“I’m sorry.”
“You’ve worked with him more than me.”
“Except, he semi-behaves because I’m the co-star.”
Tally snorted. “Sure, he does.”
“Okay, he doesn’t,” I agreed. “But we’re in the home stretch.”
“Well”—she began gathering up her things—“I hope the man that made you smile like that keeps working his magic.”
My lips tipped up at the mention of Damon and just that quickly, my mind drifted away from Grant and movie sets and tight dresses to how Damon had held me and slept in my bed, though we’d fallen asleep without making love both nights. Me, because I knew he was different, that we were different together and I didn’t want to rush back into something and, him, well, I couldn’t read his mind, but my guess was that he was being as patient as ever, waiting for me to show or tell him implicitly that I was ready.
But he had said goodbye early the previous morning with a kiss that had turned my bones to jelly or maybe cooked spaghetti or—
Lord, I was losing my mind.
“Yeah,” Tally said, squeezing my shoulder. “Just like that.” And then she slipped from the trailer.
I spent a few more minutes thinking about spaghetti legs and Jell-O before I followed Tally.
Though, I made a wide bypass of Grant’s trailer on the way to set.
Despite that, I could still hear him complaining loud and clear.
Thank God I had Damon.
I was thinking the exact same thought later that week when I entered my trailer and discovered the pizza box on my table, the smell of cheese and tomato sauce filling the small space.
Thursday. Pizza Night.
God, I missed Damon.
Especially when I saw the pizza was heart-shaped.
Kicking my shoes off and grabbing my cell from my dresser, I called him. He picked up on the first ring, his soft, “Hey, baby,” the best sound I’d heard all day.
“Hey,” I murmured back. “Someone’s setting high standards in the romance department.”
He scoffed. “I just sent pizza.”
“A heart-shaped pizza is in a whole other realm.”
“Well, if you think that’s impressive,” he said, tone light. “You should see how I do flowers.”
The image of a pizza shaped bouquet made me smile.
Hell, who was I kidding? I was already smiling. But thus was the power of Damon.
“How was the Ego today?”
I sighed and sank down onto the couch, thankful that Tally had caught me on the way back to the trailer and undid my zipper enough that I could actually breathe.
“That good, huh?”
“Mmm-hmm.” My lips twitched as I leaned back against the cushions, letting my head tilt up toward the ceiling. I propped my feet onto the table and hit the speaker button. “Just one more day until I’m done with Grant.”
“You’ve been amazingly patient.”
“Unlike some persistent male who won’t leave me alone.”
“Unlike some persistent male who sends you pizza and a brownie.”
I leaned forward, noticing the brown paper bag next to the pizza box for the first time. “Okay, I think I like the persistent male who sends me pizza and chocolate.”
He laughed lightly. “Hit FaceTime, baby.”
“Why?”
“I want to see your face.”
“Ugh. No, that can’t happen. I’ve been out in the sun all day. I’ve got sand in places you don’t want to think about, and I think I’m sunburned . . . despite the fact that a crew member’s job today was to hold an umbrella over my head anytime we weren’t filming.”
“It’s the reflection off the sand,” he murmured.
“Huh?”
“FaceTime, honey. I need to see that face.”
I sighed but hit the button so video would connect us. It rang once and then his face was there, smiling gently out at me. I sniffed. “You have absolutely no right to look this handsome when I look like . . . this.” I waved a hand down my dirty clothes.
“Why are you half-dressed?”
I moaned, reached for the brownie, and shoved a piece in my mouth. “Because I can’t get out of this dress on my own. It’s too tight.” I ate another bite. “I need to get a Bowflex, or a Peloton or . . . to stop eating pizza.” My laughter was almost delirious, but that was what four straight days of filming with Grant would do. “No, I can’t do that. No matter how fat I get.”
Something crossed Damon’s face, an expression that I almost missed. But I couldn’t pinpoint what it was—discomfort, fatigue, concern? “Well, I promise I’ll like you whatever size you are,” he said. “Now, what’s this about a sunburn? How come they didn’t give you sunscreen?”
Me trying to ferret out the expression faded as I giggled. “I don’t think you noticed, bub, but I’m a redhead. My skin is so white it’s almost translucent—”
“I like to think of it as white as vanilla ice cream.” He did a chef’s kiss. “My favorite.”
I sat up, not because the description was inaccurate—it decidedly was—but because—
“Vanilla ice cream is your favorite?”
He shrugged, shifting positions for a moment before coming back with a slice of pizza. I was sticking with the brownie. I needed sweet carbs to self-medicate with after my day with Grant.
“Vanilla ice cream is delicious.”
“On its own?” I finished off the brownie. “Like in a cup or on a cone?”
His lips tilted up. “Yes, Ed.”
“Th-that’s—”
“Vanilla is a perfectly acceptable choice for a flavor of ice cream.”
“Yes,” I agreed. “If it’s melting over a brownie or piece of apple pie, or dolled up with chocolate sauce and sprinkles and whipped cream on a sundae. But on its own? Th-that’s insanity.”
I opened my eyes when he didn’t reply, and saw that he was staring at me with a huge grin on his face. “I love that we always get onto the most random topics.”
“There are hundreds of more interesting ice cream flavors than vanilla—mint chocolate chip, for example,” I said.
