“Harrison?” the man’s voice repeats. “Why would you be calling his name,” he says mildly, “when you should be screaming mine?”
Oh, I’m not in the mood for this.
Pierce fucking Maddox.
What’s he doing here? Today was supposed to be a skeleton crew. Christmas Eve. Bare bones staff.
He steps out of the bathroom with my toothbrush in his hand.
Bile crawls up my throat. Gross.
“Miss me?” he asks.
“Not nearly enough,” I reply. “And as much as I hate you touching my things, that toothbrush is yours to keep. Merry Christmas.”
I swear to God, if he makes me late calling the kids, I will kill him.
“What do you want, Pierce?”
He takes a leisurely seat, like he owns the place. Like this isn’t my dressing room and my name isn’t stenciled on the door behind him.
He spreads his legs.
“I think you know what I want.”
Oh, I don’t even think so.
“I suggest you close your legs,” I say calmly, “unless you want me to drop-kick you there.”
He snaps them shut instantly.
Good.
“Do you think I don’t know you’re the reason I got blocked from production?” he continues, unbothered. “Stop playing hard to get, sweetheart.” He dangles a key. “I can get in every trailer. I have all the keys.”
He does?
“If you have an issue with production,” I say evenly, “you should take it up with them.” Because I wanna get to calling the kids, and I am not in the mood.
“I’d rather take it up with you,” he says seductively.
Then, he smiles.
The smile he used to give me when he knew I had no choice but to be in a photo op with him.
Satisfied.
A smug, satisfied grin. And it’s creepy as fuck.
He leans forward. “Maybe I’m here because I like the smell of your shampoo.”
The air punches from my lungs.
That’s what one of the notes said. The ones I gave Gabe and never wanted to see again.
Oh, my God.
I slip my hands into my pocket, searching for anything I can use as a weapon. The only thing my fingers close around is my phone.
