by Ember Casey
Twisting my head, I look over at him. He’s still on his back, his eyes closed, and his face is the picture of satisfaction. Whatever he felt upon seeing his father is gone, at least for the moment. I consider asking him about it—after all, I, of all people, understand what he’s going through, but I decide against it.
I was able to help ease his suffering, and right now, that’s enough.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Life in Orlando Fontaine’s mansion is pretty amazing.
Now that we’re allowed to have sex, there’s nothing stopping us from doing it all the time. And trust me, we take full advantage. Despite the fact that I’m technically “staying” in the guest room, I end up in Orlando’s bed every night. We go at it first thing every morning, too. And sometimes throughout the day. It all depends on his schedule.
Production for Death and Deadly Night has picked up again. Even though principal filming is done, there’s still lots for Orlando to do, which means sometimes I’m left alone for hours at a time while he works. I try to take advantage of that time as much as possible, either taking in some of the sights of L.A. or relaxing by Orlando’s pool. Most days, I feel like a movie star.
People would kill to live like this for a day, I find myself thinking one afternoon as I float in the pool and stare up at the clouds overhead. I wanted an extraordinary life, and I found it. Who’d have thought that the girl who spent the last year living on her brother’s sofa would find herself here?
But I can’t ignore the creeping feeling of satisfaction in the back of my mind. None of this is actually mine. I didn’t earn any of it, and I’m certainly not paying for it, unless you count all the sex, which I’d rather not think of that way. All of this belongs to someone else, which means it can all be taken away at a moment’s notice.
And it’s not really the stuff that matters, anyway. Sure, it’s pretty fun to wash myself in a giant shower with half a dozen different shower heads spraying me from all sides. And it’s amazing to snuggle deep into a buttery leather sofa in front of the biggest TV I’ve ever seen. But I’d give those things up in a heartbeat. The reason I’m here—all I’ve ever longed for—was a little excitement in my life. The thrill that comes with taking a leap and living fully. I found that the moment I walked onto the Death and Deadly Night set. And I feel it again every time Orlando walks into the room.
And that’s the problem. This was supposed to be about living, about breaking out of my rut, but the more time I spend with Orlando—whether we’re making love or talking about Shakespeare or floating together in his pool—the more this is becoming something else. My crush has developed roots. I’m starting to feel real things.
Which wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing, if Orlando were an ordinary guy back in Atlanta. But he’s not. He’s a celebrity, a famous director practically married to his work. And he’s going through a personal crisis concerning his father’s health, and I’m simply his distraction. I’m happy to help take his mind off of things—especially if it’s as delicious as our sexual encounters usually are—but I can’t afford to get emotionally involved.
I’m not an idiot. What’s the best-case scenario here? That he falls madly in love with me? What would happen then? I live on the other side of the country. All my family’s there. And let’s be realistic—I’m a nobody. A girl who happened to be in the right place at the right time, who happened to catch Orlando Fontaine’s eye because I accidentally threw my panties at him. I’m not the sort of girl who actually ends up with one of the Fontaine brothers.
But I try not to let myself mope. Whenever I find myself worrying about where this is going, I just shove the feelings down, reminding myself that I’m lucky to be here at all.
And so the days tick by, lazy and dreamlike.
On day six after arriving in L.A., I visit the Hollywood Walk of Fame and Orlando teaches me that he can do things with his tongue that I’ve never even dreamed of.
On day nine, I take a long, leisurely walk around Orlando’s very fancy neighborhood and later we have sex on literally every piece of furniture in his living room.
On day eleven, I spend the morning strolling on Hollywood Boulevard, the afternoon napping by the pool, and the evening perfecting a very complicated sexual position that leaves both Orlando and me aching and sore the next day. People weren’t lying when they named him a sexual fiend.
Day fourteen starts out like most others. I spend the day occupying myself, trying to keep my mind off the complicated tangle of feelings in my chest, and by midafternoon I’m out at the pool. After swimming a few laps, I settle down in one of the lounge chairs with my journal, still trying desperately to keep my mind occupied. After some consideration, I decide to doodle the spiky plant in the pot next to the chair. It looks a little like something you’d expect to find on an alien planet, so I use that as inspiration, drawing a whole garden of alien plants, plus some spiky-headed alien gardeners to tend them.
That’s where Orlando finds me when he arrives half an hour later. I’m so absorbed in my work that I don’t even notice he’s there until his shadow falls across my page.
“Hey,” I say, beaming up at him.
“What’s this?” He cocks his head, looking down at my journal. “It looks like some sort of fantasy world.”
“Close. It’s an alien garden.” I laugh and raise my notebook to give him a closer look. “It’s weird, I know. But sometimes you just have to run with an idea. That’s the spirit of doodling.”
“Have you ever thought about making a comic? Or a graphic novel?” He’s still studying my journal. “This might even work as an illustration for a children’s book.”
I pull my notebook back. “Oh, no. This is just a doodle. For comics or even children’s books, you need an actual story. Like you told me once before, sometimes you have to know where your true talent lies. And where it doesn’t.” I quickly close my journal and tuck it under my towel.
He’s currently backlit, a dark shape against the bright sky, but I can still see the heavy lines around his eyes. I’m beginning to learn what that means.
“Did you get more news about your father?” I ask him.
He shrugs. “More of the same.”
I frown. “How is Death and Deadly Night coming? What were you working on today?”
In answer, he reaches down and scoops me up.
“I don’t want to talk about that right now,” he tells me, carrying me toward the house. “I have something more fun in mind.”
It turns out what he has in mind is to take me up to the shower and soap up each other’s naked bodies. And then turn me around against the shower wall and join with me from behind until I’m crying tears of pure pleasure. By the time we stumble out of the shower again, I feel both cleaner and dirtier than I have in a long time. And I’m beginning to think it’s a miracle that I can still walk after two weeks with this man.
I’m drying off in front of the mirror when Orlando comes up behind me. His golden eyes meet mine in the mirror as he reaches around and cups my breasts through the thick towel. He isn’t wearing a towel at all.
“I have an idea,” he says into my ear. “Why don’t we get dressed up and you let me take you to dinner?”
My heart leaps. “Like a real date?”
“Yes, like a real date. How does that sound?”
“It sounds amazing,” I tell him.
“Good. Do you think you can be ready in forty-five minutes?”
Oh yes, I can. I dart off to the guest bedroom—all of my clothes are still there, even though I spend every night in Orlando’s room—and grab the one nice dress I packed. It’s a lovely dusty pink color that makes my skin look like peaches and cream. Then I blow dry my hair and do my makeup the way Penny showed me. I have to admit, the girl staring back at me in the mirror looks pretty damn hot.
Orlando seems to think so, too. His eyes darken when I come down the stairs, but I almost miss it when I see how amazing he looks in his button-down shirt and dark slacks. E
ven his wavy hair has been tamed, more or less. I’ve always found him drool-worthy, but this extra bit of care to his appearance—for me—makes me want to suggest postponing the dinner and diving back into the shower again.
He’s clearly following a similar train of thought.
“You look ravishing,” he tells me, offering me his arm. “You’re lucky I don’t tear off your dress and fuck you right here on the staircase.”
“I’m lucky you don’t?” I tease. “I might have to teach you a thing or two about luck, Mr. Fontaine.”
He laughs, pulling me closer to his side as he leads me out the door.
The restaurant he’s chosen for us is opulent and chic, with black chandeliers casting soft light on mirrored tables. He doesn’t even have to say a word to the hostess—she takes one look at him and leads us to a secluded table near one of the dark-tinted windows.
I can’t believe I’m on a date with Orlando Fontaine! I resist the urge to twist around and stare at everything. There are nice restaurants in Atlanta, even trendy ones, but they’re not the sort of places you frequent when you’re single and unemployed.
To my surprise—and relief—most people ignore us. Maybe they recognize Orlando or maybe they don’t, but either way, he told the truth when he said that he doesn’t usually have paparazzi or crazy fans following him around everywhere. At least I don’t have to worry about people gawking at me or wondering who I am.
“So, what’s good here?” I ask, finally looking at the menu. It’s been so long since I’ve been on a real date that I’m not sure I remember how to do it. Add in the fact that my date is a celebrity, and I’m way out of my depth. And right on cue, I start to sweat.
Say “Yes!” to new opportunities! I remind myself. Embrace your extraordinary new life!
“The lobster is always delicious,” Orlando tells me. “The filet mignon, too. If you’re looking for something a little lighter, the ravioli is quite good.”
I shift, trying to surreptitiously air out my armpits while my eyes scroll down the menu. My nerves are kicking in, threatening to take over, but I fight them down.
You wanted this, I tell myself. You wanted to be more than a distraction to him! This is your chance to take things to the next level! But that’s exactly the problem—a real date means it’s okay to let my real feelings come into play. And real feelings are just fuel for my nerves.
“Are you okay?” he asks, leaning over and placing his hand on mine. “You look unwell.”
“I’m fine,” I tell him, smiling. “I’m just overwhelmed by all the choices.”
“Why don’t you get the lobster?” he suggests. “And I’ll get the ravioli. And we can share.”
“Sounds great.” The decision made, I set my menu down again. But I’m still feeling flushed all over.
Come on, sweat glands, I think. Can’t you give Panty Girl a break for one night? At least it’s already giving me an idea for my next set of doodles, in which the beautiful Panty Girl must face down the evil Dr. Pit Stains.
Orlando squeezes my hand again, concern in his golden eyes. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Just fine.” I widen my smile. “Can we order some wine? I’d love a glass of white.”
“Of course.” He flags down a waiter and puts in the order immediately, and moments later we have a bottle at our table.
I take my full glass gratefully. Maybe once I have a little buzz, I’ll stop freaking out so much.
“So,” I say after a nice, long sip. “You haven’t told me how things are going on Death and Deadly Night.”
“Fairly well, all things considered. We’re back on schedule, but there are always a couple of snags at this stage in the game. And we still have a few legal things to deal with concerning Ford Grand.”
I must make some sort of involuntary reaction, because Orlando suddenly looks worried.
“Forgive me,” he says. “I shouldn’t have mentioned him.”
“No, I should probably know.” I make myself sit a little straighter. “Has anyone seen or heard from him?”
Orlando shakes his head. “Not to my knowledge. But I have people looking.” His eyes darken and he reaches out and laces his fingers through mine. “I won’t let anything happen to you, Maggie. I won’t let him anywhere near you.”
“I know.” Maybe he’s right—this isn’t a good date topic. “But otherwise things are going well? With the movie, I mean?”
He nods. “I’ll be glad when it’s over, though. Don’t get me wrong—I love my job. I remind myself every day how lucky I am. But there’s always a point in the process where the exhaustion sets in. Just because I love it doesn’t mean it isn’t stressful. And a body can only take so much stress before you really start to feel the strain.”
“That explains all the hot sex.”
His eyebrows rise.
“All the hot sex we’ve been having,” I clarify. “And your reputation for turning into a complete sexual addict when you’re making a movie.”
“Ah, yes.” He flashes me a devilish grin. “I’ve been enjoying that quite a bit. And I’m grateful to you.” His fingers tighten on mine. “You have no idea how much you’ve helped. I don’t want to think about what I’d do without such a pleasurable outlet.”
The way he’s looking at me makes my nipples prickle. I almost expect him to lean across the table and ask me to indulge in another round of that pleasure right here. It doesn’t exactly help the whole sweat situation, but at least I’m moderately distracted by some of the sensations forming between my legs.
“Orlando?”
The high, sugary voice makes both of us look up. Nadia Sweet is standing next to the table in a minidress that barely covers her gorgeous curves. She glances at me, then looks quickly back at Orlando, barely hiding her sneer.
“I didn’t know you were back in town already,” she says to him, batting her eyelashes. “You told me you’d call me when you returned.”
“Ah, yes. I’m sorry,” Orlando says, withdrawing his hand from mine. “Forgive me, Nadia, but things have been a little chaotic these past few weeks. It slipped my mind.”
“I can see that.” Another quick flick of her eyes in my direction. “Well, don’t hesitate to reach out. You know how much I enjoy our time together.” She reaches over and caresses his cheek. “Enjoy your meal. I imagine you have quite the appetite.” Flipping her bouncy golden hair over her shoulder, she struts back across the restaurant without waiting for a response.
I can’t help myself—I watch her walk away, my eyes following her all the way to her table on the far side of the room. She’s sitting with two other women who are just as willowy and beautiful—probably some of her model friends.
“I’m sorry you had to witness that,” Orlando says behind me.
I twist back around.
“It’s not your fault,” I assure him, still picturing the possessive way she stroked his cheek. But the doubts linger in my head. “Did you say you’d call her?”
“I may have,” he says with a shrug. “Honestly, I don’t remember. Nadia and I have always had a very…casual relationship. No commitment, no rules. As I told you before, we’re old friends, and that arrangement has always worked for us.”
I lean back in my chair. “I see.”
“Not like that,” he assures me, reaching out and slipping his fingers through mine again. “She and I agreed we were just having fun, nothing more. Honestly, if I thought she’d get jealous over seeing me with another woman, I would have ended things with her long ago.”
“And what about me?” I ask him. “What would you do if I got jealous? Would you end things with me?”
To my surprise, his mouth actually twists up on one side. “You’re jealous?”
“I didn’t say that.” I grab my glass with my free hand and take a sip of wine, trying to gather my thoughts. “But hypothetically, what if I were? What would you do?” After all, I’m just her replacement, aren’t I? The girl who stepped in when his usua
l “distraction” flew back to L.A.
His gaze is searching, his eyes burning far too deep into me.
“I’d tell you you have nothing to worry about,” he says finally. “That Nadia could walk over here completely naked and spread herself across the table and that I’d still have eyes only for you.” He lifts my hand halfway toward his mouth. “I’d tell you that since the moment I saw you in that dress, I’ve thought of little else but how much I want to tear it off you again. That I’ve spent most of this date so far wondering whether you’re wearing panties or not.”
All the blood rushes to my cheeks. “Now you’re just teasing me.”
“I’d never tease you, Panty Girl.” He lifts my hand the rest of the way to his lips and kisses the backs of my fingers. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
I have an idea, at least. And it’s a service I’m happy to provide. Heck, my nipples are hard as pebbles beneath my dress, and I’m currently squeezing my thighs together much tighter than necessary. All because he’s touching me.
But is that enough?
I can almost feel Nadia’s gaze on us from across the room. Maybe she’s actually jealous, or maybe this was simply a play for attention. Either way, though, I don’t want to be another Nadia to Orlando. I want something more.
I want something more. Admitting that to myself, without restraint, makes me feel sick.
Orlando is looking concerned again. “Maggie, I—”
“Have you two decided what you’d like to order?” our waiter says, appearing out of nowhere.
I pull my hand out of Orlando’s and sit back again. He orders for us, and while he’s distracted, I throw a quick glance toward Nadia’s table. Shockingly, she’s not glaring daggers at me. Instead, she’s laughing at something one of her friends has said, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m looking her way.
Maybe she did just want the attention. Or maybe, feelings aside, she’s afraid of losing her friends-with-benefits situation. I know firsthand how good Orlando is in bed.