Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

I’d thought it would be hard not having contact with Canon, getting back to the set and pretending we aren’t together while we’re working. I underestimated Canon’s near-obsessive focus.

And my own.

This is the role of a lifetime, and when I step on that set, I give it everything. Kenneth continues providing most of my notes, but on the rare occasion that Canon delivers feedback himself, it’s with the same firm thoughtfulness he shows every other actor. Even though I miss him, we both do our jobs with the same professionalism we demonstrated before we went away together. I’m living off our few text messages and phone calls, but not much contact so far.

I don’t know if I got soft or spoiled or what over the holiday break, but by the weekend our first week back, I’m done. I can barely move or keep my eyes open. When the car drops me off Saturday evening, everything aches. We adhere to a blended production schedule. French hours when possible, grind it out when necessary. We have five days of shooting and a day built in for rehearsals. That leaves Sunday as my only day off.

So I can’t wait for Sunday, and I have every intention of sleeping until noon.

For this reason, I ignore my phone when it rings at eight o’clock in the AM, and drift right back to sleep.

“Hey.”

I bat one hand at something tickling my nose.

“Neevah, wake up.”

Another tickle.

I crack one eye open and bring the object of my disruption into focus.

“Canon?” I croak, because you gotta croak at this ungodly hour.

“It’s nine o’clock,” he says. “Not ungodly.”

“Am I talking in my sleep?”

“You’re talking. I’m not sure if you’re asleep. Your eyes are open.”

“They are?”

“Do you see me?” he asks, amused indulgence in his voice.

I pull my pillow over my face. “Not now I don’t. How’d you get in?”

“The usual way. Unlawful entry.”

I poke my head out from under the pillow and stare at him.

“Takira let me in. You are in that deep sleep. I should let you rest.” He stands. “I’ll check in with you later.”

“Wait.” I sit up, the sight of him leaving jostling me from my near-catatonic state. “Why are you here? I thought we were . . . you know, not doing that.”

He crosses back over to sit on the bed again. “I thought we could be extra careful and stealthy on our day off.”

“Like, lay in bed and eat and make love for hours? ’Cause I’m very much down for that.”

His raspy laughter awakens all my below-the-belt parts and makes me shiver. “I had other plans, but if that’s what you want to do.”

He leans over, sinewy forearms on either side of my head, and dips to take my lips possessively. I open my mouth, tangle our tongues and then . . .

“Morning breath,” I mumble against his lips, pushing at his shoulders.

“Don’t care.” He kisses down my neck, nudges the strap of my nightgown aside to lick my collarbone.

“I do.” I laugh and shove him again. “I want to brush my teeth.” I reach up to touch my silk sleep-scarf. “And do my hair and wash my face. We can’t lose the mystery this early in our relationship.”

“Who needs mystery when I can have stale breath and a drooly pillow?”

“I do not drool!” I bop my pillow over his head.

“Okay. Okay.” He tosses the pillow to the floor, grabs my wrists and pins them over my head, pressing me into the mattress with the weight of his chest, of his hard, warm body. “Do you want to hear about my stealthy plans or not?”

“Will there be food?”

“Definitely.”

“Will there be hiking or any physical activity? Because I swear if I have to drag my body up anything today—”

“It’s restful and low-key. Promise.”

“Will there be kissing?”

His full lips twitch. “If you’re a good girl.”

“Good girls won’t suck your dick the way I can.”

Lust narrows his eyes and flares his pupils. “I think you’re onto something with that staying-in-bed plan.”

He looms over me again, his mouth descending. I giggle and push him away. Rolling off the bed and to my feet, I stride to the bathroom and look back at him stretched out, hands behind his head, watching me with embers in his eyes. His lazy smile blazes bright, even, and easy. Canon is so reserved, I didn’t expect humor to take to his face this effortlessly, but it does, crinkling his eyes at the corners and slashing grooves into his lean, bearded cheeks. My heart pinches because I recognize the gift of seeing him this open when he only shows the world so much.

“Do I have time for a quick shower?” I ask, my voice coming out husky, which I hope he takes for Barry White morning voice instead of the unexpected emotion it is.

He glances at his watch. “Very quick. Dress comfortably.”