Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters)

Brendan was still clearly worried that Fox would make a move on Hannah. Despite the Talk. Despite common decency and the fact that touching her would almost definitely be unforgivable. But no one expected good behavior out of him. Not Brendan, not the people in town, the crew, anyone. Sanders had just neatly reminded Fox of that. Reminded him of it so well, he felt like a shower was in order.

No one trusted him. So the hell with it. Why try in the first place? A leopard couldn’t change its spots.

A few minutes later when a visibly frustrated Hannah started speed walking to his apartment, Fox knew more than enough about women to recognize her problem. The flushed skin, the way she kept sneaking him covert looks. Lifting the hair off her neck to fan herself. She was turned on, frustrated. Horny. And that was one issue he damn well knew how to fix. What was the point of resisting?

Last night with the men outside Blow the Man Down, this morning with Sanders—hell, every day of his life—proved he couldn’t outrun the notions about him. Giving in to his attraction to Hannah would serve him twofold. He could scratch this goddamn seven-month itch and cut off her bid to discover what really made him tick. One hookup with Hannah would bring everything back to surface level, where he was comfortable.

Hannah might still want the director. But hey, Fox’s college girlfriend had used him as a hall pass—without his knowledge—for the better part of a year. No reason Hannah couldn’t use him for the same purpose, right? Just a meaningless good time.

Despite the fact that he was breathing through the hole of a straw, Fox didn’t even bother putting on his shirt before he followed Hannah to his apartment.

Chapter Ten

There was no formal plan in regard to how she would be observing Brinley. That meant it was up to Hannah to create her own opportunities, in between wrangling actors, instructing the extras, and making sure lunch deliveries were going to arrive exactly right. Pickles on this one, no pickles on the other. Why was it always pickles? It was right there in the name—they can be picked off.

Christian was extra grouchy this morning thanks to his boyfriend’s visit to Westport getting delayed, and the mood appeared to be contagious. It was clear from the dark circles under everyone’s eyes that most of the crew had overindulged on Saturday night, and of course, a seagull shat on Maxine’s head, delaying production by an hour while it was cleaned out, the actress restyled.

Hannah decided to use the lost hour to her advantage.

The moment there was a lull in her responsibilities, Hannah approached the music coordinator where she sat in a chair beside Sergei’s vacant one.

“Morning, Brinley,” she said, smiling.

A cool once-over. “Oh, hey.” She scanned the notes in her lap. “Hannah, right?”

“Yes.”

For no other reason than the boat was visible right over Brinley’s shoulder, Hannah’s gaze strayed to the Della Ray, where it sat docked in the harbor. It was not the first time she’d looked since arriving on set. In fact, everyone and their mother was staring at Fox and his godlike body glistening in the sunshine. His physique was the only thing saving the cranky cast and crew from turning to cannibalism this fine Sunday morning. Moreover, he didn’t seem aware of the distraction he created, just casually sucking up everyone’s already limited concentration.

Even Brinley lowered her sunglasses and threw a glance or two toward the boat before refocusing on Hannah . . . who was definitely not thinking about the fact that she’d been in the same apartment while Fox cleared his pipes.

First time I’ve had a chance since our last fishing trip.

Had to blow off some steam.

What did that mean exactly? Obviously that he was . . . jonesing for release. Was it a hardship for Fox to last four or five days without pleasure? Did he, like, light candles, get completely naked, and stroke himself really slowly, adding more oil as he went along? Biting his lip? Teasing himself? Just making a meal out of the whole affair?

Now, that was a disruptive piece of imagery.

Hannah could go months before it dawned on her that, hey! She had a vagina with a whole bunch of complicated nerve endings and she really ought to explore it more often.

Well, she could really go for exploring it right about now.

She’d worn a loose tunic dress and cardigan, though the latter had been discarded thanks to the heat. Sensibly dressed, yet at the moment, she felt almost naked. Fire tickled the back of her neck, her nipples chafing uncomfortably in her bra. Her thoughts refused to stay organized.

And her roommate parading around in all his tattooed seducer-of-women glory wasn’t helping. That orange bottle of massage oil was calling her name. At this point, she might rip off the cap with her teeth to get it open.