Page 59 of Cast to be Mine

“You’re right,” I said. “I got carried away.”

“We can’t, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want you so badly it’s physically painful to walk away right now.”

I leaned into his touch, closing my eyes.

He pressed one last kiss to my forehead. Then he stepped back, his expression shifting back to professional.

“I need to get in there,” he said. “We’re behind schedule.”

“Go. I’ll be there in five.”

He nodded, his hand on the door handle. He paused, looking back at me. Just a look. Then he was gone, the trailer door clicking shut behind him.

I sat there for a moment, my lips still tingling from his kiss, my body still humming with unfulfilled want. This was going to be the longest few weeks of my life.

But he was right. We had to be smart. We had to be careful.

I checked my reflection in the mirror, smoothing down my hair, and left my trailer. I needed to get to hair and makeup.

I was Grace Stone. Professional. Focused.

Ready to face whatever the world wanted to throw at me.

20

MICAH

Acouple days later, we were celebrating. The last day of LA shooting had gone smoother than I’d expected. We’d wrapped the final interior sequences, gotten every shot on the list, and somehow managed to stay under budget. A minor miracle, considering how the first day had gone.

The craft services table had been replaced with a full catering spread, and someone had wheeled in a portable bar that was doing brisk business. Music pumped through speakers rigged up by the sound department. The energy in the room was loose and celebratory.

This wasn’t the final wrap party. That would come after Hawaii, after we’d captured every last frame of footage. But it was a milestone worth celebrating. LA was done. The hardest part of production was behind us.

I grabbed a beer from the bar and surveyed the room. The crew had shed their usual work mode and were actually relaxing for once. I spotted Toby doing some kind of awkward shuffle that I think was supposed to be dancing. Lisa and Buzz were deep in conversation near the food table, laughing about something. Even Jack had shown up. He was holding court in a corner with his entourage, probably regaling them with stories about how he’d single-handedly saved every scene.

Grace was across the room, talking to one of the camera operators. She’d changed out of her wardrobe into skinny jeans that showed off that fine ass. She had on heels and a tank top. It was very casual and easily the sexiest she’d ever looked. Her hair was in a messy bun and her face had been washed clean after a week of stage makeup. She was laughing at something the guy said, her whole face lighting up.

I took a long pull of my beer and tried not to stare.

The past few days had been torture. We’d been professional on set. Completely professional. No lingering looks, no accidental touches, nothing that could give anyone ammunition. But every time she walked past me, I caught her scent. Every time our eyes met across the set, I felt that electric pull.

And every night, I went home alone to my empty house and thought about her.

The scandal had dominated the entertainment news cycle. Grace Stone and Jack Montana were on every gossip site and tabloid cover. The paparazzi had set up permanent camp outside her apartment building. She couldn’t go anywhere without being photographed.

Which meant we couldn’t go anywhere together.

I watched couples pair up on the dance floor. Not actual couples, just people that had spent the last week working eighteen hours side by side. They were all having a good time. That’s what we needed. Blow off a little steam before another long week of shooting. Grace stood at the edge of the floor with a glass of wine in her hand.

I should stay where I was and keep my distance. I walked toward her anyway.

“Dance?” I asked, keeping my voice casual.

She looked up at me, and I saw the hesitation in her eyes. The same calculation I’d been running in my own head. Was this too risky? Would people notice? But the dance floor was crowded. Half the crew was out there. One dance wouldn’t draw attention.

“Sure,” she said softly.

I took her hand and led her into the crowd. My other hand found her waist in a very junior-high way. She stepped closer, not quite pressed against me but close enough that I could smell her shampoo. We moved together, nothing too intimate. Nothing that would raise eyebrows. Just two colleagues sharing a dance at a work party. Perfectly innocent.