“I don’t think so.” He lounged back against the sofa cushions, his smile suddenly sharp-edged with challenge. “You like figuring things out, so do the work, Whittier. You tell me why these are the three roles I’m considering.”
It felt like avoidance to her, as well as a genuine dare, but he knew her all too well. She loved shit like this. A mystery. A test of her insight. An invitation to discover stories within stories. Not to mention the carnal promise contained within that lazy, inciting smile.
She raised her brows, meeting his insolence with her own. “If I get it right, what’s my reward, Caster-Hyphen-Rupp?”
At that, the tension broke, and he snickered.
Once he’d recovered himself, though, he looked her dead in the eye. Then he slowly scanned her, all the way from her haphazard ponytail to her curling toes, pausing at a few key spots in between. Her heavy, unbound breasts, nipples pebbling against thin, soft cotton. The lavish swell of her hips and belly. Her dimpled thighs, caressed by the brush of her lounge pants when she shifted under his stare. The juncture of those thighs, where he’d settled and teased and explored so many nights now.
A flush burnishing his cheekbones, he stretched magnificently on the couch.
He knew exactly what he was doing. He knew exactly how he looked. All his training for various roles and all his acting experience had taught him body awareness the likes of which she’d never witnessed before.
As he stretched, his thin tee rode up his flat belly, his biceps straining the sleeves. He arched his spine, his head thrown back in a way she recognized from their more intimate moments.
Not that this moment lacked intimacy.
He relaxed back into the sofa with a satisfied purr. Her labored swallow caught his attention, and that knife-sharp smile returned.
“Your reward?” Now displayed full-length along the couch, he folded his hands beneath his head and blinked heavy-lidded blue-gray eyes at her. “For each role you analyze correctly, I’ll take off a piece of clothing. And if you get all three right, you can have whatever you want. Anything.”
Twirling a loose strand of hair around her finger, she eyed him consideringly. She knew for a fact he was currently wearing three—and only three—items of clothing. The perfect number for her purposes.
It would take so little effort to get him naked. Even less to ride that handsome face of his once he was hot and needy and stretched out beneath her.
“Game on,” she said.
SHE HAD TO skim, of course, and she didn’t read the scripts all the way to the end.
Later, if he wanted her to read every word, she would. For tonight, though, for this particular challenge and discussion, that kind of intense scrutiny wasn’t necessary.
He watched her as she read, his steady attention on her a caress rather than an irritant. Whenever she took a break and glanced around her screen, she met his eyes and had to fight her own flush at the heat in that stare.
She kept waiting for him to grow bored, to produce his fancy headphones and listen to his latest audiobook, but he didn’t. He just lay outstretched and waited for her judgment.
The scripts varied so widely, she didn’t think she risked confusing them. Still, she typed a few notes to remind herself of what she’d read and concluded.
By Hook/By Crook: TV series set in Victorian NYC. Dramatic mystery/suspense. Slow-burn romance.
Central characters: semireformed thief (female) and former prostitute (Marcus), who combine street smarts to find murderer targeting victims too marginalized to garner sufficient police attention. Audition required. $$–$$$.
Exes and O: Indie film. Dramedy. Ophelia (O), for REASONS, ends up living with various ex-boyfriends as roommates. Jack (Marcus), whom she left and has missed ever since, is romantic endgame. No audition required. $.
In theory, there was a second movie script competing for Marcus’s attention, but that was blatant misdirection on his part and not worth her notetaking efforts.
She pushed aside her laptop. “You lied to me, Marcus.”
He jerked on the couch. Paled.
“April . . .” Sitting up in a rush of movement, he pressed his lips together. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t . . . I shouldn’t have . . .”
His words faltered as he stared at her, stricken.
That seemed like an overreaction to a harmless bit of deception, but she already knew Marcus was, well . . . sensitive. To his own emotions, but also hers. Alex might—in an epic example of pot/kettle fuckery—call him a drama queen, but she didn’t consider her boyfriend’s vulnerability a weakness.
If he ever decided to shed the masks he used to protect himself, she would be more than willing to serve as a different sort of shield for him. She’d happily guard his tender spots from the unkind scrutiny of outsiders. For his own sake, but also because—selfishly—she wanted him to need her.
More than that.
She wanted him to love her. She could admit it, at least to herself.
“It’s okay.” Moving over to the couch, she settled beside him and pressed a comforting kiss to his cheek. “Luckily for you, I don’t mind trick questions.”
“Trick . . . questions.” He let out a shuddering breath. “Yes.”
Once he’d relaxed against her, she poked his arm. “Despite what you said, you gave me two main contenders. Not three, you cheater.”
His face brightened at her declaration, a sun unshadowed by clouds once more, and that expression alone was enough to tell her she was right.
Still, he lifted an arrogant brow, his composure now restored in its entirety. “Maybe, maybe not. Let’s hear your reasoning.”
Turning to face him, she tucked one leg beneath her and let loose.
“No way you’re choosing Julius Caesar: Redux. You love ancient Rome, but not enough to work with that director. Even I’ve heard the rumors about him, which is saying something.” Her lip curled. “Besides, that script is shitty, and you don’t need to take roles simply to get a paycheck anymore. You can pick a project befitting your talent and intelligence.”
“Befitting my—” His mouth worked. “My talent and intelligence.”
He seemed stuck on that phrase, but she had a challenge to win, so she wasn’t lingering.
“It wasn’t a very convincing trick, honestly. If you want to fool me, you’ll have to do better than that.” She shook her head at him. “You’re too good for that movie, in every possible way. It’s not a contender. Your agent shouldn’t even have sent it to you.”
He stared at her then, blue-gray eyes wide and unexpectedly solemn.
When he eventually spoke, his voice was quiet. “I told her not to send me any more projects from that director, no matter how much his films make at the box office. Nothing else from that screenwriter, either, because the script was a misogynistic piece of shit. Just like you said.”
“Score one for Team Whittier.” Licking her forefinger, she traced an invisible tally mark in the air.
When he didn’t move, she indicated his clothing with a jerk of her chin.
“Make like a dancing firefighter on a Vegas stage,” she said, “and strip.”
His grin was slow as he straightened on the couch, and so was the peekaboo tease of his tee rising, then rising more, until that hard chest came into view. Finally, his bared muscles shifting with impressive fluidity under that hair-dusted flesh, he yanked the shirt over his head and flung it in her lap.