“Another inch.” Linh Brody-Stone glances up from where she squats on the floor and pulls the measuring tape from my waist. “I’ll have to take the costume in.”
I let out a long, tired breath. “I’m sorry. I promise I’m eating.”
“Yeah, but you’re also doing the lindy hop and every other dance Lucia can think of for hours every day. Your body’s burning calories faster than you can consume them.”
“We’re doing all the dance sequences at once. With this many dancers, production wants to get their parts out of the way so we can release them. Kind of clumping things together. Like all my songs are last because they require only me and a few musicians for the most part.”
“Explains why I haven’t seen Monk as much on set lately,” she says.
Or Canon.
It’s been three weeks since Thanksgiving, and if it weren’t for my very real memories of that night, I might question that it ever happened. He ignores me and hasn’t mentioned the kiss or our conversation—how much we wanted each other that night—and it’s driving me crazy.
Linh walks over to a garment rack and flicks through the costumes we’ve used to create Dessi’s character, ranging from deliberately drab to dazzling. A production of this magnitude requires a costuming team, which Linh leads. Some of the pieces she designs, and some they source. Everything is stored here, the shoes neatly on shelves, the clothes hanging on rolling racks, accessories tucked into clear boxes and cubbies. Ironing boards, irons, sewing machines and steamers fill the compact space, Linh’s domain.
She turns to grin at me, her feline-like features lit with rare excitement. She’s such a steady boat, never rocked or swayed, that seeing her smile makes me smile despite my fatigue.
“Wanna see something incredible?” she asks.
“Sure!” I inject enthusiasm into my voice despite the pain in my muscles and aches in my joints.
The car service dropped me off on set at five a.m. for hair and makeup. We’ve been shooting all day. I could crash right here.
Linh disappears into one of the changing rooms and emerges, rolling out a covered mannequin.
“Behold!” she says, carefully lifting the cover to reveal one of the most gorgeous dresses I’ve ever seen. It’s a vintage floor-length evening gown, as iridescent as a pearl, covered in sequins and with gossamer-thin spaghetti straps.
“It’s modeled after one Josephine Baker wore for one of her Paris shows,” Linh says. “I thought it’d be perfect for the scenes when Dessi and Cal tour Europe.”
“This is . . . Linh, it’s gorgeous. Where’d you find it?”
“Find it?” She laughs, adjusting the gown’s bodice. “I made it.”
“You made this? What the . . .” I knew Linh was talented, but this is haute couture level. The most sought-after designer would proudly send a dress like this down their runway. If anyone ever thought Linh landed this project because she’s married to Law Stone, this dress and all the extraordinary work she has done should disabuse them of that notion.
In addition to being traffic-stop beautiful, she’s been really sweet. Her concern about my weight loss goes beyond the work it causes her. It’s personal. She’s hung out with Takira and me in the trailer a few times when she was on set. Once her reserve cracks, she’s funny and authentic.
I’ve met Law Stone a few times when “the suits” have come on set, and I’m not sure he deserves this woman. There’s something about him. When he talks, his words are slick and smooth in his mouth like loaded dice.
“I’ll have to take this one in a little, too,” she says, practically petting the sparkling dress. “At the rate you’re shedding pounds, I think I’ll wait and alter it post-Christmas break. We aren’t shooting those scenes until later.”
“Right.” I glance at my watch. “Crap! Livvie wanted to run lines before this next scene.”
Linh shoos me toward the door, already opening accessory drawers and cubbies. “Go! But swing back before you start filming. One of the interns needs to do a continuity check on your wardrobe and make sure we haven’t changed anything since we started this section.”
“Will do.” I rush from the wardrobe room, through the set, and out to the row of trailers. Olivia Ware, who plays Tilda, is only a few down from mine. I knock on the door and wait for her to invite me in.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say, climbing the small set of steps. “I was in . . .”
The words dry up in my mouth when I see Canon sitting on the couch beside Livvie. They both look up from the script between them.
“I was in wardrobe,” I finish. “Sorry to interrupt. I thought you wanted to run lines before—”
“I do,” Livvie says. “I needed Canon to help ya girl get in touch with this next scene. It’s tough, but I think I have it now.”
“You got it. Don’t worry.” Canon stands, his head only a few inches shy of the ceiling in the compact trailer. “Let me know if you need anything else. I gotta go huddle with Jill before this next sequence.”
He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t speak to me directly, but brushes past and walks out the door. I bite back a frustrated sigh. We have to wait. I get it, but does it have to be like this?
“Hey, Liv.” I press my palms together in slightly pleading pose. “I want to ask Canon something about this next scene, too. You mind if I catch him?”
“Nah, ask while you can.” She unties her robe to reveal one of Tilda’s day dresses. “Everybody always wants a piece of him.”
“Right,” I say, smiling stiffly. “Be right back.”
I open the door and hustle down the steps just in time to see Canon heading back toward set. Miraculously, there aren’t a dozen people teeming around the trailers.
“Canon,” I call, rushing to catch up.
He turns back to face me, looking damn good in his gray USC Film School sweatshirt and dark jeans. That beard is getting thicker. How would it feel if he kissed me now?
He tugs at the headphones that are always draped around his neck, his eyes cautious as I approach. “Neevah, hey. You need something?”
“Yeah, I do. I, um . . .” I toy with the belt of the terrycloth robe tied over my costume, fixing my eyes on the production team’s fake sidewalk. “I just wondered if I imagined Thanksgiving.”
I keep my voice low, but he still looks left and right, no doubt checking to see if anyone is around to hear. Grabbing my hand, he pulls me into one of the New York alleys they fabricated for the set, a tight channel between the sides of two fake buildings. He leans against one wall and I face him, leaning against the other.
“No, you didn’t imagine it,” he finally says, his hands shoved into his pockets. “We just can’t repeat it.”
“Ever?” I squeak.
“What’d I tell you?” His smile is a slow-burning secret. “Not yet.”
“You think you’re being discreet by avoiding me, but I think it draws attention that you give everyone else their notes directly except me. All my notes come through Kenneth.”
“I don’t care if people speculate about that. That’s not the only reason I don’t want a lot of contact with you.”
It stings, those words. Even knowing what’s behind them, hearing him actually voice what I’ve suspected doesn’t feel great.
“Then why?” I ask, keeping my chin and eyes level. I’m determined not to get emotional because that’s the last thing he wants and that’s not who I am. I never let personal stuff get in the way of a performance, of the work, but I’ve also never felt like this about someone I worked with.
“It’s for me,” he says, not looking away. “It’s so I can focus. You distract me.”
A huge grin spreads across my face.
“Don’t.” He chuckles and narrows his eyes. “Do not.”
“I’m a distraction, huh?” I take the few steps separating us until only a heartbeat fits between our chests. The alley walls close in on us and I’m surrounded by the clean, masculine scent of him.
The humor fades from his expression, and he links our fingers at our sides. “We need to wait.”
Disappointment pierces the lust and longing suffusing my senses. “Until we wrap?”
He bends to drop a kiss on my forehead, slides his lips down to briefly take mine, the beard a soft scrape against my cheek. I grip his elbows, not wanting him to pull away, to go back to ignoring me. Just beyond this fake alley and deep shadows is the set and the cast and the crew and the real world. And this . . . we . . . are not happening there yet. And I just want a few more seconds in this world where we are, even if the only real thing here is us.
“Did you really need help for this next scene?” he whispers in my ear, his wide palm running down my back and resting just above the curve of my ass.
“Yes. In this next scene, can you tell me . . .” I glance up mock-seriously through my lashes. “What’s my motivation?”
He flashes that too-rare grin, white and wolfish, confident, bordering on cocky.
“You’ll be fine.” He squeezes my hip. “That’s my girl.”
And while I’m still relishing that, he turns and walks away.
