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.
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.