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My heated reply is instant. “Great. If this is like, let’s hope he doesn’t fall in love.”
She laughs, and I do too, but begrudgingly.
I wait on the sidelines for Lucas, praying that I don’t have to witness another take. When someone yells for a break, Lucas approaches slowly before moving in to kiss me. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I turn my head dodging his lips, and his eyes reflect his agitation when he pulls back to study me. We get a few curious looks from those surrounding us. Noticing the attention, he curses and grabs my hand.
“Nova, we’ll be in my trailer. I want forty-five minutes without interruption.”
She eyes him warily. “Got it.”
“Lucas, maybe this is a bad idea,” I say, glancing back over my shoulder at Nova, who shoos me off with the wave of her hand. I’ve been blindsided, but my jealousy and confusion outweigh any residual nerves. I feel like I’m being dragged by his tight grip on my hand until he strokes the top of my wrist with his thumb. Somehow with that act, I’m strangely betrayed.
I’m hostile and have zero right to be jealous. I hardly know him. There’s no way to unsee the way he kissed her, the way he looked at her. It was familiar, and it hurt that the look he gave wasn’t distinctly mine, wasn’t exclusive to me. Conflicted is an understatement.
“Dammit to hell,” he grumbles, leading me out of the warehouse and into the lit parking lot. It takes us a few minutes to make the silent but intense walk to his trailer, and he leads me in, slamming the door behind me. It’s spacious and simple but has every modern convenience.
Lucas jerks open the fridge grabbing a bottle of water and downing half of it before he pulls out a bottle of wine. I can see from the label it’s the one we didn’t get to on our date, but not the same bottle, that one I have at home. He bought this one from memory.
“How pissed are you right now?” he asks, twisting the corkscrew in.
“I’m fine.”
He looks up to see I’m lying. “Your face is flushed.”
Along with my hostility, I’m aroused to the point of madness. I’m angry, but I’m also soaked and ready to pounce on him where he stands. That’s if I don’t slap him first.
It’s the oddest situation I’ve ever been in. I’m no saint, but this predicament questions my morals in a way I’m unfamiliar with.
My silence
has him cursing again as he uncorks the bottle and pours me a glass. It’s then when he’s got it extended toward me that I see true remorse in his jade eyes. “I’m so fucking sorry. We weren’t supposed to be filming that scene today.”
“Nova told me.” I take the wine, and I do a huge disservice to it by guzzling half. “I’m okay. This is your job. If we’re going to…” I pause, and he draws out the bob of his head in reassurance, “date.”
I swallow the rest of the glass and hold it out to him. He pours freely.
“Date, I have to get used to it, right?”
“That’s what you’re supposed to say, but we both know you’re lying,” he says with a sigh. He put on a shirt after the scene finished, but I can’t stop picturing the cuts of his body, and he looks so insanely gorgeous without clothes. If I’m objective enough, and woman enough, I could admit that it turned me on, but I’m having a hard time admitting it to myself.
“Mila, even if this were your job, I wouldn’t want to see another man’s hands on your body or tongue in your mouth. Fucking ever.”
“We barely know each other.” But the sentence rings hollow. There’s something between us, and it’s grown even with the lack of contact. I could chalk it up to expectations and imagination, which it very well could be, but it doesn’t feel like that either. It’s not the truth.
He runs a hand through his ‘just fucked’ hair. “I promise you, it’s the most uncomfortable part of filming. There’s nothing natural about it.”
I try to stay objective because it could be my saving grace.
“You were rather convincing.”
Shit. That sounded bitter and to top it off, I openly eye his crotch and am thankful he’s not hard. He catches my gaze and runs an impatient hand down his face.
“You’re disgusted, right?”
“No,” I whisper, downing the second helping of wine and place the glass on the counter. “It’s your job.”
“So you’ve said,” he counters dryly. “Twice. Why do I get the feeling that doesn’t matter?”
