“Eh,” he shrugs, “a little of this and a little of that.”
“Does a little of this include staring at the models on set?”
He smiles. “Only when they’re as pretty as you.”
I’m sure he’s used that line a thousand times, but that doesn’t stop the spark of interest that runs through me. I’ve been so caught up in working and making ends meet, I haven’t had time to date, fuck, or even get hit on since my birthday over seven months ago and that night with the stranger I met in Bryant Park.
Guys aren’t exactly jumping to ask you out when you walk around looking and feeling like a zombie most days. A hook-up with ‘Mr. A Little of This, A Little of That’sounds tempting, but I’m not usually one to jump into bed with a complete stranger. Usually.
“Hey, Rhiannon, we need you for some shots bent over the truck!” the set director calls out. “Pull your shorts up a bit, they’re ass shots!”
I visibly cringe at the description he gives of what I’ll be doing next. But I refuse to show my distaste to this guy or the director. There’s power in embracing your sexuality, and I intend on harnessing that like a wizard to get this paycheck.
I start to turn, but he catches my wrist, and the way his hand wraps around me sparks a déjà vu that I can’t ignore. I look down at his grip on me and then back up at his face, squinting hard and that’s when I realize.
The strong jaw.
The tailored suit.
The huge hands.
No fucking way.
“Rhiannon…” he says, his voice rough. “Queen. The name fits you.”
Oh my god.
It’s Cain.
“Rhiannon! Let’s go!” The director shouts again and finally Cain lets me go. Except he’s no stranger staring at me from a distance now.
For the rest of the shoot, I can feel his eyes on me, an almost tangible heat that prickles across my skin and it’s distracting as hell.
Whether I’m bending over the hood of the truck, using my hair like a damn washcloth (don’t ask me why—I’m just following instructions), or perched back on top the horse, gripping Davey’s bare abs while we trot through the mock western town, I’m acutely aware of Cain watching my every move.
And by the time the set coordinator hands me a crisp check for one-thousand-dollars for just five hours of work, I’m already planning out what bills I’ll need to pay with this and if I’ll have anything left over to treat myself for the ridicule that I’ve just endured.
I’ve changed back into my tank top and shorts and I’m about to leave whenMr. A Little of This, A Little of That, steps into the hallway, blocking my exit from the farmhouse.
“Were you going to sneak off again?” His voice is teasing but unmistakable now.
I don’t know how I missed it before. Maybe it was the sunglasses. Or the distance. Or the fact that I never thought I’d run into him again. But it’s definitely him. Cain. My one-night stand.
Now he’s shed the jacket, just in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tan vest that’s hugging his chest. The sunglasses are gone; his black rimmed glasses are back, and it reminds me just how much I like them on him.
My gaze flicks to his forearms, where tattoos on one arm curl out from beneath his cuffs, intricate designs I suddenly want to trace with my fingers,or maybe my tongue.The memory of that night crashes back, and my stomach flips.
“Cain…” I start. “What are you doing here?”
He was supposed to be a fun night. A birthday fuck and a one-time thing. Not someone who bled into my professional and personal life. Granted, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how he rocked my world on the couch and floor of Leo’s apartment, but I also haven’t had anything else to distract me from that memory. I haven’t had sex, or fun, since.
He grins down at me, a lazy, confident curve of his lips that hasn’t lost its power to make my stomach flip.
“I told you. I was working on the set today.”
My eyes narrow, not knowing what that means since I didn’t see him interact with any of the crew all afternoon.
“You remember me, right?”
