"I'm already impressed." The words come out more sincere than I intended. "With all of this," I add quickly, gesturing to the set around us. "Very impressive."
A faint blush colors her cheeks, and for a moment, I see a flash of the same vulnerability she showed in her scene. But before she can respond, she's called back to set.
"Tonight," she says firmly, already backing away. "Don't work too late."
I watch her go, struck by how easily she's woven herself into the fabric of my life. In the few days she's been staying at my place, everything has shifted slightly—like furniture moved an inch to the left. Nothing dramatic, just enough to make me hyper-aware of the change. Of her.
"She's something else, isn't she?" Edie appears beside me, following my gaze.
"She is." I keep my voice carefully neutral.
Edie gives me a knowing look. "The camera loves her, but it doesn't do her justice. There's something about her you can only really see in person. A light."
I think about Sophia's determination, her focus when reviewing scripts, the way she loses herself in scenes only to emerge more fully herself. "Yeah," I say softly. "There really is."
As I head back to my office, I try not to think about dinner tonight, the way she felt in my arms during that brief hug, or how much I wanted to punch James Foster every time he touched her face.
I fail spectacularly on all counts.
thirteen
. . .
Sophia
"To Honey Pine Farms!"As I raise my wine glass, a grin spreads across my face that I can't—and don't want to—contain. The approvals have finally come through for us to shoot on location, and the relief flooding through me feels like liquid sunshine. Or maybe that's the wine talking. Probably a combination of both.
We're celebrating in Grant's backyard, with string lights creating a golden canopy above us. The soft glow makes everything feel intimate, magical, and risky. Stop it, I chide myself. He's your boss—yourvery attractive, off-limits boss.
Grant clinks his glass against mine. "To Honey Pine," he says, "and to our very persistent producer, who wouldn't take no for an answer."
I arch an eyebrow. "I prefer the term 'diplomatically tenacious.'"
His laugh rolls through the evening air, and something inside me trembles. It's not just a laugh; it's a sound thatmakes my skin prickle, that sends unexpected heat racing along my nerves.Get it together, Sophia.
The evening is perfect—just cool enough that I'm glad I grabbed my light sweater but still holding the day's warmth. Soft acoustic music drifts from the outdoor speakers, creating a dreamlike atmosphere that feels dangerously close to romantic.
"Thanks for cooking dinner tonight," Grant says, leaning back in his chair. "The pot pie was incredible."
I smile as a hint of nostalgia crosses my face. "Family recipe. My grandmother used to make this every Sunday after church. Taught me everything I know about cooking. And about feeding people's souls, not just their stomachs."
He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Big family?"
"Not exactly." I laugh. "Just my brother and me. But my mom's side? Total chaos. Tons of cousins, aunts, uncles—family that takes up entire parks for reunions, where someone's always cooking, always talking." I take another sip of wine and then pause. "Speaking of family, Hazel's mom is pretty fascinating. I saw the news. The new face of Ralph Lauren."
Grant's expression softens. "Geneva's incredible. She travels a lot with her modeling career, but she's relentless about staying connected with Hazel." His pride is evident. "Last month, she was shooting a campaign in Paris and still managed a daily video call. Sometimes multiple calls."
"That sounds challenging," I say, genuinely impressed. "Balancing a high-profile career with parenting can't be easy."
"We've built a solid co-parenting system," Grant explains. "With this new gig, she'll be based in New York now, so less travel and more opportunities to see Hazel."
I can see the deep love and respect he has for Geneva's role in their lives. "You must have had great role models in your parents," I say casually.
Something shifts in his eyes—a flicker of pain quickly masked.
I wait, sensing there's more. Sometimes, silence invites conversation better than questions.
"My dad," he says finally. "He passed away when I was eleven."
