This morning, they’re filming a family dinner scene and no extras are required until the afternoon, which leaves my morning free to paint. If I can keep my eyelids open, that is.
When the front door bangs closed, I give up overthinking and go in search of my paintbrush, surrendering everything else over to the universe.
I let Tootsie out for a wee, fill her bowl with dry food, devour a croissant in two bites and take a coffee through to my makeshift studio in Savannah’s spacious living area.
My fingers skim over yesterday’s brush strokes. The image that stares back at me is the same image I see every single time I close my eyes.
But this one’s not a place, it’s a person.
That strong, hard jawline, dotted with masculine ebony stubble. Those huge swirling green pools loaded with the promise of something utterly delicious.
It needs a lot more work. I don’t bother putting my overalls on in my rush to pick up my brush. I paint and paint and paint. Only when my phone vibrates with a text do I notice I’ve been at it for three hours straight.
Standing back, I survey my handiwork.
That roman nose is slightly off, but it can be fixed. The bone structure is unmistakable. Nate Jackson is getting his third portrait this week. And it’s the best work I’ve done in years, even if I do say so myself.
Hard not to be inspired when a film star come-god sweeps you off your feet and claims you. Even if it is only for a few weeks.
I open the message.
Hey beautiful.
How is this my life? It seems too good to be true. Well, as long as I don’t factor in the life I left behind. The one I’m hiding from. And the fact that Nate will be gone in a matter of weeks at best, assuming he doesn’t find out what a laughingstock I am before then and dump my sorry ass.
All the more reason to enjoy December while it lasts.
Aren’t you getting paid to romance someone else today? Even if it is an act.
The phone vibrates again before I have the chance to put it down.
Yeah. About that. It’s not going so well.
It’ll be okay. Don’t panic. I know a movie star who’ll come rushing in and save the day at the last minute.
My phone rings in my hand.
Movie stars clearly don’t have to adhere to the same rules of dating that us mere minions follow, because if I text and then immediately call a guy I’d been on a date with the night before, I’d risk looking too keen. Though we’re not technically dating.
No, realistically, even though neither of us are willing to admit it, we’re already beyond that, given how much time we’ve been spending together, joined at the hips. Friends with benefits is rapidly turning into something that looks like a real, co-habiting relationship, because Nate’s barely been back to his hotel at all since we started hooking up.
I swipe to accept the call. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey, how’s it going?’ That American tinged Dublin drawl has me swooning and smiling simultaneously.
‘Surprisingly well, thank you.’ Would he think it odd if he knew I’ve been painting him all week? That he’s my muse? ‘How’s filming going?’
‘Not good.’ He exhales a long, heavy breath. ‘Can you come to the castle?’
I glance down at my paint-splashed fingers. ‘Now? Max said he didn’t need me until later.’
‘Yeah. Do you mind?’ There’s an edge to his tone. A desperation.
‘Is everything okay?’
‘No.’ He sighs heavily again. ‘I’m fucking up every line. Turns out I can’t act. Not romance anyway. Celeste was right.’
‘Nate, you can do it. I know you can.’ I’m already on my way up to the bedroom to change.
