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No—no.
“Yes, ancient history,” I snap, aching inside. “Practically a relic. To be honest, I’m flattered you even recognized me.”
Fraser narrows his eyes, like he wants to argue. But instead, he just gives a bland nod.
“Good. On that note, I wanted to circle back to something from rehearsal.”
I blink, surprised. That’s it? Our entire fraught history dismissed in just a couple of sentences?
Apparently so.
Fraser continues, his voice even. “While I’m sure the purses you mentioned are historically accurate, the studio doesn’t have the budget for custom work like that. So I’d prefer that you don’t distract the cast with those minor details, and keep them focused on the wardrobe and props we already have.”
I narrow my eyes. “Well, like you said, I’m here to do a job,” I reply, keeping my voice just the right side of scathing. “And if I’m asked a question, then I’ll answer it, in my professional capacity. Was there anything else?” I snap.
“No.” He scowls back at me, and for a moment, I almost think I see a flash of familiar heat in his eyes. The passion of the man I used to know.
Then it’s replaced with cool detachment again. “Enjoy your Jammy Dodger,” he says with a smirk, and walks off, leaving me with a plate of baked carbs, and a fire burning in my chest.
Looks like the fun-loving, creative man I used to love is gone, replaced with this stick-up-his-ass penny-pincher.
“Ugh!” I exclaim in frustration—and go find another biscuit to eat.
4
JJ
I wakethe next morning groggy and disoriented. The alarm on my phone is chirping in its familiar, annoying way, but why is this room so small? Why am I so tired that my face hurts? Why can I hear creaky old pipes and the pat-pat of feet outside my room?
Oh. Right. Jolly old England. Lizzy and Darcy. A hotel with faulty plumbing. And a ghost from my past wandering in, solid as day….
Fraser.
Did I dream that? It’s hard to unstick my thoughts from the jet-lag quicksand, but slowly, it all comes back to me. The nakedness. The hand towel. The near-death by Jammy Dodger.
Nope, that was all real. Mortifyingly, horrifyingly real.
I groan as I pull myself upright. My time in England was supposed to be bigger and better than ever, especially now I’m a grown woman who knows her limits when it comes to alcohol and emotional attachment to men. The last thing I need is Fraser striding about, all tall and broad and handsome, reminding me of everything we had.
Scratch that. Everything Ithoughtwe had. That’s the mortifying part. For me, Fraser changed everything. Our connection made the whole world seem bigger and more alive to me—the colors brighter, the possibilities endless. It felt like I’d finally discovered the kind of love I’d only ever read about in my novels or seen illuminated on the movie screen; that soul-deep connection that was equal parts friendship and passion; adventure and steady, solid ground.
Until he yanked that solid ground right out from under me.
I sigh, climbing out of bed, and stretching with a yawn. Fraser’s clearly put the past behind him, so I need to as well. And if he wants professional? I’ll damn well give him professional, I decide with a surge of determination. In fact,I’m going to act like we met for the first time yesterday. Because, as far as I can tell, we did. Fraser is a stranger now. I’d always thought of him as the one who got away. But that stuffed suit, with his too-neat beard and recitation of budget considerations? He’s clearly a bullet I dodged.
But that doesn’t mean I’m going to show up to set in jeans and a ratty sweatshirt. I tear through my suitcase, looking for the perfect ‘Bet you wish you hadn’t dumped me’ outfit. Leather pants? Too much. Ultra-high cutoffs? Way too little….
After discarding pretty much everything I brought, and turning my hotel room into a hurricane site, I finally land on a cute sundress with poppies printed on it, with a vintage-style halter strap. I put on my lucky purple silk lingerie, and style my hair into the perfect polished-but-tousled look. Hopefully he’ll think of my hair in the morning, after he’d had his hands in it through the night. The things he could do with his hands… And mouth… Andtongue…
Down girl.
I use my favorite, subtle red lip color and a sheen of gloss. I make a kiss face in the mirror and tousle my hair some more. There, perfect. Ready for revenge.
I mean,work.
* * *
I catcha golf cart over to the set with some of the crew and find them all setting up to shoot one of the first scenes, outside the imposing front steps. I hang back, drinking in the lights, the cameras, and all the action once Reeve calls to roll cameras. He’s in his element, studying the scene through a video playback monitor, then jumping in to chat with the actors so they can adjust their performances for the next take. I’ve seen a glimpse of him in director-mode, back when he was shooting a movie in my hometown on Cape Cod, but somehow, this all seems bigger and more exciting than ever, and it’s fun watching him rise to the occasion.
