Underneath the Sycamore Tree

Olivia full on cackles now. “Yeah, sure. I thought writers were, like, introverted hermits. You know, kinda smelly and sensitive to sunlight.”

I don’t want to tell Liv that Kinley has never fit the stereotypical author role. That would mean I know her, and that’s far from true at this point. Once upon a time, I knew that she loved Twizzlers, action movies, and picking dandelions to make wishes she knew wouldn’t come true. She hated mayonnaise and when people called her anything but her full name. It’s why part of me thought I was breaking the ice by using an old nickname only I ever called her.

Little Bird.

Turns out, I was wrong.

“Well?” Liv presses.

“Hmm?”

“What’s your opinion on Kinley?”

That’s a loaded question.

Besides the film industry, my oldest fascination has been the shy girl who preferred journaling on her own over going out with friends. She has a scar on her left cheek from when her family’s chow-chow bit her that’s only visible in close proximity if you know what you’re looking for. Once she tried covering it up with makeup, but it was the dead of summer and the shit melted off and made it more pronounced. Any flaw she thought she had was a favorite part of her in my eyes—scars, aversion to people, and all.

“She seems like the kind of woman who won’t fall for Buchannan’s tricks,” is what I opt to settle with after thinking on it for too long.

She laughs, letting it go.

“We’re filming in two,” Buchannan yells from his chair at the other end of the set. Next to him is Kinley’s seat, which is placed a little too close. I tell myself it wasn’t her who put the chair there, but it doesn’t ease the irritation bubbling under my skin.

It shouldn’t matter anyway.

Liv gets up and puts the chair back how she found it, shooting me a wink before swaying her hips provocatively where she’s supposed to start the scene by the counter. I roll my eyes at her as I settle on the chair as cued, resting one arm on the edge of the table while watching her closely. My legs are spread, my teeth are digging into my bottom lip, and I study her like I studied Kinley Thomas before I fucked everything up.

“And, action!”

Olivia grabs a wine glass and glances over at me. Her eyes are lust-filled as they scan down my body, landing on the slight bulge beneath my zipper.

“I have a feeling you’re going to be a bad influence,” she says, delivering her line as she begins filling her glass with Pinot Noir.

Swiping my bottom lip with my thumb, I shift in the seat and stare at her exposed ass. “I don’t think you have a problem with that.”

She fights off a grin. “There’s a special place in hell for people like us, you know.”

“People in love?”

She lifts the glass to her lips. “Cheaters.”