This is for the best, I tell myself firmly, but in the quiet darkness, the words ring hollow.
I move through my evening routine on autopilot taking my makeup off, throwing pajamas on, and brushing my teeth. Normal, safe things—things that don't involve almost kissing your very attractive, very off-limits boss understring lights.
In bed, I stare at the ceiling, unable to stop my mind from wandering. What if he hadn't pulled away? What if we'd given in to whatever this is between us? I can still feel the phantom pressure of his hand on my waist, the way his heart raced against my palm.
But Grant is right. I'm living in his guest house, working on his movie, and building my career. And he has Hazel to think about—sweet, creative Hazel. The timing is wrong. The situation is wrong. Everything about this is wrong.
So, why does it feel so right?
I roll over and bury my face in the pillow. Tomorrow, I'll be professional and collected, but tonight? I close my eyes, reconstructing the moment. His hand on my cheek, the electricity between us, and the way he looked at me like I was something precious and threatening.
I imagine his lips on mine—not the ghost of a touch we'd shared, but a real kiss. Deep. Consuming. The kind of kiss that would rewrite everything.
Stop, I warn myself, but the fantasy lingers.
One thing I know for sure—working together just became a lot more complicated.
fourteen
. . .
Grant
"Why isa reporter asking me if Sophia Ford is staying at your house?" Lucas leans his head around the doorframe of my office, his brow furrowed with a mixture of confusion and concern, maybe even a hint of suspicion.
I'm seated behind my expansive mahogany desk, covered with scattered scripts and budget docs, when he interrupts my morning. The memories of last night flood my mind—Sophia in my arms, her lips brushing across mine. God, I wanted more, but we can't. I can't.
"Because she is," I tell him, my voice deliberately casual.
Lucas has now fully entered my office, and he drops into one of the chairs facing my desk. I can feel his gaze—assessing, probing. He knows me too well.
"Why is she staying at your house?" he asks, one eyebrow raised.
I lean back in my leather chair and run my hands over my face before dragging them up to rest on the top of my head. "Her house flooded. The entire second floor is basicallysitting in her kitchen and living room. I offered her the guest house until she can figure out what to do."
"You just offered…" Lucas leaves the sentence hanging, waiting for me to fill in the blanks.
I know exactly what he's implying. That this isn't just about helping a friend, that there's something more simmering beneath the surface.
"Hm," Lucas says, that single sound loaded with meaning.
"Hm. What?"
He rises from the chair, his professional mode switching on. "I'll let the press know what's happening, but I'll ask them not to print anything. Protect Sophia's privacy. She doesn't need random journalists camping outside her place, hoping for some tabloid-worthy story."
"Thanks," I mutter.
"You'll let me know if there's anything else there?" Lucas asks, and we both know he's not talking about the flood damage.
"What do you mean?"
I run my hands across the scruff on my face, a tell I've never been able to hide. I know exactly what he means, but there's no way I'm mentioning last night. That was a fluke, a one-time thing that shouldn't have happened and won't happen again.
"When's the last time you had anyone stay in your guest house?" Lucas probes.
"I've never had anyone stay in there."
"Hm."
