The F List - Alessandra Torre Page 0,59
didn’t need that spoon. I could toss my half-eaten bowl of cereal in the trash and avoid public use of his lips altogether.
Eileen propped her chin in her hand and watched with unabashed interest. Cash moved closer, and I looked up at him and forced a smile. "What are you doing?" I gritted out quietly between my clenched teeth.
He studied me, and a war waged through our eye contact. Leaning forward, he put his hands on the counter behind me and spoke into my ear. "I don't care if the cameras know that I want you."
Warmth spread through my body, and I struggled to keep the optimistic part of my brain tampered down. He didn't mean that he wanted me. He meant that he wanted my body, or the challenge, or to keep the spoon. This was a battle, just like our others. A game. Just because we'd had a cease-fire of sorts, just because we'd been drunk and half-naked and had kissed… it didn't mean that Cash Mitchell wanted me. Guys like Cash didn't want girls like me. They wanted girls who spent two hours on their makeup every day and who used emojis in their texts and who did sexual stuff that I wasn't even aware of.
“Can you repeat what you just said to her, but louder?” The camera guy spoke up. “We didn’t catch that.”
Cash ignored him, his hands still on the counter, his body close enough for me to smell the body wash he used in his shower. I tried not to look at his tan chest, decided not to stare at the tattooed line of script that ran along the inside of his right bicep.
“You don’t want me,” I said quietly.
"Yes, I do."
I shook my head and looked away. He straightened up and grabbed my hand. “Come on.” He headed for the hall, his grip on my hand taking me with him.
I struggled to keep up, as did the camera guy. “Where are you going?”
"Not I. We." He opened the door to the garage and held it open, ushering me through. I stepped into the air-conditioned space and watched as one of the six bay doors rumbled into action, slowly opening to reveal the morning glare. I held up a hand to block the stream of harsh sunlight and watched as he opened the passenger door to a Jeep-style SUV. "After you."
“Where are we going?” I repeated.
“I ruined your breakfast. I’m getting you more.” He nodded toward the vehicle. “Come on. Hurry before this guy tries to crawl in the back.”
I took his hand and hoisted myself up and into the front seat, getting my seat belt and then holding on as he shifted into gear and careened out of the spot, aiming for the front gates as members of the crew ran for the production vehicles. I spotted Dana mid-step out of the production trailer, a donut in hand, staring at us.
“You know they’ve miked all of our cars.”
“I know. They’ve also got trackers on them.” He took a left out of the gate and gunned the engine. I held on to a handle in the upper doorframe and tried to understand what was happening here. “Which is why we aren’t going to say anything.” He reached over and opened the glove box and pulled out a small black box. “Here. Toss this out the window.”
I took the box from him and turned it over in my hands. I hadn’t seen a tracker before, but it was surprisingly small and light, like a garage door opener. “Was it in the glove box the entire time?”
“Under my seat.” He slowed to a stop and nodded to a trash can on the corner. I tossed the tracker and felt a burst of pride when I made it in.
He held out his fist and I bumped mine against his. I fist-bumped Cash Mitchell. My inner teenager squealed with joy. I pulled back my fist and forced my face into a mask of composure and reminded myself that I had better things to do with my time than to drive around with Cash Mitchell in Los Angeles traffic in silence. In eight minutes, I was supposed to be having a call with Michelle to discuss VidCon. After that, I needed to take stills for Instagram, then had plans to film a TikTok with Eileen before meeting with Dana. I also had a branding presentation to review and a post-lunch conference call with my Twitter rep.
I’d gladly skip all