“Sure,” I tell him. “Because no one enjoys reading my books.”
He swallows. “I didn’t say that.” Pause. “I didn’t mean to say that. I’m sorry. But, well, there’s a reason Jake Powers asked us to work together on this one.”
“Right. So I can finally get a few sales,” I say. “But let’s not forget he paired you with me for a reason, too. People might love your books, but they’re trashed in the reviews.”
Riley struggles with the truth, but only for a second. “Fine. Let’s figure out a book we’d both be genuinely happy to write. Together.”
“Cut!”
Dave is happy enough. “Let’s go again. Pay attention to your hand movements in the beginning, all right?”
Makeup assistants come on and brush more foundation onto our faces. The lights burning on us feel hotter than usual. Or maybe the heat’s coming from the certain thoughts I started to have. Matt meets my eye for a second before he looks away. Yeah. Maybe I’m starting to feel a little more attraction than I thought.
Mattie
When shooting’s done for the day, I get undressed in my trailer and have my makeup wiped off with the help of the stylist Angela. There’s a knock on the door. My shirt’s off, but Angela doesn’t see the problem. “Come in!”
Logan opens the door and hesitates. He probably didn’t expect to see me half-naked. I didn’t expect him to see me half-naked, either. My face and neck get hot. Is it just me, or does he look like he’s about to laugh? “I can come back later.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Angela says. “I thought it’d be Rick or Shelly.” I notice her hesitation and her careful stare, wondering if Logan Gray is visiting me because we really are falling for each other. Gossip must be on fire around set.
“That’s okay,” I tell her. I need to remember my second role when we’re in front of other people, too. “Hey, Logan,” I say, leaning into the blushing act.
Angela pats my shoulder to say she’s done. I yank on the t-shirt that’s been hanging off the back of my chair since this morning. I don’t know why I’m so embarrassed. Gray is going to see a lot more of me over the next few months.
“Was that planned?” I ask him once Angela is gone, door shut behind her.
“I figured it might be a good moment. Let everyone see me walking into your trailer, wonder what we’re doing.”
I have a harder time looking at him than usual. The lingering stares he gave me on set today are burned into my memory. I didn’t think the chemistry would be a problem, but I also didn’t consider how much my attraction to him would distract me. I was surprised by his take on the scene. I didn’t read it as having romantic or sexual tension, just anger between the two characters. If Gray keeps looking at me like that—like he’s imagining a hundred and one different ways to fuck me…
He walks farther inside, picking up a magazine that belongs to one of the stylists before he tosses it back down again. “Good job today.”
Does he really mean that? I can’t tell. He’s usually so sarcastic. “It was good working with you in a scene. Just the two of us, I mean.”
He nods slowly. “You must’ve been looking forward to it. A change from stalking me.” He pauses. “Sorry. That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”
I know he’s caught me observing him more than a few times. My chest is on fire with embarrassment. I was starting to think we might be able to pull off this publicity stunt, but maybe that was me being too optimistic again.
“How did you mean it, then?”
“I was just trying to tease you, and…I sounded like a piece of shit. As usual.” He shrugs.
“You’re right. I do watch you a lot.”
He quirks a brow with interest. “Why is that?”
“I already told you, didn’t I?” I can’t meet his eyes. “I think you’re an amazing actor. I have a lot to learn from you, and…I don’t know, watching you in action helps me think more about my craft.”
He’s quiet for long enough that I feel like I might die of humiliation. I could spontaneously combust. That’s a real thing, isn’t it? People randomly burst into flames with no scientific explanation.
“That’s kind of you,” he finally says. His voice sounds mechanical, like he’s doing his best to be nice for a change, but he’s a robot that’s struggling with new programming.
“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable,” I tell him. “I can stop watching, if you—”
He cuts me off. “Do you want to run lines together?”
“What?”
“Rehearse our lines.” He shrugs again. He does that a lot. I think it’s because he wants the world to think that he doesn’t care, maybe to distract us from the question of whether he really does or not. “If you want to learn from me so badly, it’d be even better if we got together and went over the scenes.”
We had the official group rehearsals, though they were rushed. I know most actors rehearse together on their own, and a part of me has wanted to ask him to read with me. My perfectionism is soothed when I practice and take the unexpected out of the equation. If I know what Logan will say and do in scene, then there isn’t as much room for error. Still, I didn’t want to ask him only to be shot down. And even on the small chance that he did accept, I also didn’t want to be around him more than necessary.
But—well, he hasn’t been so awful lately. “Really? You want to?”
He looks like he could care less what my answer will be. “Over-rehearsing takes away from the unpredictability that can make a scene more organic, but sometimes it’s okay to try something new for a change, right?” His eyes become hooded, just a little, and I wonder if he has a different meaning, or if that particular moment is all in my head, too.
Logan suggests we go back to one of our hotel rooms, and I agree. We can be ourselves without having to worry about this act of pretending to like each other more than we really do. Logan says we might want to go to mine, and I wonder if he’s living the typical rock star life with a trashed room and ten naked people strewn across on his bed and floor. But it isn’t really any of my business, and I don’t mind. My room is clean enough, and there’s a separate living area space with couches where we can sit beside the balcony.
When we get to my room after riding together off set, Logan walks in and looks around curiously. I awkwardly hover in the kitchenette area. “Do you want something to drink?”
He sits on the couch, making himself comfortable. “Got any bourbon?”
“No. I’m sober.”
I don’t know why I told him that. People usually judge me the second I say it. They get tense, as if they think that I’m an alcoholic, which makes them uncomfortable, or they think that I’m boring, or—even worse—they think I’m judging them for drinking alcohol, when the truth is, I don’t care. I’m sober because I’ve never liked the taste of alcohol, and because, while I want to find freedom, I don’t like the idea of it happening because of something outside of myself. I don’t want to feel free because I have a drink. I want to feel free because of who I am: uninhibited and unafraid.