Chapter 6

Victoria

I stepinto Hayden Maddox's trailer for the second time today, doing my best to project confidence and worldliness instead of the shaking-miniature-greyhound levels of anxiety and excitement coursing through me.

I'm! In! Hayden! Maddox's! Trailer!screams my inner thirteen-year-old. He wasn't famous then, of course—not yet—so I didn't have posters of him on my bedroom walls. But I did have posters of Brady Green, so having him pull me aside so he could look at the costumes was a whole other level of insanity. I think I did a good job acting like a sane adult instead of a squealing middle schooler, but inside I felt a lot like that squealing middle schooler.

Getting invited in for a drink by Hayden Maddox isn't any easier. Because while Brady might've given me that devastating boyish grin and touched me casually in a way that could be interpreted as flirtatious, he seems like the type to do that to women everywhere. Hell, maybe he does that with guys too. I think I read that he's bisexual.

When Hayden Maddox closes the door to his trailer, my runaway thoughts come to a screeching halt.

I'm alone. In a trailer. With a movie star.

Suddenly I have the urge to gulp. Am I sending the wrong kind of message? Was his invitation for a drink code for sex and I'm woefully out of the loop so I didn't realize that by saying yes, he's taking that as consent? Or does he just mean a drink?

"How was your first day on set?" he asks, sounding both casual and interested, like we're old friends instead of a movie star and an inexperienced costume assistant who've never met before today.

I whirl around to face him. "Oh, uh, um, it was, um, okay?"

He laughs softly, handing me a glass holding an inch of amber liquid. "Is whisky okay? I know not everyone drinks it, but it's what I like at the end of a stressful day, and knowing both Mia and Brady, I have a feeling you might need it. Especially after that sparkling review of your day."

Accepting the drink, I let out a weak chuckle and sink to the couch behind me, even though he hasn't invited me to sit. "This is fine." I've never actually tried whisky before, but I'm not about to admit that right now. "And yeah, it's been …" I look around, trying to find the best word to describe today. "A whirlwind."

He leans against the counter behind him, giving me the opportunity to admire the long, lean lines of his body. The muscles of his thighs press against the fabric of his jeans as he crosses one ankle over the other, his pecs flexing beneath the soft cotton of his tee as he crosses one arm over his chest, his hand pushing up his bicep so it's round and bulging, his other hand holding his drink as he sips.

When my eyes make their way to his face, a soft smile tips his lips, and I flush, embarrassed to be caught checking him out so blatantly.

"A whirlwind," he repeats softly, nodding. "I can see that. Everyone's been treating you well?"

I shrug and tilt my head from side to side. "Define well."

That surprises a laugh out of him, and the genuine emotion lights up his beautiful face. I've always thought him gorgeous. Nearly too perfect. But his smile's a little crooked—one corner of his mouth always pulls higher than the other—and he has a bump on the bridge of his nose like he broke it one time and it didn't get set properly that gives him enough character to not look like he was created by a computer. And when he laughs like that, his eyes sparkle, looking a lot like the whisky in my glass when it catches the light.

He drains his glass and sets it on the counter behind him, studying me as he does so. "How about this—if anyone treats you badly, let me know and I'll handle it."

My eyebrows jump, and though I'm still smiling—because I honestly can't help it when I'm the object of his focused attention like this—I can't help the suspicion coloring my tone, and I'm sure my expression as well. "You'll handle it, huh? And why would you do that?"

He shrugs, dropping his hands to rest on the counter on either side of his hips. "I have a vested interest in making sure the movie goes well and stays on schedule. That means looking out for the welfare of everyone working on the show. Someone as knowledgeable and talented as yourself is an asset to a production, and I won't have you run off by someone acting the diva. There's a reason we hired a costume assistant, after all. As great as Mia is, she knows as well as everyone that there's too much work for her to do it all on her own."

"Is she the one I should be most worried about?"

"How'd the discussion about the costumes go today?" he fires back instead of answering my question.

I feel like I'm on some kind of weird game show, where my every answer and reaction is being scrutinized. It's unsettling. And his off-the-cuff compliment about me being knowledgeable and talented is discomfiting too. How does he know how knowledgeable or talented I am? We've been in the same room for less than an hour altogether today.

"It went fine, I guess," I answer slowly. "Brady Green stopped me on my way back to the costuming trailer, took most of the costumes away from me, made a big show of stopping and checking the tags after feeling the costumes, then told Mia we needed to only use natural fibers."

Hayden Maddox seems to be fighting a smile at this news. "What'd she say to that?"

"She said he was being ridiculous, which I agree, he was. Stomping in with an armload of costumes and making demands like that is ridiculous. She flipped through the pile, rightfully pointed out that most of them don't contain polyester, and that she'd done her best on a limited budget and tight deadline to get the best costumes she could. He waved his arms and demanded the leads all be in cotton in every scene. I pointed out that outerwear would normally be wool, and Mia pointed at me while glaring at him and said, ‘See? She gets it. You don't.'" That makes Hayden laugh, and an answering grin claims my face as I finish my story. "Anyway, they agreed the leads would be in natural fibers if she could have adequate time to source enough costumes. I offered to help. She seemed pleased."

"Then no," he says, his smile now firmly in place. "I don't think you'll have any problems with Mia." He nods at the glass in my hand. "Is something wrong with your drink?"

Surprised, I look at the drink in question, and my trepidation must show on my face.

"Wait, do you not drink alcohol? I'm so sorry. I should've asked before handing it to you. I forget that sometimes people have difficulty telling me no. You can, by the way." He plucks the glass out of my hand before I can object. "Tell me no, I mean. I'm not some monster who'll ruin your life if you don't give me what I want the minute I want it."

"I didn't—" I start, but he doesn't let me get a word in.

"I know there are people in this industry who act that way—I know a few of them personally, and I've always sworn to never be that guy. And yes, I know I'm getting into production, but I'm not trying …"

He trails off as he looks at me again, noting the irrepressible grin on my face as he passes me a closed bottle of water to replace the whisky. "You're cute when you're flustered," I say, the words coming out as soon as they enter my head, and I feel my cheeks heat when I realize I just said that out loud.

Giving a rueful chuckle, he rubs the back of his neck. "Thanks. You're pretty cute when you get all fired up about costume accuracy."

My blush deepens, and I look down, fiddling with the bottle of water in my hands.

"Can I ask you a question?" he says after a moment.

Lifting my eyes back to his, I give him a cheeky grin. "Pretty sure you just did."

He flashes me the dimple in his left cheek that I've heard people wax poetic about. "Touché. Is that a no, then?"

Laughing, I shake my head. "Shoot."

"If you didn't want a drink, why did you agree to join me for one?"

I blink at him, a little confused. "Huh?"

He nods at the water bottle in my hands. "That's the second drink I've given you that you haven't touched."

"Oh, uh …" I look down at the water bottle again, then crack it open and take a swig, which makes him laugh.

"I wasn't trying to force you to guzzle it or anything."

I nearly choke trying to get down the water still in my mouth, but manage to swallow it without dying or spitting it everywhere. Holding the back of my wrist over my mouth, I laugh, because this is really the most ridiculous situation, isn't it? I mean, how is this even real? How is this my life? I'm just a single mom from a tiny tourist town in the middle of Washington state. There's no universe where I should be having "a drink" with a movie star, and especially not in the middle of a field on a ranch a few miles out of town.

Tears spring to my eyes as I collapse against the back of the couch, unable to stop laughing at the absurdity of the entire situation.

Hayden Maddox—and I can't possibly think of him as anything other than his full name—chuckles along with me, shaking his head in bewilderment, and that just makes me laugh even harder. Like, he's trying to share the joke, but he has no idea why I'm laughing like this.

I finally close my eyes, tipping my head back and force myself to take a few deep breaths. Despite my best efforts, a few more giggles sputter out, and then I hear a deep chuckle off to my left, and that sets me off again for a few minutes.

When I finally calm down enough to risk opening my eyes, I find that he's moved to the couch as well, though there's at least two feet of space between us. His warm amber eyes meet mine, his lips quirking into a soft smile. "Care to let me in on the joke?"

I wave a hand around, but eventually shake my head. "I'm sorry. I don't think I can explain it."

He nods, reaching over and taking the bottle of water from me, setting it on the counter behind him. "I'm sorry if I made you feel obligated to come in."

I shake my head. "It's not that, it's …" I hesitate, uncertain if I should actually tell him my reasoning, but he raises a brow in invitation, and I give in. "My friend Brittney encouraged me to take this job, and if she found out I had the opportunity to have a drink with anyone on the set—but especially you or Brady Green—and turned it down, she'd lose her mind," I say in a rush. "Well, she'll probably lose her mind anyway, but …" I shrug.

Regret for my choice to tell him blooms in my chest as soon as I finish speaking, because the warm openness in his expression is gone, replaced by a cold mask. "I see," he says quietly.

"I mean, it's not that I wouldn't want to anyway," I hurry to reassure him. I wave my hands up and down in his direction. "I mean, look at you. You're gorgeous. And I never just say that to a guy, but it's not like you don't know. I mean, you're … you. The real question is, why would you ever invite me to join you for a drink?" I let out an unhinged laugh. "But the real reason I almost said no is because my daughter's been at my parents' all day, and I really need to get home and pick her up."

He remains impassive for the first part of that, but then his expression morphs to surprise. "A daughter?"

I nod. "Yeah. She's a cool kid. She's ten, so she tried to convince me to let her stay home by herself—I'm starting to do that for quick runs to the store or whatever—and she was grumpy I wouldn't let her be home alone for an entire Saturday. So I might have to work extra hard to reconnect tonight." I shrug, closing my mouth on the tide of nervous babble that wants to come out. This guy doesn't need all those details, though. And I'm sure he's not really that interested.

Pausing, he looks off to the side, seeming to need a second to absorb the info I just gave him before returning his gaze to mine. "Is her dad …?"

Chuckling, I shake my head, all too familiar with that sort of delicately unfinished question. "Not in the picture. Not interested. Never has been."

And that makes his mouth press together, his eyes going flinty, and he expels a breath. "I'm sorry," he says, standing and holding out a hand to me.

Cocking my head, I give him a puzzled look. "For what?" I place my hand in his, ultra aware of the way his skin feels against mine, his long slim fingers gripping my hand, the strength of his grip as he pulls me to my feet—not crushing, but with clearly restrained power.

When I'm standing, we're close enough that my chest almost brushes his, and it takes everything in me not to give in to the urge to sway against him. "For keeping you later than I should've," he answers, the words a low murmur that I almost feel vibrating through his chest. "If I'd known …"

"I might be a mom, but I'm still a woman too," I whisper, feeling the need to point that out, though afraid to give it full voice. It's the kind of thing I say to men who seem interested but are hesitant about the single mom thing. In my experience, though, when it gets to that point, there's no salvaging it.

Tearing my eyes away from his, I pull my hand from his grip and step back, forcing a smile to my lips. "Thank you, though. For the drink. And for the help with the costume issues. I'm assuming you had something to do with Brady Green's swooping in before I got back to the trailer?"

"Busted." I raise my eyes to his face to catch a small, rueful smile. "I figured it was the best way to keep you from becoming the target of Mia's ire. Brady's the director. This whole thing is his baby. Him sounding like a diva making demands is expected." He bobs his head from side to side. "If it had come from you? No matter how well you tried to couch it and be diplomatic, it likely wouldn't have gone over well."

My forced smile turns genuine at his confirmation. "Well, thanks again. I'll … I'll see you later, I guess."

He nods once. "I'm sure you will."