“Uh . . . what facts?” I asked, a knot of anxiety forming in the pit of my stomach.
“This,” he gestured to the space between us, “this couldn’t be professional if we tried. It crossed that line a long time ago when you were naked and coming on top of me in my car!”
“What?” My jaw fell open.
“Don’t act so surprised and shocked, it’s not like we haven’t said things like that to each other before. In fact, that’s part of the problem. One minute you’re telling me you won’t go out with me, and the next minute you’re kissing me.”
I looked around nervously, terrified that someone was going to overhear this conversation. “Stop talking like this!” I hissed angrily. “Not at work.”
“Why not at work? We have this kind of conversation just about everywhere else, like body corporate meetings and parking lots and—”
“Stop it!” I cut him off and then walked away as quickly as I could. I marched straight back to the craft tent and walked in to find the collarbone assaulter lying on the ground whispering something to himself. I turned and marched back out to find Ben standing there watching me. I huffed and turned and marched straight into the middle of the set and stopped at the car. I took my glasses off and whipped my forehead as the sweat ran down my face and into my eyes.
God, I must look like hell.I walked up to the car and looked at myself in the rear view mirror. My face was glistening with sweat and my cheeks were flushed red, not from the heat, but rather from what Ben had said to me. I moved my hair out my face, it was sticking to my moist skin and I had to shake my head to free it. Grains of bright red sand stuck to my skin and a dot of black mascara had deposited itself on the skin under my eye, probably due to the sweat. I looked up when I heard a clicking sound, only to find Giovanni taking a photo of me.
Why the hell was he taking photos of me?
35. She Is Not Stick . . .
I climbed out of the cool shower that I’d just had back in my room and read a text on my phone.
Ben: Did we just have our first fight?
I stared at the message for a moment or two, deciding what I should say back to him. Ithadfelt like a fight, and I’d been feeling terrible since returning from the shoot. The idea that Ben and I were possibly no longer on friendly terms made my stomach twist and churn in the most unsettling way imaginable. I brought my fingers down to the phone and started typing.
Sera: I’m not sure. Did we?
Ben: IDK. But whatever it is, I feel terrible.
Sera: Me too.
Ben: I’m really sorry about what I said to you earlier. You were right, it was wrong, inappropriate and unprofessional. I also shouldn’t have been reading your messages. Feel free to hate me, but not for too long.
Sera: I’ll try not to.
Sera: Thanks for the apology tho. And I’m sorry I’m giving off mixed signals . . . but I’m confused.
Ben: I wish you weren’t.
Sera: Me too.
Ben: Are you coming for drinks and dinner?
Sera: Nah. Need sleep.
Ben: Can I come over? We can chat?
Sera: You need to show your face there tho. You’re the boss.
Ben: True.
Sera: See you tomorrow.
Ben: Okay, babe.
Sera: Babe?!?
Sera: Hahah!
