Behind the Scenes (Matched #1)

Behind the Scenes (Matched #1)

By Kathryn Austin

Prologue

prologue

GINGER

I have no business being alone in a limousine with Elliot Hale.

As he slides into the seat opposite mine, still dressed in the charcoal-gray suit from his last on-screen appearance of the season, he gives new meaning to the phrase devastatingly handsome.

With a sigh and a loosening of his broad shoulders, he sinks into the leather bench. As he runs a hand through his hair, the resignation in his dark blue eyes tells me he’s still coming to terms with the way things ended.

“You sure you’re good?” I keep the words measured and soft. But if the only reason he asked me to grab a drink is to have a witness while he drowns his misery, I can find something better to do on a Friday night.

Our eyes meet, and for the first time, I see the toll the season took on him. When he arrived months ago, he was the charismatic bad boy everyone hated to love. Tonight, he’s…changed. For the worse?

“I’m glad it’s over,” he says.

“The network will want you back next season.” It’s only right to warn him. The higher-ups at my job will stop at nothing to make Elliot their next star. He’s a ratings goldmine.

His gaze sharpens, and half his mouth twitches into a diabolically sexy grin. “Will you be there?”

My heartbeat quickens as my instincts go to war over whether to control the situation or let it run away with me. Control, of course, wins. “Hard to know what I’ll be up to six months from now,” I say. “Where do you see yourself?”

“Cameras aren’t rolling anymore, Ginger. You can stop interviewing me.”

I break eye contact, his stare too intense. I pick at a loose thread on the edge of my sleeve. “Habit.” I take his advice though, attempting to relax in my seat, although my breaths deepen with anticipation, both from being alone with him and from the full awareness that I shouldn’t be. Since the season has wrapped, I’m not technically breaking any rules. Still, after-hours rendezvous with the talent are frowned upon.

But I’m on vacation now. Ready to indulge. The limo pulls away from the curb as we leave the studio, the show, the season behind for the last time.

“I’m good,” he says in answer to my original question. “No regrets.”

“You sure about that?” Elliot looked appropriately wrecked during the final on-screen interview. It couldn’t have been easy seeing the woman he fell in love with in her happily ever after Q&A with another man.

“I’ve been through worse,” he says, like he’s trying to reassure me .

The producer in me wants to know how much worse, and when—get all the details. But the part of me that’s been lusting after him for the last four months knows better than to delve too deeply tonight. Still, I’m nervous. The thread at the edge of my cuff tickles my wrist, and I go after it again, giving it a determined tug.

“Whoa—hey—don’t do that,” he says.

When I look up, he’s no longer in his seat, but on his hands and knees, dragging himself across the four feet of space separating our seats. Stopping at my feet, he pulls a red Swiss Army knife from his pants pocket.

“Is that necessary?” The higher pitch of my voice doing nothing to hide my slight alarm. Maybe this drink wasn’t such a good idea.

“It is if you ever want to wear that shirt again.”

Braced for the sight of a sharp, shiny blade, when Elliot painstakingly extracts the tiny scissors from the multi-tool, I do something I never do. Giggle.

But when he takes my wrist in his hand, the sound gets trapped in my throat. People rarely touch me. According to my co-workers, I give off a “vibe.” But Elliot’s grip is firm. Confident. Electric. He quickly snips off the offending thread. “All better,” he says.

My smile fades into something more aligned with the fact that I can feel his breath on my wrist, and it’s hot . Time to find out if “a drink” just means a drink. I uncross my legs, parting them, inviting him closer. “I’ve always wanted one of those.”

He hands the closed knife to me, and I turn it over in my hand, testing its weight.

“For what it’s worth,” I say, “I think she made a mistake letting you go.”

It’s a lot to admit, but worth saying. He’s a dream guy, a fantasy, and a gentleman, despite the whole bad boy act he walked on set with that first day. It’s been harder than I expected to watch his heart get broken. Along with the rest of America, I developed a bit of a soft spot for Elliot Hale. He deserves better.

But I don’t mind being his consolation prize. I wait, semi-breathless, to see whether he’ll take me up on the offer.

Hands on either side of my seat, he rises up between my thighs. “I wouldn’t change a thing.”

I don’t believe that for a heartbeat, but I refuse to spare a single second thought for the woman who let all this go. It’s my turn. As the limo creeps down the 405 to Elliot’s hotel, I capitalize on his proximity. Lifting my hand, I brush my thumb along his cheekbone and cradle his stubbled jaw.

He leans into my touch, his gaze falling to my mouth. “Did you want to skip the drink?” I ask.

He smiles, a relatively rare occurrence. “You’re the boss.”

One day I will be. Tonight, though, I can take whatever I want.

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