“Keep going,” Bryn commanded, and she wasn’t sure whether she was acting when her voice cracked. She was losing the thread, losing control. “Don’t you dare stop. You’re so close and you are absolutely perfect.”
Panting, Bryn laughed. She spent a few minutes muttering affection into the recording. A scene like that didn’t require the same aftercare as something more intense, but she liked to stay with her listeners for a little while. To talk them through their comedown so they didn’t feel jarred by being suddenly alone.
She whispered a last, “I’ll be home soon,” and hit stop. She saved the file, intending to listen to it while she showered before uploading it.
When she yanked out her earbuds, the room was so much quieter than she remembered. So empty. All she had was her pulse still fluttering too fast in her throat, her skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat, and sheets bunched up around her legs.
She hadn’t touched herself. Not once.
Bryn repeated the fact to herself over and over as if it might fight the tide of shame rising in her belly. Thinking wasn’t doing, she told herself. Fantasizing was part of the job, a necessary tool to make the performance believable. As long as she didn’t act on it, she hadn’t crossed a line. The logic felt flimsy, but it was all she had.
Getting up as if she were fleeing the scene of a crime, Bryn leapt out of bed. She stalked to the bathroom and turned on the shower to just short of scalding. The billowing steam covered the mirror and saved Bryn from seeing her own flushed reflection.
But the shower did nothing to erase the vision of Vivian seared onto the back of her eyelids. Bryn groaned, scrubbing at her hair and trying to convince herself that she wasn’t as bad as some creepy old dude with a Times Square billboard fetishizing a stranger.
Wrapped in a towel, she stared at her hazy reflection as the steam cleared. She had to face Vivian in less than an hour and act like she hadn’t just spent the morning imagining her in the most intimate way possible. She had to act normal. Ugh, why had she let her imagination go so far?
She mentally scrolled through the day’s scenes, pulling on a pair of leggings and a tank top to combat the heat of the booth. If they kept up yesterday’s easy pace, they’d get to the first real steamy scene by the end of the day.
A new thought, sharp and intrusive, cut through the haze of her guilt. If she couldn’t shake this inappropriate desire, she might as well use it. She could take this want she was failing to drown and pour it into Maggie’s attraction to Jo.
That wasn’t wrong, was it? She could let her character feel everything Bryn had to suppress. Wasn’t that method acting?
The idea took shape as she combed her wet hair, the simple, repetitive motion calming the frantic edge of her thoughts. By the time she’d dried her hair and put on a little lip gloss, she was sure it was the only way to go.
Bryn couldn’t want Vivian, but Maggie could sure as hell want Jo.
ChapterTen
Something was off about Bryn.
Notoffexactly, Vivian decided while they finished breakfast on the patio. But different. Different in a way she couldn’t identify. The Bryn she’d gotten to know over the last few days was unrelentingly cheery and chatty. This morning, Bryn was apparently more captivated by her egg white omelet than by conversation.
It was weird. Not that Vivian should care. They were strangers doing a job. Bryn’s emotional state, or whatever the hell was going on, was not her problem.
Vivian dipped a pineapple chunk in Greek yogurt and vowed to mind her business.
Her vow lasted all of three minutes. Vivian looked at Bryn over the rim of her teacup. Dressed for the booth, Bryn’s tank top was loose. The strap had slipped down her shoulder, exposing the line of her freckled collarbone. Hair swept up in a messy ponytail, which seemed pointless when so much of it fell loose and framed her face, Bryn seemed preoccupied.
There was a faint flush on Bryn’s high cheekbones. Was it the heat? Sensing her attention, Bryn looked up and caught Vivian’s gaze for a fleeting second. It was a glancing blow, but Vivian caught something with the very ends of her fingertips. There had been a sort of thrumming in Bryn’s ocean eyes. A contained energy. A secret. It was the look of someone who hadn’t slept but wasn’t tired.
Bryn averted her gaze so quickly, Vivian didn’t have enough time or information to form an opinion. Okay, maybe itwasher business.
Was she worried about keeping Yenni Montoya—who apparently had enough clout to break all standard operating procedures with her demands and involvement—happy? Vivian’s pulse tripped on its way up her throat.
Could Bryn be overconfident? They’d earned a fragile truce with Yenni Montoya, not a permanent peace treaty. That didn’t mean they could relax. It was worse now. Now there was approval to lose.
Vivian set her fork down. “Ready for today?”
“Absolutely,” Bryn said, her voice even but Vivian wasn’t convinced. “Ready to get to it. Especially since we have the first… you know.” She made a vague gesture with her fork. “The first big scene.”
The first love scene. A cathartic release after all the longing and near-misses.
Vivian relaxed as soon as the problem was revealed. Of course. Bryn was anxious about the intimacy of the scene. That had to be it. It was a common hurdle for actors. And given their rocky start, it made perfect sense that she’d be apprehensive about hitting the mark on such a pivotal moment.
“If you’re worried?—”
“Oh, I’m not worried,” Bryn interrupted with an unexpected smirk. She took a last bite of her omelet, a picture of breezy confidence at odds with the quiet, brooding woman who had been sitting there a minute ago.
