Brinley rocked on her heels a moment, then shrugged, eyes zipping back to her phone. “I don’t have a problem with you observing—if Sergei can spare you?”
It struck Hannah how long Sergei had remained uncharacteristically silent, his forehead lined as he studied her. When Brinley prompted him, he jolted, as if becoming aware of his own silence. “You’re vital to me on set, Hannah. You know that.” There was no help for the flush that rose in her cheeks over Sergei saying those words. You’re vital to me. She stopped just short of pressing her drink to her cheeks to cool them down. Meanwhile, the silence stretched, the director running a finger around the inside of his black ribbed turtleneck. “But if you can manage both, I won’t object.”
Heat prickled the backs of Hannah’s eyes, an unexpected jab of pride catching her in the breastbone. Relief—and the distinct fear of failure—traveled so swiftly through her limbs, she almost dropped her cup. But she forced a smile, nodding her thanks to Sergei and Brinley.
“Who’s going to bring me coffee between takes?” Christian complained.
A collective laugh/groan from everyone in the group broke the tension, thankfully, and the subject was changed to Sunday morning’s agenda. They’d been waiting for a good-weather day to film a kissing scene between Christian and Maxine on the harbor, and the next few days called for sunshine.
While Sergei engaged the small gathering with his vision of a wide, sweeping shot of the kiss, she flipped through her mental music catalogue for the right song, the right feeling . . . and she was surprised to find nothing landed. Nothing.
Not a single song came to mind.
That was odd.
What if she’d finally been given this opportunity only to lose her knack for plugging in the right sound for any occasion? What if she forgot how to weave together atmosphere, something she’d been doing since she was old enough to operate a turntable?
The thought troubled Hannah so much that she didn’t notice Christian refreshing her drink. Twice. The electronic music started to match the tempo of her pulse, and when she got the urge to dance, she knew that was her cue to stop drinking. Although . . . it was a little late for that. A pleasurable buzz tickled her blood, and she lost all self-awareness, talking to anyone who would listen about any topic that popped into her head, from the running of the bulls in Pamplona to the fact that people’s ears never stopped growing. And her brain told her it was interesting. Maybe it was? Everyone seemed to be laughing, one of the actresses eventually pulling her out onto the makeshift dance floor, where she closed her eyes, kicked her shoes off, and fell into a rhythm.
At one point, her neck tingled, and she opened her eyes to find Sergei watching her from across the room, though his attention was quickly diverted when Christian asked him a question. Hannah went back to dancing, unwisely accepting another drink from a makeup artist.
Her movements slowed when the air in the room changed.
It kind of just . . . lit up.
Hannah looked around and noticed everyone’s eyes were glued to the entrance of the living room. Because Fox was standing there, one forearm propped high on the doorjamb, watching her with amusement.
“Holy mother,” Hannah muttered, stopping to stare along with everyone else.
There was no other way to herald his arrival but to be rendered mute and immobile. Fox swaggering into the party was like a shark swimming slowly through a school of fish. He was freshly windblown from the ocean, his tan skin slightly weathered from salt, sunshine, and hard work. He towered over everyone and everything. Cocky. So cocky and confident and stupidly hot. Outrageously hot.
“That’s him,” one of the girls nearby said. “That guy we saw from the bus.”
“God, he is like a walking spank bank.”
“Dibs.”
“Screw that. I already called dibs.”
A twitch in Fox’s cheek indicated he heard what was being said, but he didn’t take his eyes off Hannah, and she started to . . . get kind of pissed. Yeah, no, she was pissed. Who called dibs on a human being? Or referred to him as a spank bank? How dare they assume it would be that easy to just . . . appreciate her friend?
What if it was that easy, though?
What if he liked one of them back?
That wasn’t any of her business. Was it?
She watched as more whispers reached Fox, and his smile lost power. Not for the first time over the last four days, she replayed what he’d said her first day in town. I’m not letting you associate your reputation with mine, all right?
Now his step hesitated on the way to Hannah. Was he second-guessing approaching her? Because all these people were watching?
Without another thought, she set down her drink on a nearby windowsill and walked toward the man with purpose. The fizzy pop of alcohol in her bloodstream might have been contributing to her actions in that moment, but it was more indignation than anything else. These girls didn’t even know him. Nor did it sound as if they’d learned anything about his actual character while in town. Where were these assumptions coming from?
She’d made them, too. Hadn’t she?
Day one. She’d called him a pretty-boy sidekick. Assumed he was a player.
There were all those times she’d texted, asking if he was alone. Tongue in cheek. Like there was a very good chance he’d be with a girl. Hooking up.
So maybe the sudden, crushing need to apologize drove her forward. No one else was going to judge Fox on her watch, and no way was she going to let him hesitate to approach her at a party. He was in the middle of a room being objectified, and she wanted to be the anchor for him.
She wanted to comfort him.
Okay, maybe she was jealous, too. At the possibility someone else was calling dibs, but she didn’t want to think about that too hard. Instead, she licked her lips, picking a landing spot for her mouth.
Hannah was approximately five feet from Fox when his expression changed, and he read her intention. His creeping insecurity vanished, and he rocketed to inferno status on a dime. Those blue eyes darkened, and that square, bristled jaw flexed. Ready. A man well used to being wanted and knowing what to do about it.
He whispered her name right before she pushed up on her toes, locking their mouths together, right there in the entrance to the living room. She was immediately bowled over by the hunger of his masculine lips, and then he turned her, pressing her back to the inside of the arched doorway, opening his mouth on top of hers and licking into the kiss with a choked sound.
With her thoughts muddling and a languid heat rendering her arms limp, Hannah realized she’d made a huge mistake. She was Eve in the Garden of Eden, and she’d just taken a bite from the apple.
Chapter Seven
Big mistake.
Huge.
Unfortunately, trying to stop kissing Hannah was a laughable endeavor.
Fox shouldn’t have come here in the first place. But he’d walked into his apartment after four nights on the water expecting her to be there, only to find a note that she’d gone to a party. His apartment had smelled like summer, a garment bag hanging on the back of the guest-room door. And he’d paced while staring at it, wondering what the hell she owned that needed a special bag.
He’d tried showering and drinking a beer but found himself out walking through town, searching for this party for which she’d obviously dressed up. Wasn’t that hard to locate a house full of outsiders in a place like this. He’d seen a dude staggering down one of the blocks and asked where he’d come from, reasoning that he would just check on Hannah, make sure she got home all right. Hadn’t he promised Brendan he’d keep an eye on her?