Reel (Hollywood Renaissance #1) - Kennedy Ryan Page 0,65

“I’m embarrassed. I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

“You didn’t make me feel anything I wasn’t already feeling.” I walk forward, risking everything to reassure her. I lift her chin and make her meet my eyes. “It wasn’t anything I didn’t already want. That I still want.”

“Then don’t go.” She reaches up, wrapping her hand around my forearm. “We can—”

“This is dangerous, Neevah, for me, yes, but even more for you. We should wait.”

“But I don’t . . .” She ventures a glance up at me. “Wait? For how long?”

“Until the film wraps.”

I cup the tender curve of her cheek and jaw, searching her eyes for caution or hesitation. There is none. That openness that draws me to her is on full display, her desire unmasked.

“This is your first movie. Do you want everyone thinking you got the role because you were sleeping with the director?”

“I don’t care what people think.”

“You will. I’ve been in this business a long time. It’s vicious. The rumors, scandal. Lots of truly talented people ruined their careers with bad personal decisions.”

“You are not a bad decision, Canon.”

“Maybe not, but I’m one you should wait to make.” I bend to kiss her, giving my hands permission to slide down her arms, over her sides, and to her waist. She strains up on tiptoe, eating into our kiss, her lips soft and warm and eager. Neevah’s sweetness hides a devouring kind of passion. When we happen, she will burn me inside out, and I can’t wait.

But I will.

With my lips still clinging to hers, I force myself to step back. Not risking one more word or allowing one more touch, I leave.

30

Neevah

“Another inch.” Linh Brody-Stone glances up from where she squats on the floor and pulls the measuring tape from my waist. “I’ll have to take the costume in.”

I let out a long, tired breath. “I’m sorry. I promise I’m eating.”

“Yeah, but you’re also doing the lindy hop and every other dance Lucia can think of for hours every day. Your body’s burning calories faster than you can consume them.”

“We’re doing all the dance sequences at once. With this many dancers, production wants to get their parts out of the way so we can release them. Kind of clumping things together. Like all my songs are last because they require only me and a few musicians for the most part.”

“Explains why I haven’t seen Monk as much on set lately,” she says.

Or Canon.

It’s been three weeks since Thanksgiving, and if it weren’t for my very real memories of that night, I might question that it ever happened. He ignores me and hasn’t mentioned the kiss or our conversation—how much we wanted each other that night—and it’s driving me crazy.

Linh walks over to a garment rack and flicks through the costumes we’ve used to create Dessi’s character, ranging from deliberately drab to dazzling. A production of this magnitude requires a costuming team, which Linh leads. Some of the pieces she designs, and some they source. Everything is stored here, the shoes neatly on shelves, the clothes hanging on rolling racks, accessories tucked into clear boxes and cubbies. Ironing boards, irons, sewing machines and steamers fill the compact space, Linh’s domain.

She turns to grin at me, her feline-like features lit with rare excitement. She’s such a steady boat, never rocked or swayed, that seeing her smile makes me smile despite my fatigue.

“Wanna see something incredible?” she asks.

“Sure!” I inject enthusiasm into my voice despite the pain in my muscles and aches in my joints.

The car service dropped me off on set at five a.m. for hair and makeup. We’ve been shooting all day. I could crash right here.

Linh disappears into one of the changing rooms and emerges, rolling out a covered mannequin.

“Behold!” she says, carefully lifting the cover to reveal one of the most gorgeous dresses I’ve ever seen. It’s a vintage floor-length evening gown, as iridescent as a pearl, covered in sequins and with gossamer-thin spaghetti straps.

“It’s modeled after one Josephine Baker wore for one of her Paris shows,” Linh says. “I thought it’d be perfect for the scenes when Dessi and Cal tour Europe.”

“This is . . . Linh, it’s gorgeous. Where’d you find it?”

“Find it?” She laughs, adjusting the gown’s bodice. “I made it.”

“You made this? What the . . .” I knew Linh was talented, but this is haute couture level. The most sought-after designer would proudly send a dress like this down their runway. If anyone ever thought Linh landed this project because