Sometimes that talking, that asking for what I want, turns into more conversation. I’ve never been big on talking during sex, aside from the occasional harder/faster/more-type instructions, but with Grayson, it’s somehow easier to chat when he’s buried deep inside me.
And you know what they say: if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. So I’m not fixing it. I’m not doing anything to disruptthis precarious work-life-sex balance-beam act we’ve got going on.
Between all the sex and actually working, I haven’t had nearly as much time to explore the town of Pine Springs as I would’ve liked. As a born and bred Angeleno, I have a fascination with small towns, and even though this is the first time I’ve set a movie in a picturesque village, I’ve always harbored a secret fantasy of living in one. Maybe not full-time—I don’t think I could live without ready access to live theater and fine dining and Target—but just for a little pocket of escape.
So when I find myself with an afternoon off, an afternoon when Grayson will be on set filming, I hop in my car and drive downtown. The main street is small, consisting of a pub, a diner, the café where we filmed our first week, and a couple of quaint little shops. I wander through most of them, spending the longest in the tiny bookstore that’s stuffed to the brim with both new and used books.
Hmmm. Maybe I should write a screenplay set in a bookstore. I take an extra lap around the shop before I make my purchases, just to see if any sort of inspiration strikes.
The stack of new-to-me books I leave with can be chalked up purely to research. I haul them with me to the wine bar next door—say what you will about it, but any town with a bookstore and a wine bar next door to each other is okay with me—settling down into a leather club chair. After I order a glass of local pinot noir, I open one of my new books and lose myself in the pages.
I don’t look up from the small-town romance I purchased—it felt too fitting to pass up—until the door tothe wine bar opens, a gust of cold wind fluttering the pages of my book.
An automatic smile spreads across my face when I take in the tall hunk of a man shaking off a chill and hanging up his coat.
It might be the first time in history I’m genuinely happy to see Grayson West. At least in a moment when there’s no chance of ripping off his clothes.
“Hi,” he says when he catches sight of me, and I’d like to think he’s fighting off a smile of his own.
“Hi.” I mark my place in my book. “Fancy meeting you here.”
He holds up a book of his own. “Great minds and all that.”
There’s an awkward moment where we both just sit in silence, staring and smiling slightly at each other.
“Um, did you want to sit down?” I gesture to the chair across from me. “You don’t have to, of course, but you can if you want.”
Grayson folds himself gracefully into the seat. “Thanks.” He orders a glass of wine for himself and another for me, the server’s eyes widening in recognition before she darts away to fill our orders, and then we’re both awkwardly staring at each other again.
I clear my throat. “How was filming today?”
“Good. It was good. Really good.”
“Good. That’s good.”
This time the silence is short, broken when we both bust up laughing.
Grayson runs a hand through his hair. “God. This is awful. I swear I know how to make conversation.”
“Well, this might be the first civil conversation we’ve had that’s not scripted or naked, so...” I smile widely, accepting a second glass of wine from the server.
Grayson takes his own glass, gulping down a large swallow.
My eyes get caught on his throat, watching the muscles of his neck work. I take a long drink of my own wine, which is certainly the cause of the flush heating my cheeks.
He sets his wine down on the low table between us. “What are you reading?”
I hold up the cover, not at all ashamed of the scandalous clinch featured on the front. I love a good clinch. “I’d like to pass this off as research or some kind of career-related reading, but mostly I just can’t get enough of small-town romances right now. What about you?”
He chuckles, holding up his own book so I can see the cover. “I won’t even pretend this is career-related. I just can’t seem to get enough of this series.”
It’s one of those books I jokingly (sort of) refer to as “men’s fiction.” There’s a Vin Diesel wannabe pictured on the front, with explosions and cars and all those stereotypical masculine images in the background. Chances are, if the book were turned into a movie, Grayson would be in the running to take on the lead role.
“I’m a firm believer in everyone reading what they love.”
He raises one eyebrow in an almost maddeningly picture-perfect arch. “You’re not going to give me shit about being a reader?”
I swirl my wine around in its glass. “Why would I do that?”
