He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t speak to me directly, but brushes past and walks out the door. I bite back a frustrated sigh. We have to wait. I get it, but does it have to be like this?
“Hey, Liv.” I press my palms together in slightly pleading pose. “I want to ask Canon something about this next scene, too. You mind if I catch him?”
“Nah, ask while you can.” She unties her robe to reveal one of Tilda’s day dresses. “Everybody always wants a piece of him.”
“Right,” I say, smiling stiffly. “Be right back.”
I open the door and hustle down the steps just in time to see Canon heading back toward set. Miraculously, there aren’t a dozen people teeming around the trailers.
“Canon,” I call, rushing to catch up.
He turns back to face me, looking damn good in his gray USC Film School sweatshirt and dark jeans. That beard is getting thicker. How would it feel if he kissed me now?
He tugs at the headphones that are always draped around his neck, his eyes cautious as I approach. “Neevah, hey. You need something?”
“Yeah, I do. I, um . . .” I toy with the belt of the terrycloth robe tied over my costume, fixing my eyes on the production team’s fake sidewalk. “I just wondered if I imagined Thanksgiving.”
I keep my voice low, but he still looks left and right, no doubt checking to see if anyone is around to hear. Grabbing my hand, he pulls me into one of the New York alleys they fabricated for the set, a tight channel between the sides of two fake buildings. He leans against one wall and I face him, leaning against the other.
“No, you didn’t imagine it,” he finally says, his hands shoved into his pockets. “We just can’t repeat it.”
“Ever?” I squeak.
“What’d I tell you?” His smile is a slow-burning secret. “Not yet.”
“You think you’re being discreet by avoiding me, but I think it draws attention that you give everyone else their notes directly except me. All my notes come through Kenneth.”
“I don’t care if people speculate about that. That’s not the only reason I don’t want a lot of contact with you.”
It stings, those words. Even knowing what’s behind them, hearing him actually voice what I’ve suspected doesn’t feel great.
“Then why?” I ask, keeping my chin and eyes level. I’m determined not to get emotional because that’s the last thing he wants and that’s not who I am. I never let personal stuff get in the way of a performance, of the work, but I’ve also never felt like this about someone I worked with.
“It’s for me,” he says, not looking away. “It’s so I can focus. You distract me.”
A huge grin spreads across my face.
“Don’t.” He chuckles and narrows his eyes. “Do not.”
“I’m a distraction, huh?” I take the few steps separating us until only a heartbeat fits between our chests. The alley walls close in on us and I’m surrounded by the clean, masculine scent of him.
The humor fades from his expression, and he links our fingers at our sides. “We need to wait.”
Disappointment pierces the lust and longing suffusing my senses. “Until we wrap?”
He bends to drop a kiss on my forehead, slides his lips down to briefly take mine, the beard a soft scrape against my cheek. I grip his elbows, not wanting him to pull away, to go back to ignoring me. Just beyond this fake alley and deep shadows is the set and the cast and the crew and the real world. And this . . . we . . . are not happening there yet. And I just want a few more seconds in this world where we are, even if the only real thing here is us.
“Did you really need help for this next scene?” he whispers in my ear, his wide palm running down my back and resting just above the curve of my ass.
“Yes. In this next scene, can you tell me . . .” I glance up mock-seriously through my lashes. “What’s my motivation?”
He flashes that too-rare grin, white and wolfish, confident, bordering on cocky.
“You’ll be fine.” He squeezes my hip. “That’s my girl.”
And while I’m still relishing that, he turns and walks away.