Silence descended on the circle.
It was not unusual for people to use parties as a chance to industry climb. But it was unusual for a personal assistant to address someone so much further up the ladder—in mixed company, no less. Maybe she should have waited. Or asked to speak to Brinley and Sergei alone? She hoped Brinley might find the request more palatable since it was posed casually instead of officially. Hannah didn’t want the woman thinking she was trying to steal her job.
“Oh . . .” Brinley blinked slowly, sizing her up with new interest. “Are musical scores something you’re thinking of pursuing long-term?”
“I haven’t really gotten that far yet,” Hannah said in a release of breath. “But I’d love to learn more about the process. To see if maybe it could be a good fit down the road.”
Brinley rocked on her heels a moment, then shrugged, eyes zipping back to her phone. “I don’t have a problem with you observing—if Sergei can spare you?”
It struck Hannah how long Sergei had remained uncharacteristically silent, his forehead lined as he studied her. When Brinley prompted him, he jolted, as if becoming aware of his own silence. “You’re vital to me on set, Hannah. You know that.” There was no help for the flush that rose in her cheeks over Sergei saying those words. You’re vital to me. She stopped just short of pressing her drink to her cheeks to cool them down. Meanwhile, the silence stretched, the director running a finger around the inside of his black ribbed turtleneck. “But if you can manage both, I won’t object.”
Heat prickled the backs of Hannah’s eyes, an unexpected jab of pride catching her in the breastbone. Relief—and the distinct fear of failure—traveled so swiftly through her limbs, she almost dropped her cup. But she forced a smile, nodding her thanks to Sergei and Brinley.
“Who’s going to bring me coffee between takes?” Christian complained.
A collective laugh/groan from everyone in the group broke the tension, thankfully, and the subject was changed to Sunday morning’s agenda. They’d been waiting for a good-weather day to film a kissing scene between Christian and Maxine on the harbor, and the next few days called for sunshine.
While Sergei engaged the small gathering with his vision of a wide, sweeping shot of the kiss, she flipped through her mental music catalogue for the right song, the right feeling . . . and she was surprised to find nothing landed. Nothing.
Not a single song came to mind.
That was odd.
What if she’d finally been given this opportunity only to lose her knack for plugging in the right sound for any occasion? What if she forgot how to weave together atmosphere, something she’d been doing since she was old enough to operate a turntable?
The thought troubled Hannah so much that she didn’t notice Christian refreshing her drink. Twice. The electronic music started to match the tempo of her pulse, and when she got the urge to dance, she knew that was her cue to stop drinking. Although . . . it was a little late for that. A pleasurable buzz tickled her blood, and she lost all self-awareness, talking to anyone who would listen about any topic that popped into her head, from the running of the bulls in Pamplona to the fact that people’s ears never stopped growing. And her brain told her it was interesting. Maybe it was? Everyone seemed to be laughing, one of the actresses eventually pulling her out onto the makeshift dance floor, where she closed her eyes, kicked her shoes off, and fell into a rhythm.
At one point, her neck tingled, and she opened her eyes to find Sergei watching her from across the room, though his attention was quickly diverted when Christian asked him a question. Hannah went back to dancing, unwisely accepting another drink from a makeup artist.
Her movements slowed when the air in the room changed.
It kind of just . . . lit up.
Hannah looked around and noticed everyone’s eyes were glued to the entrance of the living room. Because Fox was standing there, one forearm propped high on the doorjamb, watching her with amusement.
“Holy mother,” Hannah muttered, stopping to stare along with everyone else.
There was no other way to herald his arrival but to be rendered mute and immobile. Fox swaggering into the party was like a shark swimming slowly through a school of fish. He was freshly windblown from the ocean, his tan skin slightly weathered from salt, sunshine, and hard work. He towered over everyone and everything. Cocky. So cocky and confident and stupidly hot. Outrageously hot.
“That’s him,” one of the girls nearby said. “That guy we saw from the bus.”
“God, he is like a walking spank bank.”
“Dibs.”
“Screw that. I already called dibs.”
A twitch in Fox’s cheek indicated he heard what was being said, but he didn’t take his eyes off Hannah, and she started to . . . get kind of pissed. Yeah, no, she was pissed. Who called dibs on a human being? Or referred to him as a spank bank? How dare they assume it would be that easy to just . . . appreciate her friend?