Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

Leaving a kiss on my shoulder, he pulls out, and I miss him immediately. When he straightens, so do I, turning around to face him. Our still unsteady breaths brush our chests together, the tips of my breasts kissing his hard torso. He rubs a thumb along my areola, and I wonder if I could come again just from that touch and the look in his eyes.

He frowns at the redness surrounding the soft flesh.

“Beard burn,” I tell him, smiling at the way his brows knit in chagrin.

“Does it bother you? The beard, I mean.”

“And if it did?” I walk around him, bending to retrieve my underwear. “Would you cut it off?”

“If I didn’t,” he chuckles, tossing his condom into a small trash can and tying off the bag, “would you cut me off?”

“I think you already know the answer to that.” I slide my arms into my bra, snapping the closure between my breasts. “Besides, growing the beard—it’s your tradition.”

His jeans are back on, but not the T-shirt, leaving his powerful chest still bare when he approaches me, cups my face. “You could be my new tradition.”

The laughter dies on my lips, fades from his eyes, and we are trapped in a net of our own making. Thin as gossamer, it tightens around us, and I hold my breath, not wanting to disrupt these few seconds with even a heartbeat. Finally, I rise up on my bare toes to reach his cheek, leaving a kiss there.

“Keep the beard.” I rake my nails through it and step back to put on my sweatshirt.

Once we leave the cabana, the moment dissipates, but the feeling lingers—that breathless contentment warmed by affection. We gather our things, and I study the debris of our breakfast, recall our conversation about Camille. I’ll never like the fact that they were together. That’s normal, and I am severely normal, but when Canon looks at me, when he holds me, there are no ghosts. No traces of her except in his regret. I don’t know how long I get to have him, but as long as I do, he’s only mine.

“You ready?” He assesses the patio, empty, but soon to be filled with people and music and food and gaiety. “They’ll clean up when the staff comes in to get ready for tonight.”

I nod, reluctant to leave the open-air intimacy of our rooftop.

He takes my hand and walks me to the elevator. Once on the road, he navigates the thickening traffic with one hand on the wheel, one hand holding mine on the console between us. We don’t talk much, but he absently strokes the ink along my thumb. “In A Sentimental Mood” sighs through the speakers, Duke Ellington’s keys and John Coltrane’s collaborating notes filling the air. I can already sense Canon’s mind slipping away into shadowed corners, probably for a clandestine meeting with his mistress, Dessi Blue.

“So I assume you have plans for the rest of the day?” I ask.

“What?” He glances over at me, that vague look in his eyes. I had all of him on that rooftop, but a man like Canon? His art is a demanding taskmaster, and I don’t mind sharing.

“You have work to do?”

“Yeah.” He nods. “I need to set up shots for tomorrow. Meeting Kenneth in an hour.”

“Thank you for this morning,” I say when we pull up in front of my place. “I enjoyed our secret Sunday.”

I open the car door, knowing he’ll probably pull off before the door is even closed, but he surprises me. He touches my arm and leans over to kiss me. It starts like butterfly wings, just brushes of our lips, and deepens, passion rising and overtaking. I slide my hand up his neck, cup the hard ridge of his jaw. I could kiss him all day, but he pulls back after a few seconds. Kisses my cheeks and nose.

“So next Sunday?” he asks, tucking my hair behind my ear. “It’s a date?”

My big, cheesy grin holds nothing back because I don’t know how where Canon is concerned, and I drop a quick kiss on his lips.

“Next Sunday. It’s a date.”

42

Neevah

“Wardrobe took so long this morning,” Takira mutters. “Now we rushing.”

“Girl, it’s my fault. My weight keeps fluctuating. Before Christmas, I was dropping weight, so they took the dresses in. Now I’ve gained some weight, and they had to take them back out. I think I’m retaining water.”

I extend my leg, showing the slightly puffy ankles I noticed this morning.

“I might be ‘retaining’ Mama’s macaroni and cheese, too,” I joke, making us both laugh.

“Your body is probably so confused.” Takira shakes her head, braiding my hair. “All this running around you doing. I can’t wait ’til we’re done so you can rest. Let me get this wig—”

She cuts herself off.

I look up to catch her wide eyes in the mirror.