“Just couch, Damon. Okay?”
“Eden.”
Just Eden. Not sharp but soft. Waiting and patient until I opened my eyes and stared up at him.
“I won’t,” he murmured.
I sucked in a breath. “I know,” I murmured back. “But I need this. Tonight. Can we just watch something lousy on Netflix and be lazy?”
Warm chocolate eyes. “Minus the pizza?”
“And the garlic bread.”
“Okay, love,” he said with a nod. “We can do that.”
And then he carried me over to the couch, setting me as gently on it as he might handle one of his very expensive cameras. He grabbed a blanket from the end, tucked it over me, then sat on the floor by my shoulder and reached for the remote. “So, what are we watching? Reality TV or a cheesy movie?”
My eyes were drifting closed already. “You’ve Got Mail.”
“That’s not cheesy, love,” he murmured.
“I know.” My words were slow, lazy. “But it’s got daisies.” A beat as I yawned. “And I love daisies.”
Silence, then a soft, “Good to know.”
He cued the movie up, hit play.
“And books,” I whispered.
Damon turned his head. “It does.”
“And a happy ending,” I murmured, giving up the battle with fatigue and letting my lids close and the intro of the movie wash over me.
I was so close to sleep that I nearly missed Damon whisper, “You can have one, too.”
But I did hear it.
Though before I could feel panic at the words, sleep had tucked its talons into me and fully pulled me under.
And when my alarm woke me up in the morning, though I hadn’t set it, and I found myself tucked safely in my bed, a glass of water on my nightstand. I knew Damon had stayed to make sure I was okay.
I was also glad I’d moved past locking the bedroom door.
I was even more glad for the coffee, brewed and ready to go in the kitchen, and the scrawled note telling me he hoped I felt better.
But, and I wasn’t admitting this, even to myself, I also missed that Damon wasn’t there himself.
Shit.
I was screwed.
So freaking screwed.
A week later, I struggled with the dress, the material bunching and having gotten stuck on my hips.
Cute.
My wrestling with the skintight nylon should have been a scene in the rom-com I was shooting with Grant. No doubt, it was hilarious watching me shimmy and wiggle and then sigh in defeat, arms flapping to my side.
So, the knock at my door wasn’t welcome.
I yanked at the straps, trying desperately for a few more seconds to get it up and over my breasts, but then the knock came again, and I figured that at least half of the set had already seen me in my skivvies and so it wasn’t much different for me to answer the door in a bra and half a dress.
I pushed it open and froze.
Damon.
Standing outside my trailer door with a pizza box in his hands. “Hey,” he said, words coming fast. “You’d said it was okay to visit you on set, and I thought since it was Thursday Pizza Night that I’d—”
He broke off his speech, eyes widening.
“I’m stuck,” I said, rather helpfully, I thought.
His throat working as he swallowed. “Um, I see that.” He coughed. “Should I wait out here? Or get someone to help?”
I smiled at the thought of Damon running around set, declaring a fashion emergency. “No,” I said. “I’m sure I can get it. Come in and have a seat. Pizza sounds perfect. I still have an hour before call time.”
He followed me into the trailer, making himself at home on the couch before I slipped back into the bedroom area to continue my acrobatics with my dress.
But after a couple more minutes, I hadn’t made much progress.
I was going to have to send Damon on the fashion emergency run after all.
A knock on the wall.
“Can I help?”
Honey and velvet. Goose bumps lifting on my nape, heat sliding slowly down my spine, moisture pooling between my thighs . . . fear making my pulse speed up. Or maybe that was longing?
Because I couldn’t—
“Ed? Want me to try?”
Fuck. Yes, I needed help and I needed it from Damon, so now wasn’t the time to be a wuss. No. Be smart. Don’t get attached or let him close or make ties—
“Okay,” I whispered.
A beat then soft footfalls coming my way, heat soaking into the exposed skin on my spine, spice teasing my nose . . . fingers on my waist.
I shivered.
“Cold?”
It was a husky question, one that had any words drying up on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I mutely shook my head, holding perfectly still as one of his fingers trailed along my skin.
“You’ve made quite a mess of this.”
I cleared my throat, forced my mind to focus. “Yup. It’s a skill of mine. Making messes of things.”
I’d meant . . . hell, I didn’t know what I meant, but I know what my words made us both think of.
That morning.
The kitchen table.
And the mess—the glorious, pleasurable, most wonderful mess I’d ever been part of making.
I coughed. “Well anyway, I’m also really good at not being able to squeeze into insanely tight dresses when I’ve indulged into a few too many Pizza Nights.”
Damon cleared his throat, the damp heat of his mouth caressing my shoulder blades. “Should I go put the pizza on the craft services table when we’ve gotten you unstuck?”
I pouted. “God, no. Why would you suggest giving away perfectly good pizza?”
“Well, you said the dress was tight, and I know you have to work for a few more hours,” he said. “I thought you might not want a stomach full of heavy food, especially when you have to be on camera.”
“I need fuel to keep working.” A grin. “And I’m done with starving myself to look good on film,” I said, proud my voice was steady. “I’m not saying I don’t want to be healthy or feel good, but if I can’t have pizza and garlic bread once a week and still be
