He yelled at the makeup artist for having made him look too shiny in one shot, never mind that he’d batted the girl away when she’d come in to touch up. He screamed at the boom operator for having had the nerve to shift positions and distract him. He’d argued with the director about the shot list and been late to set when he’d disagreed.
And he’d . . . barely spoken a word to me, even though we were supposed to somehow be creating chemistry on screen.
I’d heard him rage into his cell that first day after rehearsals about how his agent had forced him to work with a former model.
As though it were the lowest thing that could possibly happen to him.
Meanwhile, it was going to be my name as top billing because my agent was good and because . . . well, I’d become the bigger star over the last year.
Normally, I didn’t give a damn about things like that.
But with Grant being the way he was, wreaking havoc and ejaculating his ego all over the set—
I bit back a chuckle.
Ejaculating his ego?
I’d been watching too many Netflix comedy specials of late, apparently. Though it didn’t seem like much of it had rubbed off on me if I was passing the time by making internal jokes about ejaculating egos.
Or maybe, too much of it was rubbing off on me.
First stop, rom-com. Next, comedy tour.
Yeah, right. Stifling a snort, I continued watching the scene unfold in front of me. So ejaculating egos might not be the best metaphor, but I got a few extra points for alliteration.
Hey. No judgment, okay?
Sometimes there was a lot of downtime on set, and since I couldn’t rip the microphone out of the boom operator’s hands, cross over to Grant, and then use the long metal rod to beat Grant senseless, I had to satisfy myself with imagining the pleasure.
And ejaculating, rods, and pleasure.
Heh.
But speaking of ejaculating, rods, and pleasure, I was horny. Like really horny. In fact, if I were being honest about the amount of my horniness, I was more pent-up than I could ever remember.
Or maybe a more apt description was that I was more pent-up than my early twenties addiction to all things Chris Hemsworth.
Okay, not gonna lie, I still had that addiction.
I was just slightly more addicted to a certain chocolate-eyed photographer, whose quiet and velvet-lined voice never failed to make me shiver and who’d been perfectly friendly while somehow making me want him even more.
And speaking of ejaculating, Damon’s cock had been—
“Absolutely not!” Grant exploded. “I will not do it again. That was perfect, and I will not let some two-bit director tell me how to do my job . . .”
My cell was in the pocket of my chair, and I felt it buzz.
Thank God.
Not only that I’d remembered to put it on silent, because imagine the conniption that Grant would have had if it wasn’t, but also that because I hadn’t left it in my dressing room and now I had something to distract me from the disaster that was unfolding in front of me.
My phone vibrated again, and I saw that Damon had texted.
Then immediately felt my lips curve up into a smile.
Things had gone back to the way they were before, well, almost exactly like they were before. Damon had returned to being my friend, randomly texting me throughout the week, though our standing Thursday night phone call had morphed into Pizza Night at my house.
We’d tried one time at his condo, but he lived . . . slightly Spartanly, should I say. Or to be more specific, I wasn’t impressed by his lumpy couch and bare pantry. Though, he’d at least bought the good beer and had promised that he’d have me over when the stuff he’d shipped over from the U.K. had arrived.
But it was either his place or mine, because going out to eat wasn’t exactly feasible for me at the moment. Or at least, not feasible without pictures documenting the event ending up splashed across the gossip sites. I didn’t want to get all dressed up, to do my hair and makeup. I wanted to be in my pajamas or sweatpants and an oversized sweater with my air conditioning blasting—and not as a protection from Damon, or protecting me from my reaction to Damon, but because they were cozy.
And because we were friends. Just friends.
No lingering touches. No more sex on the kitchen table.
No awkward silences or limited explanations of the past.
It was just him and me. Just as we should have been.
So, why did it feel like I was missing out on something?
Buzz. Buzz.
I blinked, pulled myself out of my head, and focused on Damon’s messages on my cell.
How’s the Ego?
(I know you’re on set for the day, so just call or text when you can)
I was smiling already because Damon was texting, but his use of our nickname for Grant had me stifling giggles. Because, man, was it apropos. But then my cell vibrated once more.
Also, can we reschedule Pizza Night tomorrow? I have a date.
My smile faded.
A date?
Damon had a date?
What the fuck? How dare he have the nerve to go on a—
“No, Eden,” I muttered, so maybe I was growing used to having him in my life frequently, but it wasn’t like I was ready to forget everything that happened to me and get myself a boyfriend.
Even if that boyfriend was Damon? my brain asked
Yes. Even then.
“This is a good thing,” I murmured. “He’s moving on. Just as it should be.” I sucked in a breath, forced my fingers to type out a reply.
Sure, we can reschedule. Want to do Friday night instead?
A few moments before another buzz.
I can’t. I’m leaving Friday for my trip.
We’d just talked the day before, and he’d told me he was going to take a trip up the coast, leave on Saturday, make a long weekend of it. Had that changed already?
I thought you were going on Saturday?
Also, why did my heart pulse at the thought of him making plans without me?
Changed my mind. So next week then?
Because I was slowly going insane, wanting things I had no business wanting. Sighing, I shoved down the urge to revolt and forced myself to remember this was a good thing. He was moving on, just like I’d asked. We were friends—
Except, date?
Fucking really?
I wrinkled my nose and then I tucked all the extraneous emotions away and sent him back a response.
Next week is great.
Then I turned off my cell, shoved it back into the pocket of the chair, and returned my focus to Grant and bearing witness to the insanity of his ego trip.
It was going to be a really long day.
I hadn’t heard from Damon.
Okay, fine. That wasn’t entirely fair.
He’d texted me a couple of images, pretty shots of the coast and one striking photo of a child climbing a tree, but that was it. He hadn’t given me any words or responded to me asking about his date, and he hadn’t texted me to ask me what I wanted on our pizza for our weekly hangout tonight.
He always texted to ask.
Even though my response was always the same.
Extra pepperoni and don’t skimp on the garlic bread.