Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

He’s worried about the movie. What people will think, how they’ll see me if they find out I slept with my director. I’m worried more about my heart. I’ve never met anyone like Canon, never felt anything like this. I know sex will only deepen this connection.

He thinks I can’t afford the press. What I can’t afford is heartbreak. Affairs like this in Hollywood don’t exactly have the best track record, and he may be used to negotiating relationships like contracts, dealing with the fallout of a breakup in a public forum like he had to with Camille, but I’m not.

I suspect Camille lashed out because she lost him. If she hadn’t been hurt, if her emotions hadn’t been so invested, she wouldn’t have sabotaged her movie that way. She got Canon fired and a movie that could have been great failed. Was it worth it? Was it just her wounded pride? I would never behave that way, but will I feel those things if Canon and I take this step and it doesn’t work out? We still have two months of shooting left. This is my first big break.

Is this wise?

These questions circle the drain in my head, over and over, but I keep coming back to a resounding YES.

“Are you there?” Takira nearly shouts. “I mentioned Canon’s big dick energy and you got mighty quiet. You better not be fantasizing about him with me on the phone. That’s creepy as hell.”

“Shut up,” I laugh. “No, I just . . . it’s a big step. You see how he is on set with me. Like he barely knows I’m alive.”

“Real talk? I see a man who doesn’t know what to do with what he’s feeling. That night at the Halloween party, I saw you on the balcony with him. Saw him laughing. This is Canon we’re talking about, whose smiles occur about as frequently as solar eclipses. I saw the way he looked at you. It’s so obvious to me he’s feeling you. I don’t know how everyone doesn’t see it. I don’t know how you don’t.”

“I do. It just feels like a mirage sometimes. One minute it’s there and it’s clear, but after a few days of silence and no contact, it wavers. It disappears.”

“Canon did not get where he is playing games on set and jeopardizing his paper. He is famous for his work ethic. For his obsessive focus. The fact that he’s breaking that, even for a few days with you, tells me all I need to know.”

“You think so?”

“Oh, me know so, guhl,” she says, slipping effortlessly into the islands. “Now, let’s talk logistics. You got condoms? Never rely on men, who barely remember to wash their hands after they pee, to handle your protection.”

I stuff the shiny gold squares in my overnight bag. “Got ’em.”

“Brazilian?”

“Waxed yesterday.”

“Lube?”

“Yep.”

“Star pupil,” she says. “Okay. I guess you’re set.”

“I need to go. Warmest regards,” I tell her, tapping into our Schitt’s Creek vernacular.

“Warmest regards, honey. Have fun.”

After we hang up, I finish packing and roll my overnight bag into the foyer with a few minutes to spare. When the doorbell rings, my heart skydives right into the pit of my stomach.

“Hey,” Canon says when I open the door.

He looks goooood. Like good good.

Who knew pink Lacoste polo shirts were my kink? Contrasting with the rich hue of his dark skin, his biceps straining at the short sleeves, we learned today. With his aviators pushed up, his “movie beard” well groomed, he has me immediately imagining how those bristles will scrape the inside of my thighs when he eats me out. I’m so ready for this.

“Hey,” I say, my voice husky, like I just smoked a cigarette after the fantasy in my head.

I devour him with my eyes and he must feel the nip of my teeth. Must sense the he can get it coming off me in ho-waves. He steps in, closes the door, and presses me into the nearest wall. There’s no preface to this kiss. No permission needed because my arms are already tangling around his neck and my tongue is aggressive, sparring with his. When his fingers brush over the skin at my waist, bared by my crop top, there’s reverence and urgency in his touch. His hands skid down to my ass and squeeze. He groans against my mouth and I moan into his. Desperation rises up and overtakes us. His hand slips beneath the waistband of my sweatpants, his fingers searching and unerring in my panties, caressing my clit for the first time.

“Shit,” I pant, breaking the kiss and dropping my head to his shoulder, sensation rocking me from the core. “Canon.”

“I told myself I wouldn’t let this happen.” He sucks at the curve of my neck. “I don’t want our first time to be in your foyer, but fuuuuuck, Neevah. I missed you. You look . . .”