“Never said you were, Miss Firestone. But even badasses need to take a break, sometimes.”
“I’m a badass, huh?”
He nods solemnly. “You are in my book.”
My lips tug up into a smile he doesn’t return. I take in his strong jawline, the aristocratic slope of his nose, the blond, short-buzzed crop of his hair. Six foot five, pure muscle in his ever-present black suit. If anyone here is a badass, it’s Masters. And yet, after a month of him watching out for me — analyzing the security of my new home in the Palisades, organizing safety parameters for upcoming public appearances, making sure Harper and I are always completely protected every time we go farther than the terrace in my backyard — I know he definitely has a softer side. He just doesn’t like to show it.
Ever.
“You’re a big softie, you know that right, Masters?”
He still doesn’t smile, but there’s humor lurking in his eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Firestone. Now, come on. You’re already running late.”
“Maybe if you didn’t drive like such a geriatric…”
“Motor vehicle accidents are the fourth leading cause of death in the United States.”
“Cheerful.”
“Statistically accurate.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Los Angeles was ranked sixth for traffic accidents last year, out of every major city in this country.”
My eyes narrow. “Are you trying to bore me to death so I’ll go inside?”
“Depends. Is it working?”
“Don’t make me hurt you.”
“That would be counterproductive, considering you’re paying me to protect you,” he deadpans.
I roll my eyes, straighten my spine, and stride toward the side door, trying not to trip over my low-heeled boots or tug on the hem of my dress or fidget with the cloth-wrapped buttons of the thin white blazer Harper picked out for me last night. Examining my reflection in the mirror, she assured me this outfit issubtly sexy without trying too hard.I nodded and thanked her and bit back the snappy retort on the tip of my tongue.
We both know the truth — no savvy outfit choice will make an iota of difference. Wearing a pretty power-blazer doesn’t equate holding emotional sway over someone. Not even if thatsomeoneis you.
My pulse roars between my ears as I enter the hangar, Masters following close on my heels. It’s a massive space — at least 10,000 square feet. The soaring ceilings remind me of a circus tent, crisscrossed by wires, lighting equipment, bird’s eye cameras, and narrow black walkways where tech crew scramble around like acrobats during active filming. Today, the catwalks are abandoned, as is the remainder of the set. I walk by the space where we filmed the airport terminal scenes, hurry past the plane cabin where we shot the in-flight crash sequence, then wander around the shallow pool where Grayson and I spent two days treading water as a mid-sized jetliner smoked and shook and sank into the waves behind us at the prop-master’s command.
It’s unsettling to be back here — like returning to high school after you’ve graduated, seeing the halls empty, the teachers aged. It all looks somehow smaller, less intimidating than it was two months ago when I first walked through these doors.
Yet, the space isn’t different; it’s me, that’s changed.
Still, I can’t help the tiny embers of excitement that flare to life as I make my way across the warehouse. It’s the first emotion besides terror or guilt or regret I’ve felt in so long, I almost don’t recognize it at first. But the closer I creep to the massive green screens across the lot where a small group of people are clustered, the more undeniable the sensation becomes.
My breath catches in my throat as my eyes scan the crowd. Searching. Seeking.
A blond Viking with eyes like the sky.
A messy-haired heartbreaker with forests for irises.
I don’t see either of them as my gaze sweeps the dozen or so people gathered, setting up cameras and arranging a small-scale set for the photoshoot. My eyes flicker over Trey’s familiar form, his blocky black glasses and smooth caramel skin recognizable even from a distance. They flit over Annabelle, her buxom build and popped hip unmistakable as she listens intently to the man gesticulating wildly — a slim, middle-aged figure with wire-rimmed glasses and an intensity that makes his production assistants lean in, rapt and ready for any instructions he might give.
Sloan Stanhope.
Three-time Academy Award winner. Yoga lover. Master cleanser. Legendary director.
As I approach, he turns and spots me.
“Kat! You’re here!” He claps his hands together in a gesture of excitement that neither of his dour-faced PAs imitate. His hands land on my shoulders and his eyes grow concerned behind his lenses as he takes me in. “You’re pale. And much too thin. Are you feeling all right?”
“Of course,” I lie in as bright a tone as I can manage. “I’m just ready to get back to work.”