Hannah walked extra slowly down the sidewalk, a bottle of wine in hand. Her snail’s pace had a lot to do with the three-inch heels, but it was mainly the dress delaying her progress. As soon as Piper unzipped the garment bag, she’d started to shake her head. Red? Red? Her wardrobe had been compiled for comfort and functionality. Lots of grays, blues, blacks, and whites so she wouldn’t have to worry about matching. The only red items she owned were a baseball hat and a pair of Chucks. It was a color you used for a pop. Not the whole ensemble.
Then she’d put it on—and she’d never been more annoyed to have someone be right. There was something kind of nineties about the dress, and that spoke to the grunge-headed old soul inside Hannah. It reminded her of the red minidress Cher wore to the Valley party in Clueless. Piper had agreed, making Hannah say, “I totally paused,” at least forty-eight times while they straightened her hair.
In most lines of work, this outfit would have been considered inappropriate, but entertainment was its own animal. At the end of the night, it wouldn’t be unusual to catch crew members making out in the hallways. Or right out in the open. Often there were drugs, and always alcohol. But really, as long as everyone showed up the next morning and got their job done, pretty much anything went. While judgments and gossip were inevitable, being unprofessional after hours made you one of the gang as opposed to a pariah.
A block away from the rented house, Hannah could see the silhouettes of cast and crew in the dimly lit windows and hear the low thunder of music. The raucous laughter. Well aware of how rowdy industry parties could get, even on this small a scale, she’d booked a place on the semi-outskirts of town to avoid noise complaints. And it was a good thing she had, because someone was already passed out on the front lawn and it wasn’t even ten P.M.
Hannah stepped over the intern with a low whistle, hiked up the steps in her admittedly gorgeous shoes—who knew she’d feel so fancy with sparkly little bows on her toes?—and walked into the house without knocking, since no one was going to hear it, anyway. Before leaving Fox’s apartment, she’d given herself a pep talk in the mirror of his bathroom, which smelled like the collision of a minty glacier and something more interesting . . . like a ginger-laced essential oil.
Did he use essential oils?
Why was she so tempted to go into his bedroom and check for a diffuser so she could inhale directly from the source?
With an impatient tongue click, Hannah stepped into the house and immediately had to check her urge to find the person in charge of the playlist. If she let herself, she’d sit in the corner all night searching for the perfect next song—probably some Bon Iver to chill everyone out after the crazy week—and that wasn’t the mission tonight.
Resigning herself to a night of ambient techno, Hannah took off her coat and draped it over the closest chair, waving to a couple sound engineers on her way down the hallway to the living room where everyone seemed to be congregated.
The song ended right as she walked into the room. Or it might have been all in her head, because everyone—and she meant everyone—turned to stare. If this was what a leading lady felt like, she’d rather be an extra.
Only, she wasn’t happy with that anymore, right? So even though her palms were clammy and she kind of felt like an asshole for wearing a designer cocktail dress to a casual hang, she had no choice but to brazen it out and proceed with the plan.
“Am I the only one who got the formal dress memo?” She fake-cringed over the jeans and T-shirts worn by a group of hair and makeup artists. “Sad.”
There was some laughter, but then mostly everyone went back to their drinks and conversation, allowing Hannah to exhale. Some liquid courage would not go amiss. One drink, and then she’d make the professional move of a lifetime. Hopefully.
Hannah spotted the liquor and mixers station on a bar cart in the corner of the room and headed that direction, reminding herself she was a certified lightweight and not to overdo it. She was still recovering from her foray into day drinking with Piper at the local winery last summer.
“Hey,” Christian said in a bored tone, coming up beside her. “What are you drinking? Poison, I hope.”
She pursed her lips and perused the various liquor bottles. “What can I drink to give you a personality?”
Looking pointedly at her dress, Christian gave an appreciative snort. “So, what are you, like, trying now?”
“Could you do the same, please? It took you sixteen takes to nail four lines of dialogue this morning.”
“Can’t rush perfection.” He made an impatient sound and snatched up a red Solo cup. “What are you drinking, PA? I’ll make it.”
Hannah’s mouth dropped open. “You’re going to make my drink?”
“Don’t let it go to your head.” While pouring vodka, he gave her a once-over. “Or your hips. That dress is a little snug.”
“You wish you had the hips for this dress.”
He added some grapefruit juice and ice to the cup, all but shoving the prepared drink into her hands. “I hate that I like you.”
“I like that I hate you.”
It cost them both a visible effort not to laugh.
“Hannah?” Christian and Hannah turned at the same time to find Sergei, Brinley, and an assortment of on-camera talent approaching, including Maxine and her fictional best friend. For once, Sergei seemed at a loss for words, the drink in his hand lowering to the side of his thigh. “You . . . dressed up,” he said, his attention straying briefly to Hannah’s hemline. “If I didn’t see you sparring with Christian, I wouldn’t have recognized you.”
“I do get a certain look of horror on my face when she’s around,” Christian drawled, giving her a lazy elbow in the side.
“Yes. You look fantastic,” Brinley said, though she was scrolling on her phone.
“Thank you.” Being the center of attention made it necessary to take a gulp of her (hopefully not poisoned) drink, the abundance of vodka burning her throat on the way down.
It might have been the dress and the liquor rapidly dulling her nerves that encouraged her to speak up. Or it could have been Piper’s supportive words earlier in the day. All Hannah knew was that if she didn’t ask for what she wanted now, she never would. “Brinley,” she blurted, grabbing her own wrist so the ice in her cup would stop rattling. “I was wondering if I could assist you in any way with the score. Not that you need assistance,” she rushed to qualify. “I was more just hoping to learn from you. From the process.”
Silence descended on the circle.
It was not unusual for people to use parties as a chance to industry climb. But it was unusual for a personal assistant to address someone so much further up the ladder—in mixed company, no less. Maybe she should have waited. Or asked to speak to Brinley and Sergei alone? She hoped Brinley might find the request more palatable since it was posed casually instead of officially. Hannah didn’t want the woman thinking she was trying to steal her job.
“Oh . . .” Brinley blinked slowly, sizing her up with new interest. “Are musical scores something you’re thinking of pursuing long-term?”
“I haven’t really gotten that far yet,” Hannah said in a release of breath. “But I’d love to learn more about the process. To see if maybe it could be a good fit down the road.”
Brinley rocked on her heels a moment, then shrugged, eyes zipping back to her phone. “I don’t have a problem with you observing—if Sergei can spare you?”
It struck Hannah how long Sergei had remained uncharacteristically silent, his forehead lined as he studied her. When Brinley prompted him, he jolted, as if becoming aware of his own silence. “You’re vital to me on set, Hannah. You know that.” There was no help for the flush that rose in her cheeks over Sergei saying those words. You’re vital to me. She stopped just short of pressing her drink to her cheeks to cool them down. Meanwhile, the silence stretched, the director running a finger around the inside of his black ribbed turtleneck. “But if you can manage both, I won’t object.”
Heat prickled the backs of Hannah’s eyes, an unexpected jab of pride catching her in the breastbone. Relief—and the distinct fear of failure—traveled so swiftly through her limbs, she almost dropped her cup. But she forced a smile, nodding her thanks to Sergei and Brinley.
“Who’s going to bring me coffee between takes?” Christian complained.
A collective laugh/groan from everyone in the group broke the tension, thankfully, and the subject was changed to Sunday morning’s agenda. They’d been waiting for a good-weather day to film a kissing scene between Christian and Maxine on the harbor, and the next few days called for sunshine.
While Sergei engaged the small gathering with his vision of a wide, sweeping shot of the kiss, she flipped through her mental music catalogue for the right song, the right feeling . . . and she was surprised to find nothing landed. Nothing.
Not a single song came to mind.
That was odd.
What if she’d finally been given this opportunity only to lose her knack for plugging in the right sound for any occasion? What if she forgot how to weave together atmosphere, something she’d been doing since she was old enough to operate a turntable?
The thought troubled Hannah so much that she didn’t notice Christian refreshing her drink. Twice. The electronic music started to match the tempo of her pulse, and when she got the urge to dance, she knew that was her cue to stop drinking. Although . . . it was a little late for that. A pleasurable buzz tickled her blood, and she lost all self-awareness, talking to anyone who would listen about any topic that popped into her head, from the running of the bulls in Pamplona to the fact that people’s ears never stopped growing. And her brain told her it was interesting. Maybe it was? Everyone seemed to be laughing, one of the actresses eventually pulling her out onto the makeshift dance floor, where she closed her eyes, kicked her shoes off, and fell into a rhythm.
At one point, her neck tingled, and she opened her eyes to find Sergei watching her from across the room, though his attention was quickly diverted when Christian asked him a question. Hannah went back to dancing, unwisely accepting another drink from a makeup artist.
Her movements slowed when the air in the room changed.
It kind of just . . . lit up.
Hannah looked around and noticed everyone’s eyes were glued to the entrance of the living room. Because Fox was standing there, one forearm propped high on the doorjamb, watching her with amusement.
“Holy mother,” Hannah muttered, stopping to stare along with everyone else.
There was no other way to herald his arrival but to be rendered mute and immobile. Fox swaggering into the party was like a shark swimming slowly through a school of fish. He was freshly windblown from the ocean, his tan skin slightly weathered from salt, sunshine, and hard work. He towered over everyone and everything. Cocky. So cocky and confident and stupidly hot. Outrageously hot.
“That’s him,” one of the girls nearby said. “That guy we saw from the bus.”
“God, he is like a walking spank bank.”
“Dibs.”
“Screw that. I already called dibs.”
A twitch in Fox’s cheek indicated he heard what was being said, but he didn’t take his eyes off Hannah, and she started to . . . get kind of pissed. Yeah, no, she was pissed. Who called dibs on a human being? Or referred to him as a spank bank? How dare they assume it would be that easy to just . . . appreciate her friend?
What if it was that easy, though?
What if he liked one of them back?
That wasn’t any of her business. Was it?
She watched as more whispers reached Fox, and his smile lost power. Not for the first time over the last four days, she replayed what he’d said her first day in town. I’m not letting you associate your reputation with mine, all right?
Now his step hesitated on the way to Hannah. Was he second-guessing approaching her? Because all these people were watching?
Without another thought, she set down her drink on a nearby windowsill and walked toward the man with purpose. The fizzy pop of alcohol in her bloodstream might have been contributing to her actions in that moment, but it was more indignation than anything else. These girls didn’t even know him. Nor did it sound as if they’d learned anything about his actual character while in town. Where were these assumptions coming from?
She’d made them, too. Hadn’t she?
Day one. She’d called him a pretty-boy sidekick. Assumed he was a player.
There were all those times she’d texted, asking if he was alone. Tongue in cheek. Like there was a very good chance he’d be with a girl. Hooking up.
So maybe the sudden, crushing need to apologize drove her forward. No one else was going to judge Fox on her watch, and no way was she going to let him hesitate to approach her at a party. He was in the middle of a room being objectified, and she wanted to be the anchor for him.
She wanted to comfort him.
Okay, maybe she was jealous, too. At the possibility someone else was calling dibs, but she didn’t want to think about that too hard. Instead, she licked her lips, picking a landing spot for her mouth.
Hannah was approximately five feet from Fox when his expression changed, and he read her intention. His creeping insecurity vanished, and he rocketed to inferno status on a dime. Those blue eyes darkened, and that square, bristled jaw flexed. Ready. A man well used to being wanted and knowing what to do about it.
He whispered her name right before she pushed up on her toes, locking their mouths together, right there in the entrance to the living room. She was immediately bowled over by the hunger of his masculine lips, and then he turned her, pressing her back to the inside of the arched doorway, opening his mouth on top of hers and licking into the kiss with a choked sound.
With her thoughts muddling and a languid heat rendering her arms limp, Hannah realized she’d made a huge mistake. She was Eve in the Garden of Eden, and she’d just taken a bite from the apple.
