“I disagree.” He brings one hand to my face, his finger skimming across the skin over my upper lip, where I licked before. “You’re sexy as hell. I love your smell.” Leaning forward, he rubs the tip of his nose against my temple. “So feminine. Sweet.”
He places his hand to my bare shoulder. The fine hairs on my arms instantly stand on end. When he runs his thumb along my clavicle, I shudder. “I’m dying to taste you, Clara.”
His voice is low, gruff, and so full of intent it sends an arrow of heat straight through me. It’s all I can do not to clench my thighs together.
“You’re being intense again,” I inform him, struggling not to melt right here in his arms.
“I plan to keep that up until you relent.”
“I... you’re... sweet baby Jesus, it’s too early in the morning for this,” I mutter. “Can’t a girl have her coffee before you try to melt the panties off her?”
Blake throws his head back, laughing. “You’re one of a kind, Clara. Unfortunately, I do have to go or I’ll be late for the meeting. I’ll leave you to your coffee, and your shower.”
He steps back but still fixes me with that molten gaze of his. “And by the way, there are much better ways to release sexual tension than running.”
Damn this man and his wicked way with words. Shaking my head, I bid him goodbye, hurrying inside my apartment. My body is so alive and tight with tension, I feel like I’m about to implode.
Well, that was a waste of a run.
***
Tuesday is, as usual, the worst day of the week, because the final ratings for the show come in.
“If we don’t improve, we’re gonna get axed.” Quentin paces the small balcony of the studio later that day, smoking his fifth cigarette in twelve minutes. Yep, I’m counting the minutes, because I have a million things on my to-do list today, and wasting time by keeping Quentin company while he chain-smokes and complains isn’t one of them. But when the boss is about to have a mental breakdown, it’s my duty to point out the positives so the entire show doesn’t go to hell in a handbasket.
The problem is I can’t contradict him. If the numbers don’t improve, we’re not going to get another season.
“I booked our lead actors on a number of talk shows. That’ll bring in new viewers.”
Executive producers and their assistants don’t typically get involved in marketing and PR, but this case requires all our efforts.
No two shows are the same, but there are several patterns. Some shows start on a high and then maintain it for one or two seasons before sliding down the rankings as their prime time passes.
Others begin on unsteady feet, trudge along for the first season, then pull in better numbers in the second, when their viewership solidifies. We’re in the second category, but here’s the crux: the show needs to be renewed for a second season first.
“What we need is a boost from Our Pics.”
Red alert! His watery and wandering eyes narrow. I swear to God, if he’s going to bring up the Bennetts and We See You again...
Clasping my hands behind my back, I steel myself.
“Noticed you’ve changed your Facebook settings to private. Anything to hide?”
I set my jaw. “No, but I don’t like strangers snooping around. It creeps me out.”
He narrows his eyes, clearly not believing me. I unhitch myself from the balcony railing, heading toward the entrance door.
“I’m trying to book our stars on the big dogs. Late-night shows and such.”
“Right. Like they’re gonna give us the time of day if not even Our Pics does. Set your sights on something achievable.”
With persistence and hard work, we can get the top dogs on our side. But Quentin is not about persistence or hard work. He’s all about shortcuts.
“Nate always said—”
Quentin snickers, stepping closer. “I am not Nate. You got used to him blowing smoke up your ass, that’s your problem. I’m gonna need you to perform.”
I pull myself up straighter, crossing my arms over my chest. I will not let this prick put me down. But he’s also my boss. Handle this with grace, Clara. I wonder if my slapping his cheek would be considered graceful. It would be an improvement over kicking him in the groin, which I’m seriously considering.