“I don’t know,” I say.
She shoots me a scowl. “He’s so hot.”
I roll my eyes. “Keep those comments to a minimum, please. Remember, we’re working and the last thing he needs is another fan hanging around a set.”
“You’re working, I’m not.” She smiles. “Also, it’s Saturday.”
She may be a successful associate at my father’s entertainment law firm, but at twenty-eighth years old, she still has the excitement of an eighteen-year-old fangirl when it comes to celebrities she’s deemed asso hot.
To be fair, I think she’s just as lonely as I am most days. We spend all our time in the office or in court. I can’t remember the last time Rosie told me she was going on a date or hanging with friends. Which means she’s not or she’s gotten better at hiding things from me.
“Why don’t you check out the food and chat with Liam. I point at an older guy in the corner. He’s the set manager and may need some help,” I suggest, trying to keep her busy and away from my stud client who I know is a womanizer. “He’ll give you the pass you need to be wearing while working on set.”
She huffs. “Fine. But just so you know, I’m going to try to poach him from you eventually.”
I huff a laugh. “I’d like to see you try.” My clients never leave me once they’ve worked with me because I’m the best.
She heads off towards Liam, leaving me free to survey the space for any potential hazards to Rebel.
My gaze sweeps over the organized chaos of the set, scanning for Rhiannon again. I wasn’t sure if she’d decide to show up today after our conversation a few days ago in her bedroom, but when my eyes land on the three models that Rebel will be acting with in the video, I have to do a double take. It takes me a second glance to realize one of the models is her because she’s now completely covered in tattoos.
I stride toward her, my long legs eating up the space between us as if I can’t get to her quickly enough. The artist who’s working on her makeup is just finishing up her second sleeve, an intricately detailed, canvas of painted on artwork that perfectly mirrors Rebel’s ink.
“What’s this?” I bark out way too loudly. The poor artist practically jumps out of her skin.
“Can I help you?”
I hold out my hand. “Apologies. Cain Prescott. Rebel’s lawyer.”
She looks at my hand but doesn’t shake it which is fair. Her hands are full of make-up.
“Okay, well I’m the lead costume designer on set and tasked with painting the models to match Rebel’s tattoos.” She looks away and nods to a photo that’s tacked on the mirror of Rebel shirtless, tattoos on display. I clench my jaw realizing that’s what Rhiannon has to look at.
I glance at Rhiannon who’s smirking now, those big, hazel eyes sparkling with mischief.
“I like them,” she twists her arms back and forth, admiring the artwork, “I was thinking about going and getting a real sleeve after this. One just like this.”
“You better not,” I growl instinctively, the words escaping before I can catch them. Another man’s tattoo designs on her body? Hell-fucking-no.
Her brow arches, the challenge in her expression daring me to take it back. But I won’t. Before she can fire back, Liam interrupts us, ushering the two other models who are already finished, toward the stage for the first scene.
The artist adds the final details to Rhiannon’s tattoos and then gestures for her to join the others.
“You’re free to go.”
When she stands up, I finally take in the full scope of her outfit—a cropped green tank top that barely skims the bottom of her curvy breasts, no bra, and the tiniest black shorts I’ve ever seen, wedged in her thick ass. The other two models, who are dressed in long pants, might as well not even exist. Rhiannon steals the spotlight on set and I’m not the only one who’s noticing.
I grip her wrist, stopping her before she moves and whisper darkly. “I’ve missed you and you haven’t responded to my proposition. Come home with me tonight so we can talk?”
She just smiles. “I’m not sure if I can, Cain.” Then she shakes me loose and I hate that she won’t let me claim her. I watch as her hips sway while she moves into place and I swear I’m hypnotized by her.
I step out of the camera’s view, finding Rebel’s talent manager, Billy, a good friend of mine who also manages several of my other clients and understands how long these shoots can go.
I fold my arms across my chest, trying to come across as my usual unbothered but I’m sure I’m failing miserably. Because how can I act unbothered when Rhiannon’s here, practicallyhalf-naked, wearing another man’s tattoos like she’s claiming him?
“Damn, who’s the model in the shorts?” Billy asks me. He’s smirking and it makes my skin crawl.
He’s not a bad guy, recently divorced, mid-forties, but he’s not good for Rhiannon. Not that I can say with confidence I am either. But I want to be. I think I could be if she’d let me.
