Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 112961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 565(@200wpm)___ 452(@250wpm)___ 377(@300wpm)
twenty-two CONNOR
I didn’t sleep a wink last night. And I don’t mean that I tossed and turned and eventually nodded off at some offensive hour. I mean that I dropped Fizzy at her place, had an internal crisis as she walked inside and closed the door, drove straight home, tried to read a few things for work and failed, went to bed, replayed every detail of the moment she climbed over me, had a wank—and then another in the shower—and not once from the moment I stepped inside to the moment I put the kettle on this morning did I enjoy a moment of blissful unconsciousness.
It’s only six, but this day has already been a hundred hours long.
Thanks to our ridiculously padded budget, our set for the next few days is a cozy coffee shop in the Gaslamp Quarter. We’ve got the whole place to ourselves, but have paid the staff to supply craft services, and hired actors to unobtrusively chat in the background. It’s a nice place with a green awning out front, local artwork on the walls, and quirky mismatched tables and chairs scattered throughout. The front counter is made from beautifully worn wood, and a pastry case is stuffed full of mouthwatering sweets. The baristas are being paid handsomely to keep everyone caffeinated, and the smell of coffee and sugar—along with the three espressos I’ve had since I arrived—is nearly enough to make me forget that I could have fucked Fizzy into the California coastline last night.
Well anyway, let’s find her soulmate, shall we?
Of course she looks fucking incredible today. She walks in and my heart drops down my body and through the floorboards. I’m relieved to see that she followed directions—with Fizzy you never know—and arrived in comfortable clothes, sans makeup. Yet somehow, seeing her sweetly disheveled, barefaced, soft, and warm makes this a thousand times harder.
The crew cheers for her, guiding her in and toward the back where hair and makeup has set up a little station out of the way. Three women flank her, one focusing on her makeup, another pulling a brush through her hair, and a third showing her wardrobe choices. Around me is a high-octane bustling energy, but I feel like the stagnant rock in the center of the whitecapped river, stuck in place.
Because amid the chaos, there’s another observation to be made: she’s not yet looked at me. Beyond a casual wave when she walked in, there’s been nothing. Obviously, I need things to be easy between us on set. The last thing we want is for anyone to sense tension after we’ve been quite chummy for the past few weeks. But perhaps more important, I like her. I more than like her. I don’t want things to be off between us.
Stepping up to the counter, I order two drinks and make my way to where she’s scowling down at her phone.
“You all right?” I ask.
She closes the email app and slides the phone into her bag. “You don’t happen to have a sexy manuscript completed and handy, do you? I’d only need to borrow it for, hmmm, forever, and permission to publish it under my name.”
Deflecting with humor, how very Fizzy.
“Nah, sorry.” I hand her a coffee. “But I do have this.”
She tilts the cup, reading Vanilla Latte written in beautiful calligraphy on the side. These baristas are going all out. “How’d you know what I drink?” she asks.
“You ordered one of these after the Broad.”
At this, the small team of beautifiers steps away—I wonder if there is a vibe that reads Privacy, please here—and I take a sip of my cappuccino before putting it down again. More caffeine is the last thing I need right now.
One of the sound guys approaches with Fizzy’s small mic in his hand. “Ready?” he asks.
At her nod, he reaches for the front of her silk shirt and the words shove their way up my throat: “I’ve got it, mate.”
He hands it over without any indication that he’s heard the edge in my tone. But Fizzy has. Her smirk is louder than her bursting laugh could ever be.
“Quiet, you,” I mumble, smiling, and hand her the cord. I motion for her to slip it under the hem of her top and out the neckline. Sensation echoes down my arm, sending electric pulses to my fingertips. I remember the way her breast filled my hand, the gasp she let out when I closed my finger and thumb around her tight nipple.
She brings the end of the cord up and out of her collar and holds it out for me.
I take it, and bend, attaching the clip to the front of her shirt as unobtrusively as possible. Speaking into her chest, I ask, “How are you, Fizzy?”
“I am fine, Connor,” she says like a robot, and when I look up at her, she’s smiling at me.