I narrow my eyes. “Friends don’t smile at each other like that, Laila. And they don’t lean in like that.” I scoff. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I know what I saw.”
“You’re insane.”
“Not everyone here is associated with the show. The photographer is still here. Same with the caterer. And what about Reed’s friends and housekeeper? What’s to keep any of them from hearing the news about our ‘relationship’ at tomorrow’s press conference and then realizing, ‘Huh. That’s weird. I saw Laila flirting with some other guy all night long. Hey, I think I got some video of her flirting with him in the background. Why don’t I post that now on Twitter!’”
“You belong in an insane asylum.”
“No, I’d be insane if I didn’t learn from my past experiences. I’m once bitten, twice shy.” I take a few steps to my right, lean against the washing machine, and sigh. “You’ve never experienced my level of fame before, Laila. I’m not saying that to be a jerk. I’m trying to explain you can never be too careful. You never know who might leap at the chance to get their fifteen minutes, on your back. I’m saying we can’t take any chances. I don’t want this job to get fucked up, because you forgot this isn’t actually a romcom we’re starring in together, it’s a spy thriller.”
Well, she can’t help grinning at that, no matter how annoyed she’s felt up to this point. Her shoulders visibly soften. Her eyes sparkle. “I understand. I’ll be much more careful, going forward.”
“Thank you.”
“And don’t worry. If Colin seemed to be flirting with me a tiny bit, I promise it was harmless. He and his girlfriend recently broke up, and this is the first time we’ve both been single at the same time, so I think—”
I throw up my hands again. “You’re not single, Laila!”
She jolts at my sudden shift in tone.
I can’t help myself. I shout, “You’re in a relationship with me. What have we been talking about this whole time? Jesus Christ, Laila!” When she looks at me like I’m crazy again, I see myself through her eyes and realize I might really and truly be devolving into madness. Quickly, I add, “That’s what you need to be thinking. That’s what I mean. Like you said in the car, we need to stay in character. Like, you know, method actors.”
“When we’re in front of the cameras.”
“No, at all times, or nobody will buy our performance. Haven’t you heard about method actors who won’t let anyone call them by their real name on-set? Ever seen Fast Times at Ridgemont High?”
“No.”
“Oh. Well, we gotta watch that one together. Sean Penn played this stoner surfer dude. And he stayed in character throughout the entire shoot of the movie, both on and off camera. Wouldn’t let anyone call him by his real name. Only the character’s name—Spicoli. Because that’s the kind of commitment it takes to make a performance truly believable.”
She pauses for a very long moment. “Which actor is Sean Penn? What else has he been in?”
“Sean Penn’s illustrious career doesn’t matter! All I’m saying is that from this point on, unless you’re sure we’re alone, behind closed doors, and nobody else is around, then we need to agree we’re always going to remain in character.”
She twists her mouth adorably, no longer looking pissed. But she says nothing.
And, suddenly, thanks to the way she’s contorting her sensuous lips, I’m flooded with the urge to kiss her. I clear my throat. “I know you’re pissed when I bring up the money, Laila, but have mercy on me. I’m paying you two million bucks. The least you can do is deliver an Academy-award-worthy performance.”
She licks her lips, drawing my gaze to her mouth again. And when my eyes return to hers, I feel a shift between us. Heat crackling in the gap between our bodies.
“Okay,” she says softly, her gaze drifting to my lips. “I promise I’ll do my very best.”
My chest is tight. My skin hot. “Thank you. That’s all we can both do.”
“Better safe than sorry,” she says, her gaze drifting, yet again, to my lips.
I step forward, deciding this is it. The moment, at last. I’m going to kiss Laila and then bend her over that washing machine and fuck the living hell out of her. But when I step forward again, she steps back. So, I freeze. She takes a deep breath, clears her throat, and says, “I’m really glad we talked. Thanks for setting me straight.” And then, after licking her lips and taking a shuddering breath, she turns on her heel and literally sprints out of the small room.
Twenty-Eight
Savage
After my conversation with Laila in the laundry room, she played a few rounds of Beer Pong with her friends, while I sat at the fire feature, watching her while pretending to listen to Jon Stapleton, my co-judge, give me advice about being on the show. But when Laila left her post at Beer Pong to play Team Jenga—during which she was paired with Alessandra, thankfully, while Fish was paired with Colin—I excused myself from Jon, grabbed a bottle of whiskey from behind Reed’s bar, and slithered my shitfaced ass into a dark corner to watch her.
The good news? As promised in the laundry room, Laila’s been noticeably ignoring Colin’s flirtations during their entire game. The bad news? Based on Colin’s body language, it seems clear he’s the sort of sick fuck, like me, who gets off when a hot woman ignores him.
A large whoop rises up from the game as Aloha’s husband, Zander, makes a move for his two-person team—Aloha and himself. And in response, everyone but Zander and his popstar wife throws back another shot, at which point Colin leans into Laila and says something that makes her throw her head back and laugh.
It’s worst-case scenario, actually, because I can tell Laila wasn’t trying to flirt with Colin. She didn’t laugh to mess with me. He genuinely made her involuntarily guffaw. I’ve got to think that’s a very bad sign for me.
My inebriated blood flash-boiling, I jerk to standing, every fiber of my body telling me to march over there and mark my territory. To kiss her in front of Colin. And then throw Colin into the fire.
“No, Savage,” a voice says sharply. And when I look, it’s my boy, Kendrick, standing before me and physically blocking my movement with his muscular body. “Sit down, brother,” he says. “Don’t do it.”
The devil on my shoulder is whispering, “Do it.” But, somehow, I manage to reply casually to my friend, “Don’t do what?”
“Whatever you drunkenly decided to do to Colin.” He points at my chair. “Sit back down and listen to me for a minute.”
Reluctantly, I sit. Kendrick rarely orders me around. So, when he does, I listen. “I wasn’t gonna do anything bad,” I murmur. “I was just . . .” I trail off. There’s no point. Kendrick’s staring at me like he can read my mind. Which he probably can. He’s known me for almost half my life now. He, better than anyone, knows how my mind works.
Kendrick takes the chair next to me and leans his forearms on his knees. “It’s time for you to put that bottle down, walk inside the house, and go to bed.”