Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Sophie’s eyes widened; her lips trembled. She started to lift her hand to reach for him. At this point, it was Brendan’s cue to step in—but Newcomb clapped his hands together sharply, breaking the scene.
“Let’s try it again, only with a little more physical distance,” he said. “That was good—” and he chewed those words out like he was choking on them, grudging and sour, “—but we need more of a physical sense of the longing, and the impossible breach between them.” Raising his head, he looked around, snapping his fingers. “Can we get three or four more steps added on?”
Several members of the set construction crew came moving in, quick-time, with the synchronicity and speed of a racing pit crew. Cillian looked up at Sophie with a sheepish smile, offering her his hand; laughing, she slipped her fingers into his and hopped down, before they leaned into each other, poring over the same script held between them, heads together as they whispered in eager rushes.
Those two had gotten to be thick as thieves rather quickly, Brendan thought. Part of Sophie’s easy confidence, paired with Cillian’s natural charm; when he relaxed, people simply took to him. He might be broody and sullen in his reels and headshots, but the reality of Cillian Tell was an irreverent and carefree man who was slowly beginning to unfurl and bloom around the crew despite the crushing pressure of Newcomb’s ever-watchful eye.
As Brendan lingered on Cillian and Sophie, though, Cillian glanced up—and from across the set, their eyes met. Cillian briefly froze, before his lazy-thick lashes drifted downward, stark against the golden spattering of freckles framing his eyes. He ducked his head a little, a small smile curling on his lips, and neither the messy fall of his hair nor today’s fresh layer of makeup could hide the way his face darkened, reddened. A second quick, shy look darted at Brendan, and Brendan couldn’t help a slow smirk.
Hot mess.
That kid was a fucking hot mess.
Sophie glanced up, turned her head, followed Cillian’s line of sight until she landed on Brendan. He arched a brow—and she giggled, covering her mouth and leaning in to whisper something to Cillian. His flush burned deeper, and he pushed her lightly with his shoulder, leading to both of them dissolving into quiet laughter, the brightness in Cillian’s eyes infectious and warm.
“Not bad. He’s finding his stride,” came at Brendan’s shoulder, and only decades of training kept him from jumping out of his skin.
He did clench his fingers in his script, though, as he snapped a glare downward—only to find Drake standing next to him, neat and slim as always in his white shirt, black slacks, and tie, hands tucked into his pockets.
“Jesus fuck, how long have you been there?” Brendan demanded.
“Long enough,” Drake said, watching the flurry of motion across the set thoughtfully. “You’re smiling.”
Brendan arched a brow, then returned to watching the crew rapidly making alterations to the makeshift stand-in set pieces in a tumble of banging hammers and rasping saws and muttered directions. “My face does have that capacity, yes.”
“And,” Drake pointed out, inclining his head toward Cillian and Sophie, “he’s wearing the same clothes he had on yesterday.”
“Is he? I hadn’t noticed.” If Drake wasn’t going to be direct, then Brendan wasn’t going to make it easy for him to skirt around things in careful sideways questions. So all he said was, “They’re doing well. I’m enjoying the performance. It looks like he’s finding his footing, and she’s got a deep natural talent for evocation, so she’s pulling a stronger showing out of him. They feed into each other.”
With a disgusted sound, Drake cocked his head to squint one eye at him. “…do you have any idea what you’re doing?”
“No idea what you’re talking about.”
“You know, I’d actually believe that,” Drake muttered. “Because as set as you are about knowing your own mind, you are the least self-aware motherfucker on the planet. You’re not just oblivious, you’re himbo levels of oblivious.”
“Nice insult,” Brendan replied, “but that still doesn’t explain what you’re talking about.”
Drake blew out heavily, giving him a long look, eyes dull with disgust. “So you’re just helping Cillian, huh.”
“Yes.”
“Out of the goodness of your shiny little heart.”
Brendan rolled his eyes. “Because it’s a necessity, and someone has to do it.”
“So are you fucking now?” Drake lilted, and Brendan shrugged.
“Not yet.”
Drake spat out a garbled sound, swiveling his head swiftly to stare at Brendan. “…I wasn’t fucking serious!” His brows mounted into looming cliffs, his face reddening. “You’re actually planning to?”
“If we feel like it,” Brendan answered, eyeing Drake. “Why are you having an apoplexy? You’ve never cared when I had casual relations before.”
Slowly shaking his head, Drake slumped forward. “This is not that and you know it.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You really are this oblivious, you’re just so…” Drake circled his fingertips against his temples, closing his eyes with a despairing moan. “You—I—I swear to God, men like you could turn me straight.”