out a laugh and Nick reaches over to pinch my arm. “I can assure you that is the only time I’ve ever heard a woman say that.”
In the middle of some passionate thrusting, Gwen cuts and I have no choice but to stare up to where Nick is hovering—naked—above me. He’s not really naked, of course. He’s wearing a modesty pouch (a glorified penis sock) and has enough glycerin and rose water on his back to make it look like we’ve been at this for a long, long time. Which, frankly, it feels like we have.
A sheet covers my right breast, and Nick’s arm blocks any view of the other. I’m at a place in my career where I can stipulate what I will and will not show. By contrast, Nick’s entire ass is on display.
“Do you know what time it is?” I ask.
“I left my watch in my pocket and, as you may have noticed, I’m not wearing pants.” For as awkward as it must be to have your junk in a sock and a pillow between you and the parts you’re supposed to be convincingly fucking, Nick is still as easy to be with as ever.
“I meant, can you see a clock or a sun dial or something. All I can see from this angle is your gleaming chest.”
He shifts slightly. “I can’t see a clock, but I can see our screenwriter. And he does not look happy.”
This piques my interest, and without thinking, I try to crane my neck and get a look for myself. Nick stops me with a gentle hand to my shoulder. If I move, the shots won’t line up, and we’ll have to do the scene all over again. I know this, but the idea of Sam’s frowny reaction is throwing me.
“Oh?”
“Yeah, ‘Oh,’ ” he says with a shake of his head. “You ever going to tell me what really happened between you two or should I continue with the most lurid version I can imagine?”
I’m saved for a few moments when Gwen calls for us to pick up where we left off, for me to bend my leg and slide it up toward Nick’s side, for him to kiss down my neck.
“That’s right, that’s right,” Gwen calls out; her voice will be cut out later. “Arch your neck a little more, Tate.”
“Yeah, give her what she’s looking for, Tate,” Nick whispers against my throat, his face hidden from view. “And tell me why Mr. Intense over there looks like someone just canceled his birthday.”
The moan I give for the camera might be fake, but the way his words snag and hold my attention is completely real.
“I mean, I am playing his grandmother in this scene. I’m sure he’s not enjoying watching this.”
“Yeah, I don’t think that’s what this is.”
I hate the jolt of adrenaline this gives me, because in what world does Sam have the right to be upset about any of this? And why do I care? I’m working.
We stop so a battery in the boom mic can be changed, and I stare up at the beams overhead. That’s the way movies are: hurry up and wait. Hurry up and wait. It leaves way too much time to think.
Because there’s that feeling again, the urge to break out of the box I’ve put myself in, the urge to rebel and tell Nick what really happened. “I told you, we had a fling when we were younger.”
“And he’s pissed a decade later.”
“He’s the one . . .” I pause, not sure how far down this track I intend to go. Nick is so easy to be with, so easy to confide in. Even now, he doesn’t push, just wraps a piece of my hair around his finger and waits for me to continue—or not. Like it’s my decision. Nothing about Sam has ever felt completely like my decision. But I’ve also been burned by spilling to a guy before and am not up for it to happen again, from lover or friend.
I lower my voice to barely a whisper. “Okay, complete vault here, Nick: Sam is the one who told the papers that I was Ian Butler’s daughter. He sold the story and then just sort of vanished, and I didn’t see him until that day on the trail.”
It’s a tribute to Nick’s acting skills that he barely reacts. “Okay,” he says, and gives the smallest tilt of his head. “That explains a lot. Wow.” After a minute, he adds, “What a