"Give me a minute." I'm not really a hair and makeup girl. I run a brush through my messy dark locks. I dab a little concealer under my eyes. Then a coat of mascara and one of red lip gloss.
There.
I look decent.
No, I look hot. Like I'm about to meet my fuck buddy for ice cream and sex.
This is not how a professional dresses.
Part of my job is understanding image. Usually, I know better. But right now my thoughts are split between oh my God, this video is going to be fucking amazing and oh my God, Malcolm Strong is outside my door.
Malcolm Strong is about to be alone with me in my apartment.
Shit, I can't make a fool of myself here.
"Just a minute." I grab a cropped cardigan and slide it on. Not perfect, but better. More like… a slutty professional. But at least that's a professional.
It's three steps to my door. I undo each lock carefully then I pull it open.
Mal is standing there in jeans and a t-shirt, all beautiful and effortless and irresistible.
He chuckles. "It's only been three minutes."
"And?"
"You should have made me wait until seven."
"This is a bad neighborhood. You shouldn't hang out outside." I pull the door wider and motion come in.
He follows me inside. Slowly, his eyes pass over my apartment. He takes in every detail—the indie film posters on the walls, the CD collection in the corner of my desk, the turquoise dishes in the sink, the tin of tea on the counter, the clean white sheets on my bed.
No comforter. It's too hot for a comforter.
It's too hot for this sweater.
I unbutton it.
He continues staring at my bed.
I fasten only the middle button. "Just say it."
He cocks a brow.
"We could shoot a lot more footage right here. Haha?"
He copies my tone. "Haha?"
I nod.
"That's not how I laugh."
"I can't do the deep, sexy chuckle."
He lets out a deep, sexy chuckle. "I like you."
"You haven't seen the footage yet."
"I like that you just said that."