Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters #2)

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.

Sergei trundled down from one of the trailers, smiling broadly at Hannah. “Hey there.” Reaching their twosome, he put a brief hand on Hannah’s shoulder, squeezing, before letting it drop away. And whoa. What? He’d definitely never done anything like that before. Not unless she was bleeding from a head wound. Actually, if she wasn’t mistaken, he was giving her sidelong glances while conferring with Brinley about the scene structure.

Hannah really should have been listening. Observing. As she’d asked to do.

But that was a difficult feat when something very important was occurring to her. The director’s hand on her shoulder had elicited not a single tingle. There was far less gravitational pull in Sergei’s direction than there had been on Friday. Normally, standing this close to him would have made her pulse tick along a little faster. At the very least she would be hoping she didn’t have coffee breath.

Right now, all she wanted to do was be alone.

With that stupid orange bottle. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about it?

Against her will, Hannah’s attention strayed to the Della Ray where Fox was lifting a metal trap with very little effort, his trapezius muscles flexing, along with a lot of other ones she couldn’t name. Once it had been secured, he scrubbed a forearm over his dark-blond hair, leaving it haphazard and sweaty. Suddenly it was becoming difficult to swallow. Very difficult.

She hated herself a little bit in that moment. Was she this easy to distract? The man standing not a foot away was a visionary director. A genius. He treated her with respect, and he was exceptionally good-looking, in a tortured artist kind of way. Sergei was her type. She’d never been one to get distracted by the hot guy passing through. Ever.

Yet she’d never been more turned on in her life, and it had everything to do with the man who was lending her his guest room. She just needed to handle it. Purge the desire. She hadn’t appreciated herself in a really long time, and she’d been overstimulated this morning. Once she got control of her hormones, appeased them, she could focus on this potential new facet of her job. Maybe even decide if she truly wanted to make it a career. She could also go back to having an appropriate interest in Sergei. This long-standing crush who was finally starting to show interest in her.

Yes. That was the plan.

“Lunch is here,” one of the interns called from the other side of the trailers.

Thank God.

“I think I’ll grab mine to go,” Hannah murmured to no one, turning to leave. Stealthily. Looking right and left, whistling under her breath. No one is going to know you’re on a masturbation break. Relax.

Hannah made it a few steps before Sergei caught up with her. “Hey. Hannah.”

Oh no. Her body was already doing that hot-anticipation thing it did when she decided the mood was right. Wheels were in motion. Could Sergei tell just by looking at her? That she had plans that included gingery massage oil?

“Yes?” she croaked.

He traced the path of his goatee where it ran around his mouth, frankly looking kind of . . . shy? “Where are you running off to?”

Oh, nowhere. Just have a quick errand to run in Orgasm Village.

“I left something . . . at the apartment.” She pointed to her face. “Sunscreen. I’m going to end up looking like Rudolph without it.”

“Oh. No, you could never.”

Why wasn’t she exploding over that compliment?

A few weeks ago, at the mere suggestion from Sergei that he found her attractive, she would have found a private place to blast “For Once in My Life” by Stevie Wonder and dance (terribly) in place. Now all she could do was search for an excuse to get away. This was when she needed to reach out and brush her fingers against his arm. Locate his bicep and test for firmness, like an avocado at the farmer’s market. Or remind him of their physical differences, as Fox had suggested. You man, me woman. Science says we should do it! But she didn’t have the slightest desire to flirt or try to snag his interest.

What is happening to me?

“I could walk with you,” he suggested.

Again, nothing. Not a spark of joy to be had.

No, she did like Sergei. The sparks would return. She just needed to eradicate this . . . temporary physical spell she was under. “No, that’s okay.” She waved him off. “Go eat your sprouts and hummus on wheat. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He nodded, looking disappointed, and she didn’t even have the room to feel bad. There was only the selfish hunger that raked invisible hands down the front of her body, teasing erogenous zones wherever they touched.

Orange bottle. Orange bottle.

Hannah already had the key out by the time she got to Fox’s building, and she slid it into the lock now, entering the dark, empty apartment and closing the door behind her. She was panting. Panting. It was ridiculous! But she beelined for the bathroom anyway, snatching the almighty bottle off the bathroom shelf and carrying it to the guest room like a running back protecting a football.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, closing the bedroom door and leaning her forehead up against it. “Calm down.”

Easier said than done, though.

Her hands were almost too unsteady to remove the bottle cap. Especially when she thought of the way Fox uncapped beer with his teeth. Why was that so stupidly hot? His dentist must be appalled.

Finally, Hannah got the top off the bottle, and the aroma filled the air, sensual and rich and heavy with sex. No wonder she’d been so determined to figure out the source. She wedged the container between her knees and stripped the dress off over her head, letting it drift to the ground—

The apartment door opened and closed.

What the . . . ? she mouthed.

“Hannah,” came Fox’s voice from the other side of the bedroom door. Like the immediate other side. It sounded like he was speaking right against the wood. Don’t think of wood. “Are you okay in there? Looked like something was wrong.”

“I’m fine,” she lied—not very successfully, since her voice sounded like it had been sanded raw. “I just needed a minute.”

Too much silence passed.

Then: “I can smell the oil, Hannah.”

Fire blazed up her neck and cheeks. “Oh my God,” she said, dropping her forehead to the door again. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Stop that, Hannah.” His voice had fallen another octave. “I wasn’t embarrassed this morning when I admitted to doing the same thing.”

“You didn’t do it during business hours.”

His low laugh made the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stand up. “If you’re done berating yourself for having natural impulses, you can open the door.”

“What?” she breathed, staring at the barrier in shock. “Why?”

A slow exhale. “Hannah.”

That was all he said.

What did he mean by that?

Hannah.

Narrowing her eyes, she tried to read between the lines, and meanwhile, none of the heat tickling her belly had dissipated. In fact, God help her, standing in her bra and thong with Fox right on the other side of the door was exciting her more.

And it shouldn’t be.