I didn’t sleep a wink last night. And I don’t mean that I tossed and turned and eventually nodded off at some offensive hour. I mean that I dropped Fizzy at her place, had an internal crisis as she walked inside and closed the door, drove straight home, tried to read a few things for work and failed, went to bed, replayed every detail of the moment she climbed over me, had a wank—and then another in the shower—and not once from the moment I stepped inside to the moment I put the kettle on this morning did I enjoy a moment of blissful unconsciousness.
It’s only six, but this day has already been a hundred hours long.
Thanks to our ridiculously padded budget, our set for the next few days is a cozy coffee shop in the Gaslamp Quarter. We’ve got the whole place to ourselves, but have paid the staff to supply craft services, and hired actors to unobtrusively chat in the background. It’s a nice place with a green awning out front, local artwork on the walls, and quirky mismatched tables and chairs scattered throughout. The front counter is made from beautifully worn wood, and a pastry case is stuffed full of mouthwatering sweets. The baristas are being paid handsomely to keep everyone caffeinated, and the smell of coffee and sugar—along with the three espressos I’ve had since I arrived—is nearly enough to make me forget that I could have fucked Fizzy into the California coastline last night.
Well anyway, let’s find her soulmate, shall we?
Of course she looks fucking incredible today. She walks in and my heart drops down my body and through the floorboards. I’m relieved to see that she followed directions—with Fizzy you never know—and arrived in comfortable clothes, sans makeup. Yet somehow, seeing her sweetly disheveled, barefaced, soft, and warm makes this a thousand times harder.
The crew cheers for her, guiding her in and toward the back where hair and makeup has set up a little station out of the way. Three women flank her, one focusing on her makeup, another pulling a brush through her hair, and a third showing her wardrobe choices. Around me is a high-octane bustling energy, but I feel like the stagnant rock in the center of the whitecapped river, stuck in place.
Because amid the chaos, there’s another observation to be made: she’s not yet looked at me. Beyond a casual wave when she walked in, there’s been nothing. Obviously, I need things to be easy between us on set. The last thing we want is for anyone to sense tension after we’ve been quite chummy for the past few weeks. But perhaps more important, I like her. I more than like her. I don’t want things to be off between us.
Stepping up to the counter, I order two drinks and make my way to where she’s scowling down at her phone.
“You all right?” I ask.
She closes the email app and slides the phone into her bag. “You don’t happen to have a sexy manuscript completed and handy, do you? I’d only need to borrow it for, hmmm, forever, and permission to publish it under my name.”
Deflecting with humor, how very Fizzy.
“Nah, sorry.” I hand her a coffee. “But I do have this.”
She tilts the cup, reading Vanilla Latte written in beautiful calligraphy on the side. These baristas are going all out. “How’d you know what I drink?” she asks.
“You ordered one of these after the Broad.”
At this, the small team of beautifiers steps away—I wonder if there is a vibe that reads Privacy, please here—and I take a sip of my cappuccino before putting it down again. More caffeine is the last thing I need right now.
One of the sound guys approaches with Fizzy’s small mic in his hand. “Ready?” he asks.
At her nod, he reaches for the front of her silk shirt and the words shove their way up my throat: “I’ve got it, mate.”
He hands it over without any indication that he’s heard the edge in my tone. But Fizzy has. Her smirk is louder than her bursting laugh could ever be.
“Quiet, you,” I mumble, smiling, and hand her the cord. I motion for her to slip it under the hem of her top and out the neckline. Sensation echoes down my arm, sending electric pulses to my fingertips. I remember the way her breast filled my hand, the gasp she let out when I closed my finger and thumb around her tight nipple.
She brings the end of the cord up and out of her collar and holds it out for me.
I take it, and bend, attaching the clip to the front of her shirt as unobtrusively as possible. Speaking into her chest, I ask, “How are you, Fizzy?”
“I am fine, Connor,” she says like a robot, and when I look up at her, she’s smiling at me.
“Still a menace, I see.” The backs of my fingers inadvertently skim her neck and collarbone, and she sucks in a quiet breath. “Sorry,” I whisper.
“It’s okay,” she whispers playfully back, and I connect the cord to the mic.
Tension thrums between us. Her skin is so warm and soft, smooth and kissable. This close I can smell the subtle scent of her shampoo and body lotion. It makes me light-headed. Straightening, I adjust her collar to hide the mic.
“Should we talk about last night?” she blurts.
Behind me, there’s a cough, a gasp, a snorted laugh, the clearing of a throat. A glance over my shoulder confirms that every headset-wearing member of the crew has just given us their undivided attention. “You mean our conversation about today’s run of show?” I ask.
Awareness lands and Fizzy nods slowly, and then with more conviction, calling out loudly, “Yes! Of course that conversation! What other thing would we have to discuss?”
I gaze down at her, fighting a laugh as I reach forward to turn off the live mic. “I guess we don’t need to test your sound levels.”
She winces. “You should hold up a sign or something when you need me to be covert. Subtlety has never been my strong point.”
“I think a safe rule of thumb is to be covert when we are together on the set of your dating show.”
She snaps, pointing at me. “Good call. This is why you’re the boss.”
Pinned to the front of Fizzy’s blouse is a custom-made tag with the logo for The True Love Experiment, and her name printed above the word HEROINE. Each of the Heroes will have a name tag, too, along with his archetype. It’s all a fun gimmick to make the show stand out, but it’s also a reminder of who I’m supposed to be. In fact, I should probably wear a name tag as well, though I’m not sure there would be enough space on it for all the reminders I’d need: Connor Prince III, Hot DILF only as an inside joke, Executive Producer, Not Boyfriend, Not Even Lover, Do Not Covet the Heroine
“But yes. About last night,” I start, and her expression falls, worry creating a gentle crease in her forehead. Words evaporate from my brain. “Which is to say—that is, it was lovely, and I know you know this, I’m just confirming…” She stares up at me, waiting, her eyes softening as I struggle. “We should probably not do it again.”
Fizzy nods. “I agree completely. In fact, I got home and didn’t think about it again, not even once. Definitely not twice in a row.”
I glare down at her. “Can we at least endeavor to go about this with sincerity?”
Rory calls that we’re two minutes from rolling, and Fizzy does some sort of scout gesture.
“I am endeavoring, I promise. Besties only. But may I say one more thing before you go?”
“Of course.”
She points to her mic. “We’re sure this thing is off?”
I eye her warily and reach for the cord hanging limply from her open collar and show her. “It’s disconnected.”
“I promise you that I will do my very best today. You don’t have to worry about my commitment to this project.” A tiny, seductive smile curves her lips. “But let me just say—” Her eyes drift lazily down my body, lingering at my zipper, and then slowly back up. “Well done.”
She pats my chest chummily, smiles, and walks toward her spot as I’m left staring after her.
I think… did she just compliment my dick?
It’s crazy that my face can suddenly feel hot when I know for a fact that most of my blood has just been diverted in the opposite direction. Discombobulated, I take a moment to deposit my cup in the dish bin, where a barista cheerfully retrieves it. As shocking as Fizzy can be, it’s refreshing to have someone simply say what they think. Things are weird? Let’s talk about it. We’d like to fuck but can’t? Let’s admit it and both move on. I’ve never met anyone like her.
As Rory shouts directions, gives Fizzy a pep talk, and shows her her marks, a flurry of activity erupts. Makeup and hair rush in to do final touch-ups, Fizzy’s mic is in fact tested once more, and background actors get into position. There is a vibration in the room, a pulsing thrum of excitement. It’s all going to work. The show is going to succeed, I feel it in my marrow. It will be hard to move on from Fizzy, but I will manage.
I feel self-possessed, in control, creatively alive. Taking in a deep breath, I give myself a moment to appreciate that hard work has landed us here and to be proud that I stepped up to this challenge. Everything feels pretty fucking good.
And then the café door opens and Fizzy’s first Hero walks in.
