Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

“I’ll have to take this one in a little, too,” she says, practically petting the sparkling dress. “At the rate you’re shedding pounds, I think I’ll wait and alter it post-Christmas break. We aren’t shooting those scenes until later.”

“Right.” I glance at my watch. “Crap! Livvie wanted to run lines before this next scene.”

Linh shoos me toward the door, already opening accessory drawers and cubbies. “Go! But swing back before you start filming. One of the interns needs to do a continuity check on your wardrobe and make sure we haven’t changed anything since we started this section.”

“Will do.” I rush from the wardrobe room, through the set, and out to the row of trailers. Olivia Ware, who plays Tilda, is only a few down from mine. I knock on the door and wait for her to invite me in.

“Sorry I’m late,” I say, climbing the small set of steps. “I was in . . .”

The words dry up in my mouth when I see Canon sitting on the couch beside Livvie. They both look up from the script between them.

“I was in wardrobe,” I finish. “Sorry to interrupt. I thought you wanted to run lines before—”

“I do,” Livvie says. “I needed Canon to help ya girl get in touch with this next scene. It’s tough, but I think I have it now.”

“You got it. Don’t worry.” Canon stands, his head only a few inches shy of the ceiling in the compact trailer. “Let me know if you need anything else. I gotta go huddle with Jill before this next sequence.”

He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t speak to me directly, but brushes past and walks out the door. I bite back a frustrated sigh. We have to wait. I get it, but does it have to be like this?

“Hey, Liv.” I press my palms together in slightly pleading pose. “I want to ask Canon something about this next scene, too. You mind if I catch him?”

“Nah, ask while you can.” She unties her robe to reveal one of Tilda’s day dresses. “Everybody always wants a piece of him.”

“Right,” I say, smiling stiffly. “Be right back.”

I open the door and hustle down the steps just in time to see Canon heading back toward set. Miraculously, there aren’t a dozen people teeming around the trailers.

“Canon,” I call, rushing to catch up.

He turns back to face me, looking damn good in his gray USC Film School sweatshirt and dark jeans. That beard is getting thicker. How would it feel if he kissed me now?

He tugs at the headphones that are always draped around his neck, his eyes cautious as I approach. “Neevah, hey. You need something?”

“Yeah, I do. I, um . . .” I toy with the belt of the terrycloth robe tied over my costume, fixing my eyes on the production team’s fake sidewalk. “I just wondered if I imagined Thanksgiving.”

I keep my voice low, but he still looks left and right, no doubt checking to see if anyone is around to hear. Grabbing my hand, he pulls me into one of the New York alleys they fabricated for the set, a tight channel between the sides of two fake buildings. He leans against one wall and I face him, leaning against the other.

“No, you didn’t imagine it,” he finally says, his hands shoved into his pockets. “We just can’t repeat it.”

“Ever?” I squeak.

“What’d I tell you?” His smile is a slow-burning secret. “Not yet.”

“You think you’re being discreet by avoiding me, but I think it draws attention that you give everyone else their notes directly except me. All my notes come through Kenneth.”

“I don’t care if people speculate about that. That’s not the only reason I don’t want a lot of contact with you.”

It stings, those words. Even knowing what’s behind them, hearing him actually voice what I’ve suspected doesn’t feel great.

“Then why?” I ask, keeping my chin and eyes level. I’m determined not to get emotional because that’s the last thing he wants and that’s not who I am. I never let personal stuff get in the way of a performance, of the work, but I’ve also never felt like this about someone I worked with.

“It’s for me,” he says, not looking away. “It’s so I can focus. You distract me.”

A huge grin spreads across my face.

“Don’t.” He chuckles and narrows his eyes. “Do not.”

“I’m a distraction, huh?” I take the few steps separating us until only a heartbeat fits between our chests. The alley walls close in on us and I’m surrounded by the clean, masculine scent of him.

The humor fades from his expression, and he links our fingers at our sides. “We need to wait.”

Disappointment pierces the lust and longing suffusing my senses. “Until we wrap?”

He bends to drop a kiss on my forehead, slides his lips down to briefly take mine, the beard a soft scrape against my cheek. I grip his elbows, not wanting him to pull away, to go back to ignoring me. Just beyond this fake alley and deep shadows is the set and the cast and the crew and the real world. And this . . . we . . . are not happening there yet. And I just want a few more seconds in this world where we are, even if the only real thing here is us.