Carrying a takeout coffee cup and sporting dark sunglasses.
Evie, thankfully, is in Seamus’s dressing room trying to calm the actor down.
“What the fuck, Jonah?” I say, crossing to him. The fabric between my thighs chafes audibly with each step. Swish swish swish. “Nice of you to stop by.”
He looks up at me over the top of his lenses. “Chill out.”
“Chill out,” I repeat under my breath, turning away and pushing a hand through my hair. The seams of my jacket protest. “We moved things to accommodate your schedule.”
“Would you relax?” he says, clearly agitated now. “My assistant has everything set up, and I’ve already gone through the shoot list with the creative director. I’ll do a final check of the lights and we can get started. By eleven, exactly like we discussed. Just get out of my fucking space.”
If my brother came with one set of instructions, they would say: Does not play well with others. In school he used to get into fights almost daily with kids who teased him about his ever-present camera. Now, as an adult, he just doesn’t care what anyone thinks about him; as long as he’s making money, he’s fine. It’s something I’ve never been able to understand. His assistant took care of it this time, but what Jonah fails to realize is that at some point, somewhere, someone will decide he’s not worth the hassle. Now the crew are annoyed about being kept waiting, the talent have both returned to their dressing rooms in varying states of frustration, the editors are all typing wildly into their phones because the photographer I arranged has them already behind schedule, and Evie—aside from telling off people wanting to buy her car—has been wearing her best I told you so expression since the moment eight thirty came and went without any sign of my brother.
Thank God I posted that ad this morning. The delight in seeing Evie lose it is the only thing keeping me together.
I’m halfway down the hall on my way to Jamie’s dressing room when the screaming starts.
“Who put raisins in these cookies!”
I knock on the partially open door and poke my head inside. “Is everything okay?”
By this point Jamie is dramatically retching into a garbage can and Allie is standing over her, rubbing her back.
“There was a raisin in the cookie,” Allie says to me before turning back to Jamie. “Honey, let’s take it down a notch before people start talking. If I have to get makeup back in here to clean you up, I’m going to lose my mind.”
“Aren’t these the ones from craft services?” I ask, picking one up to examine it before turning it over. “We looked at these earlier, I don’t remember any—” I stop and stare down at the cookie in my hand. It looks like someone has pressed raisins into the underside of the cookie. Lots of them. Raisins that weren’t there earlier this morning.
I swing my head around to face the door. “I’ll be back.”
I set down the cookie and head toward the door. “Allie, the photographer is here. Can you get Jamie prepped to start soon? I’m sorry about all this, by the way.”
“Carter, they’re raisins, not amphetamines. She’ll be fine.”
I nod, offering Jamie another apologetic smile before I step out and close the door behind me. I am fuming.
Evie is with Seamus and his assistant in his dressing room. If I had any doubt that she was the one responsible, those hopes are dashed as soon as she sees my face. Her eyes light up, cheeks flush.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I growl, poking my head through the doorway. “Evie? I need to talk to you.”
“Sorry, Carter, we’re just in the middle of something,” she says, but pointedly looks down at the floor.
“Unfortunately, it’s important. Excuse us for just a second, guys?” With a calm touch that surprises me, I reach for Evie’s arm and gently lead her down a narrow hallway and into a sound-mixing room, empty but for some cables, a dim fluorescent light on in the corner, and equipment locked up along the far wall, my pants swishing the entire way.
“What’s that sound?” she asks with a grin, but I ignore her.
My hand around her arm is shaking, I’m so furious.
Furious . . . and hot. I’m really hot. These pants are tight as hell.
“You are fucking unreal.”
“What the hell are you doing?” she says. “We’re minutes away from starting the light tests.”
The door closes behind us, sealing us in the dim light, and Evie wrenches her arm out of my grip. “We don’t have time for this.”
“We can take five minutes to fucking talk.”
“So talk.”
“Is this where we are now? We’ll just keep tearing little pieces out of each other?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” she says, hands to her hips, “I can’t hear your man-baby words over the seventy-five phone calls from people wanting to buy my nonexistent Tesla.”
“Did I do the lotion thing to get back at you for the coffee?” I begin. “Yeah. Do I regret it? Hell no. I can still hear the echo of your frustrated roar from the other end of the hall.”
She takes a swaggering step closer. “That must be rough, being the consummate people-pleaser that you are. How depressing to need every single person’s approval.”
“That would be a first for you, right?” I ask, leaning in. “Caring what other people think?”
“Only because I don’t need to be everyone’s best friend to get the job done.”
“Or anyone’s, for that matter.”
Her face is so close to mine, brown eyes flashing. “Are we really getting into this again?” she asks, shaking her head at me. “Carter, look at this from my side. No one ever told a guy he needs to be nicer at work to get ahead.”
I open my mouth to respond, but snap it shut. Evie moves in even closer, close enough that she has to tilt her head to look up at me. We could be embracing. It takes every ounce of restraint I have to not glance down to her dress.
“I tried nice, Carter,” she says, “and here I am, fighting to keep my job—a job I’m more qualified for, if we’re being honest. You might be the one everyone likes, but I’m the one who gets the job done. So stay out of my way.”
Her words bounce around the otherwise silent room, and I’m left a little stunned. The truth of what Steph said about being a woman in this business comes rushing back, and the weight of guilt settles deep in my stomach—which is laughable because the last thing Evie would want from me is pity.
“Fine,” I say.
She clearly didn’t expect this. “?‘Fine’?”