raw he almost sounds like someone else.
“You know what I’d do, Maggie,” he tells me.
“Maybe.” My own voice sounds strangely high in my ears. “But I’d prefer if you’d spell it out for me. So I can imagine it.”
That gets me a response that sounds almost like a growl.
“You know just what you’re doing to me, don’t you?” he says, amusement warring with the hunger in his voice. “Very well—after I kissed you, I’d peel all your clothes off piece by piece, assuming you let me.”
“I’d let you.” My words sound like a sigh, and he chuckles again.
“Good. Because if circumstances were different, I’d have every intention of getting you naked.”
“As long as you let me strip you, too.” I’m feeling bolder and bolder by the second.
This time he doesn’t just chuckle, he laughs openly. But the heat remains in his voice when he speaks again.
“You can strip me,” he promises. “But I get to touch you first.”
“Mm-hmm,” I say, letting my eyes flutter closed.
“I’d kiss my way down your throat to your breasts,” he goes on. “Slowly…just to torture you a little.”
“You bastard,” I whisper back, my hand moving involuntarily across my stomach and up toward my breasts.
“I’d take my time with you.” The amusement is still thick in his voice. “I’d wait until you were already trembling and panting before I let my lips even brush one of your nipples.”
A sigh escapes me, and I stop myself just short of touching my nipple through my shirt.
“Then I’d slowly work my way down your body,” he continues in that raw voice, “exploring every inch of you. Kissing my way across your stomach, over your bellybutton, then down between—” His voice cuts off abruptly, and I hear someone say something in the background.
“I’ll be out in just a minute,” Orlando says to the other person. “Go grab Karen and tell her to meet me there.” A moment later, he’s speaking into the phone again. “Maggie, I apologize, but—”
“You have to go,” I whisper, still trying to catch my breath. “Don’t worry. I understand.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow?” he asks.
“I can’t wait.”
He laughs softly once more before disconnecting the call. And I’m left breathless and sprawling on my brother’s couch.
What the heck just happened? My heart is still fluttering, my skin still hot all over. I basically just had the beginnings of phone sex with Orlando Fontaine. I don’t even know how to process this. Orlando Fontaine wants me. And I want him. And we can’t do a damn thing about it as long as he maintains that personal policy of his.
I wanted some excitement in my life, and I definitely got it.
* * *
When I arrive at set the next day, I tell myself I’m ready to face him. I mean, there’s no reason to be embarrassed by my crush anymore, right? There’s no longer any question that he wants me, at least on a physical level. The minute I walk into the office building, though, I feel like someone is squeezing me by the esophagus. My pulse is galloping so fast I feel like I might be having a heart attack.
Calm down, I tell myself. He’s just a man. You’ve had crushes before. None like this, though. And it has nothing to do with the fact that Orlando is rich and famous or any of that. I’ve never had such a strong physical reaction to a guy right from the start—not even with Hunter, the guy I dated all the way through grad school. Normally that’s the sort of thing that builds over time as I get to know someone. I’m the girl who waits until the end of the third date to kiss, let alone do anything more than that. Orlando and I have only seen each other a small handful of times—none of which were actually a date, not by any stretch of the imagination—but I’ve already thrown myself at him. And heard what he wants to do to my nipples.
I manage to put on a smile for the other members of the cast and crew I pass. Even Karen, who gives me the usual once-over before directing me out to the makeup tent.
Penny and the rest of her team seem genuinely excited to see me. All they want to chat about is the incident with Ford, though. Apparently the entire production is drowning in rumors about it, though thankfully no one knows many of the details. They know that Ford attacked someone, and they know that the patrol cars and extra security vehicles staked outside are watching for him, but that’s about it. I don’t offer up any additional information. I do have some questions, though.
“Did they cast a replacement?” I ask.
“Christian Tremont,” Penny says. “He’s a step up, if you ask me.”
“Mm-hmm,” Phoenix agrees. There’s a chorus of assent from the others.
I have to concur. Christian Tremont is a much bigger actor than Ford Grand—big enough that I’m surprised he stepped in on such short notice. I’m not the only one who finds that odd.
“I hear he owes Orlando a favor,” Jade puts in. “From some past project they worked on together.”
Phoenix raises an eyebrow. “Really? I heard it was more of a personal favor.”
That starts them all speculating again, but no one knows the truth.
“Are they really friends, though?” Penny asks. “I thought he might be the reason for that weird memo.”
“No way. That memo was about Ford,” Phoenix replies.
“Wait, what weird memo?” I ask.
“Oh, you’ll enjoy this,” Penny tells me. “Apparently excessive flirting is no longer permitted on this production during working hours. Whatever that means.”
“It’s stupid. Who gets to be the judge on what’s excessive?” Jade asks. “How do you even enforce that?”
“It’s infringing on our rights either way,” Phoenix adds.
Penny shrugs. “I just want to know why they felt the need to make this rule in the first place.” She gives me a meaningful look, but I just shrug back at her.
“Probably something Ford did, if I had to guess,” I tell them.
Inside, though, I’m cringing. Please let this be about Ford, and not about the way I practically threw myself at Orlando. I would just die.
They move on to other gossip while Penny finishes my makeup, and I try not to think about what this new rule might mean. It might not even come from Orlando—maybe Karen instituted it. Or maybe it has nothing to do with me at all.
Another mystery, I think as I survey my finished makeup in the mirror. I look almost exactly the same as I did on my very first day, down to the same cranberry-red lipstick. I smile at my reflection before hurrying off to set.
It’s controlled chaos, as usual. I stand near the windows, my eyes searching the bustling crowd for Orlando. I don’t see him, but I do spot Omar Walson sitting in a canvas chair off to the side. Next to him is his new costar, Christian Tremont.
Christian, all things considered, bears many similarities to Ford—height, build, brown hair. But while Ford had the too-polished look of a game show host, Christian is a little more rugged around the edges. His teeth aren’t nearly as white, his face not as perfectly symmetrical, but somehow those imperfections make him far more attractive.
Omar and Christian chat quietly with each other, and though I consider creeping closer and eavesdropping on them, I don’t get the chance. Just as I take a
step in their direction, Orlando’s voice carries through the lobby.
“Okay, everyone. We’ve got a long day ahead of us, so let’s get this started.”
My heart leaps at the sound of his voice. I turn, scanning the crowd for him, and that fist-squeezing-my-esophagus feeling returns when I see him striding through the cameras and crew. He glances my way only briefly, but the heat in his gaze is so strong that I’m surprised the rest of the room doesn’t feel it.
Well, at least that answers the question of whether or not I-wanna-fuck-you looks are still allowed, I think. Go, Panty Girl! But he’s already looking away from me again, walking over to where Omar and Christian are sitting. He chats with them briefly, then gestures for them to come over in front of the cameras.
I try not to be too obvious about the fact that my gaze is following Orlando’s every move. He glances at me once more before taking his seat in the director’s chair, and the shadow of a smile appears on his lips before his usual intensity takes over.
And then it’s time to begin.
The scene goes well this time around. Christian is a much better actor than Ford ever was, and I wonder again what induced him to join this production on such short notice. Does he owe Orlando something? Orlando doesn’t seem to be treating him any different than anyone else.
Even though things are going well, though, the scene still takes most of the morning. And I end up making a lot of doodles on the tablet in my hands. A few of Christian, of course—new subjects are always fun—and then several of a silly masked girl wearing a pair of frilly underwear over a leotard marked with a giant “P.” Panty Girl to the rescue!
By the time the lunch break rolls around, I’ve drawn Panty Girl in a number of ridiculous situations. In one she’s saving a cat from a tree. In another she’s using a giant pair of panties as a parachute after jumping out of a burning plane. In still another she’s cutting off Ford Grand’s balls with a chainsaw. I’m a little creatively exhausted.
Omar and Christian seem just as ready for a break. They turn around so quickly that Christian runs right into me. The tablet falls from my hands to the tiled floor.