Chapter 5

Hayden

There'sa tentative knock at the door, which has me wrinkling my brows. No one here is tentative, and the most likely person who'd be seeking me out is Brady, and no way would he knock like that. He'd just barge in, with maybe a courtesy bang on the door before he pulled it open.

"Come in!" I bark, not wanting to get up from the couch where I'm working on memorizing lines. There's one spot in Act II that keeps tripping me up.

"Hi, um, excuse me?" comes a mousy little voice from behind my cracked open door. "Mr. Maddox?"

"Christ," I mutter, heaving myself up and crossing to the door, pulling it wide and startling the woman who's standing there staring up at me, brown eyes wide, soft pink lips slightly parted and level with my crotch.

"Shit! Shit shit shit!" She swears under her breath as the giant pile of clothes precariously balanced over her arms sways alarmingly, which effectively erases the burgeoning blowjob fantasy from my mind. It's not often a beautiful woman shows up at my door gazing up at me with an adoring look on her face. And she's just my type, with long brown hair, large round eyes, and plump lips. With that armful of clothes, though, she's obviously here about costumes. Once she has the clothes under control again, her eyes widen further—which I didn't realize was possible—and she brings her gaze back to mine.

Something about this angle with her big brown eyes staring up at me like that still has my mind in dirty places, despite my best efforts to stop that train of thought. "Who are you?" I demand, the question coming out gruff and rude, which wasn't my intention, but something about it seems to make her snap out of whatever trance she's found herself in. And finally puts the brakes on my wandering, dirty mind.

Clearing her throat, she climbs the steps to my trailer, and I back out of her way so she can enter. "I'm Victoria Mathews. I'm helping with the costumes, and I was given yours so I can fit it for you." Despite her initial hesitation when she knocked on my door, she's all brusque professionalism. Which makes me grin since she was cursing just a second ago.

But I let it be, not wanting to make her life more difficult. Since I know Mia's running the costume shop on this film, this woman must be a local they hired to help out. She's gotta be having enough trouble just figuring out how everything works on set. I don't need to add to it. "Right. Sure."

She hands me a hanger that's surprisingly heavy, bearing a western shirt, a leather vest, and clearly a few other things hidden beneath them. "Jesus Christ," I mutter, once again faced with the fact that we're doing a Wild West version of Julius Caesar. I kind of understand the need for a different angle to make it fresh and interesting, but there hasn't been a feature film version done since the 50s. Like my dad said, couldn't we just keep it in Rome?

But Caesar is being cast as some kind of railroad baron who's out of control, so I guess it works. Some of the line adjustments feel shoehorned and clumsy, though, so I'm not terribly impressed with the writing. Or what's been done to Shakespeare's writing. Maybe I'll take a crack at some of the worst parts. Either it'll be terrible and give me more sympathy for the writers trying to make this happen, or it'll be better.

At least I got Brady to drop the vampires. Well, me and the focus group I convinced him to convene. I told him I wouldn't help him secure more funding until he did it—and would pull out too—and that made him cave. Predictably, the focus group thought vampires were as ridiculous as I did but didn't object so much to the Wild West setting, so we compromised and kept that in. He convinced me to kick in a little more money and managed to secure another executive producer—no one as big as my dad, but combined with him and me, we'll be able to do a theatrical release instead of being stuck on the indie film circuit. So it won't be the career killer my dad predicted.

At least I hope not.

Victoria clears her throat, and I shake off my thoughts about the movie. "You need me to try this on now?"

She nods. "Yes, please. Otherwise I can't see if and where it needs to be adjusted." She's firmly in prim and professional mode, which is so at odds with the doe-eyed kitten with a filthy mouth who arrived at my trailer a second ago.

I like it, though. Her leggings, rain boots, and fitted T-shirt don't hide the curves she's rocking either, and after a long line of tall, rail-thin women, her softness appeals to me. It's ridiculous to feel so much attraction so soon, but maybe I've just been celibate for too long. Despite the tabloids trying to connect me with a variety of new starlets, I haven't gone out with anyone more than a couple of times since I broke up with Andrea last year, and none of that led to the bedroom. Despite that relationship being a failure, hookups haven't seemed appealing. The truth is, I don't want those kinds of shallow relationships anymore. As much as I don't believe relationships last forever, I want one that lasts at least a while. Something stable that I can count on.

But given my reaction to the costuming assistant, maybe I should find a hookup sooner than later. Let off some steam so I don't act like a disgusting horndog.

I offer the costuming assistant a smile and start lifting my shirt. "Right. Of course."

She lets out a little squeak and turns around, and my grin grows wider at her reaction, but I manage not to laugh. Yeah, she's definitely a local they hired. She's never done anything like this before. "I haven't seen you around before," I toss out, keeping my voice casual. I don't want her to know her inexperience is glaringly obvious. "Have you worked on many movies?"

Her voice cracks when she answers. "No." She clears her throat and tries again, her voice steadier. "No, this is my first. I live in town, and I answered an ad that was posted looking for extras and contract help with costumes and I'm not sure what else."

"Are you going to try to be an extra too?"

That makes her laugh, and I like the sound. It's husky and sexy and it goes straight to my dick, making me think of rolling around with her in white hotel sheets?—

I cut that thought off savagely. Dammit, I do need to get laid. A stranger's laugh shouldn't have me half hard like I'm some dumb teenager.

Pulling on the costume, I focus on her words. "Definitely not. I have enough to keep me busy with my regular job and the costumes."

I grunt acknowledgment and finish with the trousers and suspenders. "Do you want me to put the vest on too, or wait until after you've checked the fit without it?"

"Leave it off for now." Turning to look at me, her brow wrinkles, her lips puckering in a frown.

I look down at myself, but I don't see anything glaringly wrong. "What is it?" I check, but my fly's done up. And yeah, suspenders are kinda weird, but I have them on right and they're not falling off my shoulders. Everything feels like it fits fine.

She shakes her head. "You look like you're dressed for a Halloween version of a cowboy. Or a more modern one, at least." She points at the pearl snaps holding the shirt closed and the pocket down. "This isn't authentic to the time period setting. The women's costumes have some modern adjustments for ease of use, but they at least look right." She's getting more fired up as she continues, stepping closer, bending to peer at my chest. "This isn't even the right era! And it looks like—" She brushes a hand down my torso that sends electricity zapping through my blood. Dear god, I accidentally let out a soft groan. In less than five minutes, this woman is already shredding all my control and training. What the hell is up with that?

My groan has her straightening, her eyes flickering to mine, almost panicky. Taking a half step back, she pinches my sleeve and rubs the fabric between her fingers, her brow still puckered. "Can you turn around, please? And crouch a little? I want to see the tag."

She sets her hand on my upper arm, warm through the thin fabric, but I manage to keep any noises to myself as I follow its urging to turn around. But I can't help laughing when she starts digging at the back of my collar. "I can just take it off so you can inspect it," I offer, and that makes her release me, which is both welcome and … not. Even though her touch was impersonal—I've had hundreds of people helping me with costumes over the years, I recognize that kind of touch—I like the way her hands feel on me. How close she has to stand to reach me. I want to touch her back and see if the feeling is mutual—though I know better. She's not coming onto me. She's trying to do her job. I can stay professional, even if she is too attractive for my sanity.

"Yes," she says brusquely. "Please take it off. I'm appalled that this is the level of quality you're being given. I could maybe understand for an extra, but you're one of the lead roles!"

The snaps make a loud popping sound as they all come undone in rapid succession, and her voice falters when I drop the suspenders, tug the shirttails free, and pass her the offending garment.

When her fingers brush mine as she takes it, she swallows audibly, like I'm not the only one who felt that zing when our skin made contact. She freezes, and I hold my breath, not sure what I want her to do or say. But she doesn't say anything. Instead, she jerks the shirt out of my grip, looking at the tag on the inside of the collar, muttering something about polyester and cotton. "Of all people, you should be in one hundred percent cotton, not this kind of cheap blend that's more plastic than not. They don't even look the same. I'm going to talk to Mia about this."

My eyebrows jump up my forehead, surprised at her vehemence, and I let out a soft chuckle. "Let me know how that goes."

Her chin tips up in challenge. "I will." And with that, she gathers up her pile of costumes and exits before I can say anything, leaving me wondering when and if I'll see her again.

If she goes toe to toe with Mia about costumes, it's a toss up—either Mia will respect her dedication and listen, or she'll get pissed someone's questioning her and fire her on the spot.

I hope she can pull it off, though, and not just because I really want to see her again. I'm not sure what I hope to accomplish, but the combination of beauty, brains, and balls does something for me. She clearly knows her shit. And she's fearless in pursuing what she thinks is right, which is a major turn-on, especially in an industry where everyone is just out for themselves. She's not doing it because she thinks it'll win her points—in fact, it'll very likely do the opposite. She's dedicated to making this movie look the best it can when she has no personal stake in its success or failure. She'll get paid regardless of if I'm in all cotton or some kind of blend.

She's right, though. That shirt did look like some kind of modern rodeo cowboy outfit, and that's not what we're going for here. Yes, it's more modern than ancient Rome, but it's not supposed to be camp. And since this is only one of many costumes, if we can establish the need for period authenticity now, the better off we'll all be in the long run—me, since I'll be wearing the thing, Victoria because she'll keep her job, and Mia because she'll get credit for better costumes.

Plus, I just want to make sure she wins this one. I shouldn't care this much, but I do.

Pulling out my phone, I shoot off a text to Brady.

New costume assistant wants as many clothes as possible in natural fibers for authenticity. I agree. She said she'd talk to Mia, but you need to intercept.

Brady

On it

I go back to memorizing my lines, but despite his reassurance, I'm distracted and pacing the whole time. The pacing helps, though, and I manage to focus enough to scribble notes in the margins, adding in a few line revisions, because some of these are awful.

I stop short when there's another knock on the door, and a quick glance at my phone shows I've been absorbed in the script for longer than I realized and I've missed several texts from Brady.

Brady

I caught the costume assistant trying not to drag the costumes in the mud and helped her carry them back to the costume trailer

I checked a couple tags. You're right. Lots of polyester. Talking to Mia.

The next message is ten minutes later.

We'll have to make some adjustments to the shooting schedule while we source better costumes, at least for the leads and characters that are up close to the camera. The extras can wear polyester to keep costs down. Mia was kinda pissed, but she'll be fine.

New costume assistant was wide-eyed when I asked her opinion, but said she agrees mains need cotton or wool. Offered to help source costumes and can make some if necessary.

She's hot. I'm glad we hired her.

The last message has my jaw clenching and my stomach burning as heat flushes my face. I'm tempted to type a response. Maybe a reminder that he needs to keep it professional, but that's a little hypocritical, isn't it? Especially since I made the same observation to myself when I met her.

"Mr. Maddox?" a voice calls through the door.

"Shit," I hiss, jumping off the couch, tossing the script and my phone aside. It's her.

When I open the door, I hope I don't look pissed still. I don't want her to think I'm pissed at her.

She hits me with those same wide eyes from earlier, and I'm not sure if she's intimidated by me because I do still look pissed, if it's a reaction to being on a set with famous people for the first time ever, or if this is just how she always is. I offer her what I hope is a friendly smile and not the look the wolf gave Little Red Riding Hood before he ate her up—though I wouldn't be opposed to eating her up if the opportunity presented itself. "We meet again," I say smoothly, taking note of her empty arms. "What can I do for you?"

Some of the wide-eyed innocence leaves her face, making me think it's one of the first two options—she's intimidated by me because I looked pissed off or she's starstruck. "You said to let you know what happened with the costume situation …" She clears her throat, dropping her gaze and tucking a stray lock of hair behind one ear. "Um, yeah, so that costume is being replaced. Or at least the shirt is." Her brows pull together. "I really think the pants should be too, because those aren't period either, but in any case, your shirts and jackets will all be either cotton or wool." She hitches a thumb over her shoulder. "I'm about to leave so I can work on the alterations for the costumes we're keeping. But I just wanted to tell you."

I know my smile is genuinely pleased now, because not only is she skilled and smart and sexy—which is plenty, if you ask me—but she's downright adorable in this moment. "Thank you for taking your time to come tell me. Would you like to come in for a quick drink before you head home?"

Her eyes widen and her lips part, and she pulls back an inch like she's about to shake her head and say no. But then her mouth firms, her brows pull together, and she meets my eyes. "You know what? I think will."

There's that moxie I like so much. Still grinning, I step back and let her in.