It was only their fifth day together, and she was exhausted just watching him. But he’d evidently been keeping much the same schedule for weeks and weeks now.
“This is it,” Alex had explained last night over dinner, his voice gravelly with fatigue. “The climactic battle of the gods. It’s meant to rage day and night for weeks, and it’s the last piece of filming for the entire series. Ron and R.J. want to make it big and immersive, and they want to make sure they get all the footage they need before we scatter to the ends of the earth, so that means long hours for everyone.”
Today was the last day of filming, and thank goodness for that. He seemed on the verge of collapse, despite all the naps he’d taken in his sleeping berth while she sat on his couch and read.
There’d been no drinking. No women. No clubs or bars. No fights.
He also got along well with his colleagues, which she considered a good gauge of character. When she and Alex ate lunch among the crew and various extras, he chatted with them easily. They clapped him on the back and teased him about his shiner, and he rolled his eyes and mocked them in return, and the group hilarity occasionally drew indignant shushing from other parts of the set.
As far as she could tell, he wasn’t the man Ron had described to her or the man she’d met on a battlefield at dawn. Disagreeable. Defiant. Careless. Out of control, or nearly so.
She stole a glance at Alex’s sleeping form. He was turned on his side and facing her, arms hugging his pillow, making little snuffling sounds and occasionally smacking his lips, and yes. Yes, he was definitely drooling, and that shouldn’t be cute. Especially since the authorities might officially deem his trailer a disaster area at any moment, despite its relatively luxurious design.
He’d been unable to locate the television remote all week. Candy wrappers and disposable coffee cups littered the table, the tiny patch of counter in the kitchen, and an unfortunate spot just short of the trash can. Books and piles of discarded clothing lay scattered across the floor. Yesterday, she’d found an abandoned, half-eaten apple on the floor of the tiny shower.
She had no good explanation for that apple.
Well, actually, she did. He openly took medication for ADHD every morning—their first breakfast together, he’d shaken the pill bottle an inch from her nose and bellowed, “I have Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Nanny Clegg! Imagine that!”—but it didn’t always take full effect before he got to the set, and it wasn’t a miracle drug.
In her training, she hadn’t specialized in the disorder. Still, she knew the basics. His medicine would help him direct his attention where he wanted it for longer stretches of time, but executive function issues would persist despite the meds. On a daily basis, he likely battled time management difficulties. Disorganization. Impulsivity.
Lack of adequate rest and excessive stress made managing ADHD much, much harder. Under the circumstances, then, it was a wonder he was still making it to work on time and getting through his scenes every day.
The cookbook on the seat beside her featured a gorgeous loaf of bread on its cover. Absently, she ran a fingertip over that golden boule, squinted into the distance, and considered everything she’d observed.
He had a curious mind, as well as a sharp tongue. He was a hard worker. He was friendly to coworkers beneath him in the show hierarchy.
He was—
He was awake. Staring at her from his bed, gray eyes alert and watchful.
When had she turned to face him? And exactly how long had he been watching her watch him without saying a single word?
“I, uh …” Flustered, she tented her fingers and tapped them together. “I was just noticing how much your bruises have faded.”
He didn’t move. “Were you?”
His voice. It was—it was sinuous. It could wrap around words, twisting them into a purr or a plea or the crack of a whip, and even though she’d been studying him continually for five days straight, she had no idea how.
She swallowed hard, unable to muster any sort of coherent response while those intent eyes remained locked to hers.
The weight of his gaze blanketed her. It dragged at her mouth, parting her lips. It turned her limbs heavy. It transformed her thoughts into a distant hum.
Then he finally glanced away, toward his laptop on the floor. Her next inhalation audibly shook, and her chest hurt—had she actually stopped breathing at some point? Wow.
No wonder the man got a huge freaking trailer. That was raw star power at work.
Thank goodness he’d chosen acting instead of, say, founding a cult.