I jump at least a foot in the air, barely managing not to spill my coffee all over the place. “Jesus, Lizzie, you scared the shit out of me.”
She shoves her hands in her back pockets and glares at me. “What are you doing here, Em? You know you’re not on the schedule.”
“Can’t a girl just swing by set and see how the filming of her movie is coming along?”
“She can. But she very pointedly hasn’t done so yet, so that’s obviously not what’s happening here.”
Damn her for knowing me so well. Note to self: don’t work with best friend on future projects.
I take an innocent sip of my coffee. “I merely wanted to see how the cast is doing in their scenes without me.”
“And by the cast, do you mean Grayson?” She rubs at the furrowed lines on her forehead. I should feel bad for clearly causing her stress.
I should, but I don’t. “Maybe.”
She sighs, letting her hands fall to her hips in a way so alarmingly like my mother I almost recoil. “Do you promise to stay quiet and out of the way?”
“That’s my whole plan. He’ll never know I was here.”
“Why do I not see that not coming to fruition?” she mutters under her breath, already turning away from me.
“Love you!” I whisper-shout the words to her retreating back and am slightly offended when she doesn’t return the sentiment. “Rude.”
Grayson and Brian take their places on set a minute later, huddled with Deidre as they go over notes for the scene. The three of them are smiling and laughing while Deidre walks them through the blocking, almost as if they enjoy working together. But surely no one can feel that way about Grayson after the performances he’s been delivering.
But man. There is a lot of flannel, and a lot of forearms, happening on set today. Both men are dressed in worn jeans and plaid button-downs with the sleeves rolled up. Brian is a good-looking guy, but after a quick once-over, my eyes stray from him to Grayson and they can’t seem to move after that, stuck on the corded muscles and dusting of golden hair covering his arms—and the grin on his face and lightness in his eyes. I take in all the foreign details, purely for research. Because he is my subject, and I am a super-stealth spy and all.
It doesn’t take long for today’s team to get everything ready for filming, and after a quick blocking run-through, Liz calls action and I perk up, pulling my attention away from the way Grayson’s jeans hug his thighs and focusing instead on the scene as a whole.
And really, it’s quite touching. I love writing male characters who share their emotions, not just with their love interests but also with their friends and families. And seeing it come to life, live and right in front of me, well, it makes my heart feel all squishy and warm.
That warmth could also be due to the burning rage currently coursing through my veins.
Because what thefuck.
Grayson is nailing this scene. Like, he is giving exactly what I imagined in my head when I wrote it, but somehow better? Even more perfect? He’s taking my words and improving them with his performance. And it should be a gratifying thing to watch.
Instead, I’m fucking furious.
I don’t even finish my coffee.
When the guys wrap for the day, Brian sticks around, chatting with Deidre about who even cares what. My attention is solely on Grayson fucking West. I stalk after him when he strides off set, super-stealth mode deactivated.
He ducks into the wardrobe room, and after furtively checking the hallway to be sure no one sees me, I barge in after him, closing and locking the door behind me.
“What the actual fu—” I spit out the words as I’m turning from the door, but the last syllable lodges itself in my throat.
Because by the time I turn, Grayson has already startedto change, his flannel shirt unbuttoned and hanging open, revealing the entirety of his ridiculous chest and abs.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Grayson doesn’t move to cover himself up, because why would you when you look like that. He does shoot a glare my way though.
A glare that makes my toes curl. In anger, obviously. Pure anger. “What the hell was that?” I gesture helplessly in the direction of the set, trying and failing to tear my eyes from the ripples of his stomach.
“What the hell was what?” He crosses his arms over his chest, partially blocking my view, but also enhancing the cords of his forearms.
“That. Out there. What was that?”
He smirks and takes a step in my direction. “That is called acting, Emmy. You might have heard of it, even if you don’t seem to be familiar with the practice.”
