A quick glance around confirms no one seems to have noticed my unprofessionalism, or they just didn’t care. Most of the crew is too focused on Davey, who’s now climbed onto the hood of a shiny, black pickup truck and is waving his hands around wildly.
He’s gyrating his hips in an exaggerated dance move, something between a thrust and a poorly executed humping motion, completely out of sync.
I gently tug on the horses’ reins, guiding them into a slow turn and bringing them to a stop just outside the camera’s frame. Thesun beats down relentlessly, and I take the moment to catch my breath, the warmth pressing against my bare skin causing me to break out into a thin sheen of sweat. It’s warming up now, and I’m sweating hard.
My eyes take another scan of the set, searching for the truck they said I’d be using for the next scene, and that’s when I seehim.
Chapter 7 – Rhiannon
While the rest of the crew is fixated on the artist who’s still rapping loudly and hopelessly offbeat, this guy’s gaze is locked onme.
I can’t see his eyes, hidden behind dark, expensive-looking sunglasses, but there’s no mistaking the weight of his stare.
I can feel it on my exposed skin, on my nipples hidden behind the bright, red bow, and the way the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
Did you know it’s possible for two people to have a connection so strong it feels visceral before they’ve even touched? It’s something I learned in school. And even from a distance, we’re connecting.
Tall and broad-shouldered, his three-piece, tan suit fits him like it was stitched directly onto his body. The fabric catches the late autumn sunlight in a way that makes him look almost unreal.
Dark shades hide most of his face, but the way that he stands, feet planted wide, shoulders relaxed, like he’s got all the time in the world, tells me this guy is in control, and he likes it.
It’s absurd, honestly. The set’s dusty, sunbaked landscape, meant to pass for a desert in the middle of nowhere, seems to suit him more than the farmland surrounding us. I half-expect him to pull out a revolver and check a gold pocket watch before a duel. Because really, who the hell wears a three-piece suit in Hartford in late October? On a ninety-degree day, no less?
And then, like he’s just as affected by my presence as I am by his, he starts walking toward me. Unhurried. Unbothered by the warmer, autumn day. Each step measured and smooth, the expensive fabric of his suit moving with him like a second skin.
I’ve called men like him “suits” before—those big bankers, finance guys, the professionals who practically live in their tailored attire and make it their entire personality while they work long, late hours and weekends neglecting any sort of social life.
They don’t have time for relationships, see friendships as merely transactions, and any amount of money is never enough for them to take a break.
“Need help getting down?” he asks, his voice smooth, deep, and strangely familiar.
I blink, startled, trying to figure out how it’s possible I could recognize his voice.
Set manager? Talent agent? A friend of Leo’s?
“Yes, thanks.”
He extends a large, steady hand, and I take it, surprised by how his engulfs mine to the point that I can no longer see my fingers.I carefully slide down from the horse with a gracefulness I didn’t know I possessed.
The movement sends a warning flare through my head, reminding me of how I’m dressed:Don’t let anything slip.
His fingers grip mine firmly, and when my cowgirl boots hit the dirt, I glance up, catching his face properly for the first time. Beneath the sunglasses, his jawline is sharp, a slight shadow of stubble breaking the otherwise clean-cut look he has going for him. His smile is subtle, but there’s a glimmer of mischief in it that sets my nerves on edge.
He doesn’t release my hand right away, and I realize he’s checking me out behind those tinted lenses. There’s no attempt to hide it, he’s openly appreciating the way that the red silk of my costume bra clings to me, the sunlight catching every contour of the makeup that the team of artists brushed over my breasts and abdomen to highlight my bigger curves and muscles that hardly exist.
Normally, I’d grab a robe or toss on a blanket between takes, but something about him makes me hold my ground. Instead, I stand a little taller, arching my back just enough to push my chest forward, feeling the silk chafe against my nipples.
“Hm…” he hums, rubbing his jaw. He’s freshly shaved, but there’s enough growth to hint that it’s a daily battle he always loses by evening. I wish he’d just let it grow. I think it’d suit him.
I squint slightly, tilting my head as if the angle might help me place him. But the heat and the sunglasses make it hard to pin down why I feel like I know him.
“Are you a part of the crew?” I ask.
“Sure.”
Sure?
“What exactly do you do for the crew?”
