Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters)

But first. Work.

This chance with Brinley was months, if not years, in the making, and Hannah couldn’t just blow an opportunity this huge because her body was misbehaving—and it was. So misbehaving. She wasn’t supposed to lust after her friend. The only thing keeping Hannah from all-out guilt was the strange intuition that he’d done this to her on purpose.

Realizing she’d allowed the silence to stretch too long, Hannah cleared her throat and determinedly tore her attention off the muscle-strapped fisherman. “Um . . .” She angled her body toward the set where Christian and Maxine would have their big kiss, the water stretching out behind them, a couple of anchored vessels outlined in the horizon. “I was wondering if you could share your plans for the scene?”

“Sure,” Brinley said without looking up. “I’m not straying from the original vision. I know the setting has changed drastically from LA to Westport. But I think the industrial sound is even edgier, given the small-town vibe. It’s an interesting contrast.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Hannah nodded enthusiastically.

Did she agree, though? Contrast was interesting. There was definitely something to be said for bringing a modern spin to period dramas with the music. Putting hip-hop to ballet. Playing opera during a murder scene. An oddity like that could make a moment stand out. Could ramp up the drama. Familiar music could help an audience relate to something unfamiliar. And in this case, Sergei’s art house viewership would appreciate a kiss set to industrial, because God forbid it was too romantic.

What music would she use in this scene, instead?

Her mind drew a big old blank.

As if sensing a moment of weakness, Brinley turned to her with an expectant smile. “What do you think?”

Mentally, Hannah browsed her album collection back home in Bel-Air, but she couldn’t see a single cover, couldn’t read any of the names. What was wrong with her? “Well . . .” she started, searching her mind for something useful to say. Anything that would make her worthy of this chance. “I’ve been reading about this technique. Giving the actors small earpieces and playing the music while rolling so they can emote at the appropriate times. Essentially act in tandem with the music—”

“Do you really think Christian would go for that?” Brinley cut in, going back to sorting through her notes. “He complains when we mic him. He stopped a take this morning because the tag in his T-shirt was too itchy.”

“I could talk to him—”

“Thanks, but I think we’ll leave that idea for another day.”

After a moment, Hannah nodded, pretending to be absorbed by her clipboard so no one would see her red face. Why would she suggest a new technique with her first breath? Before they’d even built a rapport? She should have just agreed with Brinley’s choice and waited for a better chance to give input. Once she’d proven herself as helpful. Instead, she’d established herself as an upstart who thought she knew better than the veteran.

Sergei trundled down from one of the trailers, smiling broadly at Hannah. “Hey there.” Reaching their twosome, he put a brief hand on Hannah’s shoulder, squeezing, before letting it drop away. And whoa. What? He’d definitely never done anything like that before. Not unless she was bleeding from a head wound. Actually, if she wasn’t mistaken, he was giving her sidelong glances while conferring with Brinley about the scene structure.

Hannah really should have been listening. Observing. As she’d asked to do.

But that was a difficult feat when something very important was occurring to her. The director’s hand on her shoulder had elicited not a single tingle. There was far less gravitational pull in Sergei’s direction than there had been on Friday. Normally, standing this close to him would have made her pulse tick along a little faster. At the very least she would be hoping she didn’t have coffee breath.

Right now, all she wanted to do was be alone.

With that stupid orange bottle. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about it?

Against her will, Hannah’s attention strayed to the Della Ray where Fox was lifting a metal trap with very little effort, his trapezius muscles flexing, along with a lot of other ones she couldn’t name. Once it had been secured, he scrubbed a forearm over his dark-blond hair, leaving it haphazard and sweaty. Suddenly it was becoming difficult to swallow. Very difficult.

She hated herself a little bit in that moment. Was she this easy to distract? The man standing not a foot away was a visionary director. A genius. He treated her with respect, and he was exceptionally good-looking, in a tortured artist kind of way. Sergei was her type. She’d never been one to get distracted by the hot guy passing through. Ever.

Yet she’d never been more turned on in her life, and it had everything to do with the man who was lending her his guest room. She just needed to handle it. Purge the desire. She hadn’t appreciated herself in a really long time, and she’d been overstimulated this morning. Once she got control of her hormones, appeased them, she could focus on this potential new facet of her job. Maybe even decide if she truly wanted to make it a career. She could also go back to having an appropriate interest in Sergei. This long-standing crush who was finally starting to show interest in her.