Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

“We? I thought you were alone.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow. Text Jill and ask her to send me three better options than damn Westward Beach. Bye.”

I disconnect before he can virtually waterboard me about who is with me. Evan would cough up a lung if he knew I was with Neevah. If he knew I’d kissed her. If he suspected I was wrist-deep in her panties not even an hour ago.

If I don’t want to drive the next hour with this hard dick under my seat belt, I’ll find something to think about besides Neevah slick and wet under my hand. Plenty of time to think about that when we get to Santa Barbara.

“Something wrong?” Neevah asks.

Nah. I’m always this erect.

“Uh . . . what?” I ask, hoping she hasn’t noticed.

“The call with Evan. It sounded like the location for next month has fallen through.”

“Oh. That. Yeah. We’ll figure it out.” I nod to the script in her lap. “How’s that going?”

“Pretty good. I guess. With so much focus on the musical numbers I had to get down, there’s some dialogue I haven’t memorized yet.” She puts her finger to her lips. “Shhhh. Don’t tell my boss. He’s a hard ass.”

“Funny.” I shoot her a speculative glance. “Do the actors think I’m a hard ass?”

“You know they all think you walk on water, right? You’re demanding, but not mean. They’ve all told me horror stories of directors chewing them out in front of everyone. Of directors coming on to them.”

Like inviting them for a few days on a private getaway . . .

“This isn’t that, Canon.” Neevah reaches over to take my hand, resting our linked fingers on my leg. “I want this as much as you do. You know that. I was attracted to you before you even offered me the part.”

“You were?”

“When you phoned about the audition that first time . . .” She laughs, covering her face with her free hand. “I thought you might be calling to ask me out. I kind of hoped you were.”

“Were you disappointed?” I ask, grinning and keeping my eyes on I-5.

“No. I just reminded myself it would not be a good idea to crush on my director.”

My grin fades. “It’s not a good idea.”

She tugs my hand until I tear my gaze away from the road long enough to look at her. “It’s not a crush. I don’t need this to advance my career. And this isn’t some misplaced hero-worship actor-director complex. I like you. I respect you. I want to know you. I want to fuck you. Any questions?”

Her bold statement lands on the console between us in the front seat, waiting for me to address it. If I wait for my dick to go down, we’ll be here all day, so I’ll just have to learn to converse intelligibly while this hard. It’s like chewing gum and walking, only much more arousing.

“I’m not gonna lie to you. If . . . when this gets out, it could be messy,” I tell her.

“I already told you I don’t care what people say.”

“You say that because you’ve never been on the cover of every major tabloid, or had cameras camped outside your house, or been stalked every time you go to the grocery store or Starbucks. That’s what happened when shit went down with Camille. It’s not fun.”

“I hear you. I just want you to know I don’t have any hesitation about some reporter implying I got this job because of anything between us. I’ll prove myself. Our work will speak for itself.”

“It’s also that attention like that, that kind of scrutiny, it ruins relationships. I’ve seen too many relationships barely get off the ground before they fizzle, wreck because of the pressure.” I squeeze her hand, glance at her. “I don’t want that for us.”

“I don’t either,” she says, stroking my thumb with hers.

“I’m willing to chance it because everything you just said you want with me”—I pull her hand up to my lips—“I bet I want it more with you.”

When I glance over, her eyes glow with anticipation, desire, and something so sweet I want to teleport the last hour of this trip. I want everything I see in her eyes right now.

“You want it more than I do?” She shakes her head, pulling our two hands back down to rest on her thigh. “We’ll see about that, Mr. Holt.”

38

Neevah

I turn a slow circle in the grand entrance of the house Canon rented for us, taking in the magnificent chandelier and the spiral staircase leading to the next floor. Marble floors, discreetly lit paintings and unique sculptures lend the entrance a cool elegance.

“It’s gorgeous, Canon.”

He walks up beside me, bringing in our luggage, and places his hand at the small of my back. “A guy I met at Cannes a few years ago told me about it, and I’ve come here each year at least once ever since. Usually alone, of course. I haven’t brought anyone with me before.”