He flashes me the same cocky grin he has since childhood. “Just think of it this way: if they see you with this newfound confidence, they’ll think the bakery is rolling in the dough. Pun intended,” he says with a lift of his eyebrows as I roll my eyes. “Being the shallow assholes they are, they’ll sniff the proverbial money in the air and think they need to try out your new shop to see what has changed in you.”
We stare at each other across the table. His eyes search to see if I agree with what he’s saying. And I do see some merit in it. I remember the many times I sat at lunch with all of my then-friends and listened to them talk about so and so and how they must be doing well. The discussion would turn to maybe we should go see for ourselves.
I can’t even believe I’m entertaining the thought or that this crazy set of mishaps has led to this discussion in the first place. It’s one thing to envision Mitch panicking. It’s another to find out the RSVP was actually mailed. And now this? Ryder thinking I need to show up to save the bakery?
I can’t believe I’m finding an ounce of merit in what he’s saying.
“Possibly,” I finally murmur, breaking his gaze and starting the next identical line of piping. I’m mad at him for making sense and annoyed with myself for even entertaining this conversation. And then it hits me how to stop this conversation, once and for all. “You forgot one more thing though, Ryder. I’d have to have a hot guy who’s madly in love with me. Isn’t that what my friends need to see in order for me to even remotely think I can pull this off? You’ve seen my dating life of late. Netflix and Nutella are about as exciting as I get. And hiring some paid-for escort to take me to a foreign country is not going to happen. So sorry.”
When I look up, I can’t read the intention in his hint of a smile, but something about it has me straightening up. Our eyes hold, his head nodding ever so subtly as he rubs his hands over his jaw line.
“I can think of a few options.”
“Drop it,” I huff. “You’re crazy. Discussion is over.” I bend back over, effectively dismissing the topic at hand.
But he doesn’t move. Just stands there and watches me. And I hate every second of it. But I don’t look up, don’t say a word.
Discussion is over.
“Do you know how much I want you?” My hands are braced on either side of her. Her nipples are hard and pressed to my chest. The cool silk of the sheets slide over my ass as I grind between the heat of her thighs.
“Show me.” Tessa’s eyes flutter closed as her lips meet mine. My dick hardens. It’s impossible to ignore the memories of last night—her kiss, her moans, her nails—when this was real between us. Skin to skin. Without the merkin or the glycerin spray for sweat. Void of the heat of the set lights or eyes of the crew watching us. Or rather, watching her, because she’s definitely a visual orgasm.
It’s Saylor. She needs your help.
My next line falters on my lips. The words I know by heart escaping me as the text I received earlier distracts me once again. Tessa’s body stiffens beneath mine, her face twists in annoyance, and I know there’s no way we can smooth over my missed line.
“Shit. Sorry.” I sit back on my haunches and go to scrub my hands over my face but stop myself before smearing the makeup artist’s hour-long job creating my two-day-old black eye and stitched-up cut on my cheek. Instead, I scrunch up my nose as I look down at Tessa. Beautiful, sexy Tessa who is sneering at me from behind her dark lashes and thick stage makeup. Pissed because I can’t get my shit straight today, my concentration continually hijacked.
But it’s not like I don’t know my lines. I’m sure the director thinks I was out late partying and not studying the script for today’s fifteen-plus-hour marathon shoot. Just what I need—him to get pissy and do a million retakes until it’s perfected, which will result in one of Tessa’s well-publicized starlet tantrums.
The criticism I deserve. The tantrum I don’t.
The irony is Tessa knows exactly where I was. On top of her. Beneath her. In her. All night long.
And if she throws a tantrum then what happened between us last night will come out somehow. She runs at the mouth when angry and that won’t bode well since I’m trying to keep a low public profile. Because even though this is a closed set, someone will talk. Talk leads to tabloids. Tabloids lead to snooping. And in my current situation, snooping leads to disaster.
And as much as I’m taking the fall for all of the other shit going on—the tabloid accusations of cheating—I’d rather keep them to just that: accusations, instead of verified facts.
Besides I fucked up. The thing with Tessa wasn’t on the agenda. We were running our lines for today. This sex scene . . . and one thing led to another.
Not that I’m complaining because Tessa Gravestone equals spank-bank material for most men.
But when I look down at her where she lies on the bed, perfect tits uncovered and on display—because her theory is if she bought them, then people should see them—I just sigh and shake my head. Another apology on my lips.