“Exactly.” She drops her hand to mine just as I reach the hem of her cotton dress, her thumb gently stroking along the top. “I’ll still send you recordings, of course. Especially if there are script updates. And I’ll still need someone for choreography training.”
“You could just admit you want more time with me.” I squeeze her thigh, digging my fingers into her strong quads.
“Your ego is truly something else.”
“I’m looking forward to our new arrangement.”
“We seem to be making a habit of cutting deals.” She scooches her chair closer to mine until our knees are touching.
“Hey,” I reach forward, cupping her jaw. “Can we acknowledge your first executive producer credit? That’s fucking incredible.”
She exhales, leaning her face into my touch. “I know. It feels like a dream. I should tell my parents. Maybe I can fly out tomorrow. But first, we should definitely see if Amara will be on board.”
“Let’s call her now.”
“Yes, please.”
I stare at her brown eyes a second more before dropping my hand and retrieving my phone. Her fingers brush mine as she takes it, and I’m struck by how such a small touch can feel like a freefall, how I’m starting to crave these small touches constantly.
“Show them what you’re made of, fighter.”
Chapter 26
Reese
September 19th
Langford Reveals All: The Real Story BehindRobyn Hoodand Sinclair’s Nightmare Behavior
The Louisiana sunbeats down as I relax on Mama’s wraparound porch, the humidity shimmering above the pool. The same pool that terrified me as a child now feels like another part of home, like the gardenias Mama tends to obsessively in her wide-brimmed hat.
My phone buzzes against the wrought iron table, making the mason jar of tea wobble, ice clinking against the glass.
It’s an email with Amara’s contract.
I open up my text thread with Dante.
Reese
OH MY GOODNESS
Amara’s team sent over the contract! We start filming next week!
Thank you for making this happen.
Dante
Don’t sell yourself short. Mari practically swooned for you.
Reese
Still processing this!
I find myself daydreaming about him here, sprawled across Mama’s precious white wicker furniture like some sort of beautiful catastrophe. His tattoos, rings shinning under the sunlight. Those eyes of his, gold and knowing, would stir up the neighborhood ladies for the rest of the year. And oh, the way the scent of his skin would drift through the humid Louisiana air, making Mama reach for her smelling salts, sneaking glances over her monogrammed fan like a schoolgirl with a secret.
He’d be like an ink stain on a pristine tablecloth. Deliciously out of place.
“Baby,” Mama says, easing into her rocking chair with a glass of sweet tea. Her ice cubes dance against crystal like wind chimes. “You’ve been making eyes at that phone like it’s whispering sweet nothings. Your daddy’s going to start to fret.”
