Chapter 7 – Rhiannon
While the rest of the crew is fixated on the artist who’s still rapping loudly and hopelessly offbeat, this guy’s gaze is locked on me.
I can’t see his eyes, hidden behind dark, expensive-looking sunglasses, but there’s no mistaking the weight of his stare.
I can feel it on my exposed skin, on my nipples hidden behind the bright, red bow, and the way the hairs rise on the back of my neck.
Did you know it’s possible for two people to have a connection so strong it feels visceral before they’ve even touched? It’s something I learned in school. And even from a distance, we’re connecting.
Tall and broad-shouldered, his three-piece, tan suit fits him like it was stitched directly onto his body. The fabric catches the late autumn sunlight in a way that makes him look almost unreal.
Dark shades hide most of his face, but the way that he stands, feet planted wide, shoulders relaxed, like he’s got all the time in the world, tells me this guy is in control, and he likes it.
It’s absurd, honestly. The set’s dusty, sunbaked landscape, meant to pass for a desert in the middle of nowhere, seems to suit him more than the farmland surrounding us.
I half-expect him to pull out a revolver and check a gold pocket watch before a duel.
Because really, who the hell wears a three-piece suit in Hartford in late October? On a ninety-degree day, no less?
And then, like he’s just as affected by my presence as I am by his, he starts walking toward me. Unhurried. Unbothered by the warmer, autumn day. Each step measured and smooth, the expensive fabric of his suit moving with him like a second skin.
I’ve called men like him “suits” before—those big bankers, finance guys, the professionals who practically live in their tailored attire and make it their entire personality while they work long, late hours and weekends neglecting any sort of social life.
They don’t have time for relationships, see friendships as merely transactions, and any amount of money is never enough for them to take a break.
“Need help getting down?” he asks, his voice smooth, deep, and strangely familiar.
I blink, startled, trying to figure out how it’s possible I could recognize his voice.
Set manager? Talent agent? A friend of Leo’s?
“Yes, thanks.”
He extends a large, steady hand, and I take it, surprised by how his engulfs mine to the point that I can no longer see my fingers. I carefully slide down from the horse with a gracefulness I didn’t know I possessed.
The movement sends a warning flare through my head, reminding me of how I’m dressed: Don’t let anything slip.
His fingers grip mine firmly, and when my cowgirl boots hit the dirt, I glance up, catching his face properly for the first time.
Beneath the sunglasses, his jawline is sharp, a slight shadow of stubble breaking the otherwise clean-cut look he has going for him.
His smile is subtle, but there’s a glimmer of mischief in it that sets my nerves on edge.
He doesn’t release my hand right away, and I realize he’s checking me out behind those tinted lenses.
There’s no attempt to hide it, he’s openly appreciating the way that the red silk of my costume bra clings to me, the sunlight catching every contour of the makeup that the team of artists brushed over my breasts and abdomen to highlight my bigger curves and muscles that hardly exist.
Normally, I’d grab a robe or toss on a blanket between takes, but something about him makes me hold my ground. Instead, I stand a little taller, arching my back just enough to push my chest forward, feeling the silk chafe against my nipples.
“Hm…” he hums, rubbing his jaw. He’s freshly shaved, but there’s enough growth to hint that it’s a daily battle he always loses by evening. I wish he’d just let it grow. I think it’d suit him.
I squint slightly, tilting my head as if the angle might help me place him. But the heat and the sunglasses make it hard to pin down why I feel like I know him.
“Are you a part of the crew?” I ask.
“Sure.”
Sure?
“What exactly do you do for the crew?”
“Eh,” he shrugs, “a little of this and a little of that.”
“Does a little of this include staring at the models on set?”
He smiles. “Only when they’re as pretty as you.”
I’m sure he’s used that line a thousand times, but that doesn’t stop the spark of interest that runs through me.
I’ve been so caught up in working and making ends meet, I haven’t had time to date, fuck, or even get hit on since my birthday over seven months ago and that night with the stranger I met in Bryant Park.
Guys aren’t exactly jumping to ask you out when you walk around looking and feeling like a zombie most days. A hook-up with ‘Mr. A Little of This, A Little of That’ sounds tempting, but I’m not usually one to jump into bed with a complete stranger. Usually.
“Hey, Rhiannon, we need you for some shots bent over the truck!” the set director calls out. “Pull your shorts up a bit, they’re ass shots!”
I visibly cringe at the description he gives of what I’ll be doing next. But I refuse to show my distaste to this guy or the director. There’s power in embracing your sexuality, and I intend on harnessing that like a wizard to get this paycheck.
I start to turn, but he catches my wrist, and the way his hand wraps around me sparks a déjà vu that I can’t ignore. I look down at his grip on me and then back up at his face, squinting hard and that’s when I realize.
The strong jaw.
The tailored suit.
The huge hands.
No fucking way.
“Rhiannon…” he says, his voice rough. “Queen. The name fits you.”
Oh my god.
It’s Cain.
“Rhiannon! Let’s go!” The director shouts again and finally Cain lets me go. Except he’s no stranger staring at me from a distance now.
For the rest of the shoot, I can feel his eyes on me, an almost tangible heat that prickles across my skin and it’s distracting as hell.
Whether I’m bending over the hood of the truck, using my hair like a damn washcloth (don’t ask me why—I’m just following instructions), or perched back on top the horse, gripping Davey’s bare abs while we trot through the mock western town, I’m acutely aware of Cain watching my every move.
And by the time the set coordinator hands me a crisp check for one-thousand-dollars for just five hours of work, I’m already planning out what bills I’ll need to pay with this and if I’ll have anything left over to treat myself for the ridicule that I’ve just endured.
I’ve changed back into my tank top and shorts and I’m about to leave when Mr. A Little of This, A Little of That, steps into the hallway, blocking my exit from the farmhouse.
“Were you going to sneak off again?” His voice is teasing but unmistakable now.
I don’t know how I missed it before. Maybe it was the sunglasses. Or the distance. Or the fact that I never thought I’d run into him again. But it’s definitely him. Cain. My one-night stand.
Now he’s shed the jacket, just in a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a tan vest that’s hugging his chest. The sunglasses are gone; his black rimmed glasses are back, and it reminds me just how much I like them on him.
My gaze flicks to his forearms, where tattoos on one arm curl out from beneath his cuffs, intricate designs I suddenly want to trace with my fingers, or maybe my tongue. The memory of that night crashes back, and my stomach flips.
“Cain…” I start. “What are you doing here?”
He was supposed to be a fun night. A birthday fuck and a one-time thing.
Not someone who bled into my professional and personal life.
Granted, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how he rocked my world on the couch and floor of Leo’s apartment, but I also haven’t had anything else to distract me from that memory. I haven’t had sex, or fun, since.
He grins down at me, a lazy, confident curve of his lips that hasn’t lost its power to make my stomach flip.
“I told you. I was working on the set today.”
My eyes narrow, not knowing what that means since I didn’t see him interact with any of the crew all afternoon.
“You remember me, right?”
His laugh is low and unrestrained, drawing attention from the few crew members still working nearby. When his gaze meets mine again, it’s sharp and knowing.
“How could I forget the best fuck of my life, and the woman who stole my lucky boxers?”
A shiver races down my spine. Damn him. Because as much as I hate to admit it, that night was one of the best for me too.
“I didn’t steal your boxers.” I fold my arms over my chest.
“Then explain how they weren’t in your friend’s apartment when I woke up? Do you know how much fun I had hopping around his place naked searching for my clothing while your friend and his boyfriend ate their breakfast? I don’t think they enjoyed the show.”
I snort, remembering the way that Leo yelled at me the next morning for ditching my one-night stand in his apartment and not making him get dressed first.
“You can blame static for that,” I say, deadpan.
A low chuckle rumbles out of him as he shakes his head. “So, they just… stuck to your clothing and you didn’t notice when you left?”
“Yes. Exactly. I was wearing a sweater dress, remember?”
He lowers his voice, dark and teasing. “Trust me, I haven’t forgotten a single detail from that night.” His tone drops further, warm and filthy. “I replay it often in my mind. I just assumed you had a weird collection of cum-stained boxers as a tribute to your dry-humping days.”
I laugh, tossing my head back. “You know I love a good dry romp, but taking your boxers was entirely accidental.”
“Hm.” He hums again, rubbing his jaw, eyes dragging over me like he’s trying to solve a puzzle.
Even from a few feet away, I can smell his cologne, sharp and expensive, the same scent from the night we spent together. It covered my dress when I put it on the next morning, and somehow his boxers still smell like it. I would know since they’ve stayed in my bedroom in Brookhaven ever since.
“You want to get out of here, Rhiannon?” he asks, drawing out my name, savoring it like he’s tasting it for the first time, and enjoying that he finally gets to know and use it.
I shouldn’t. I should get home to prep dinner for Gabriel and Eden. I should swing by the thrift store and check in on Natasha and the inventory rotation we planned to push out some of our older product. I should, fuck, take a nap or something since I never have time to even sleep these days.
But Leo never mentioned that Cain asked for my name after our night together, and that tells me this won’t turn into anything more.
And honestly, sex with Cain is fun. It’s satisfying.
And I never get to have fun or satisfaction these days.
What’s the harm in one more night of pleasure before I’m back into the grind of dollar signs and city commutes?
“Fine. But same rules as last time,” I say, flicking my hair over my shoulder as I walk past him.
He chuckles, low and rough, catching my wrist to stop me before I can escape.
“I hate this game. I can’t stand the way your ass looks in those denim shorts. And I definitely wasn’t staring at your tits thinking about sucking on them the whole time you were on that horse.”
I laugh and flash him a wicked smile. “I’m glad to see you’ve remembered. Good job, suit. Now let’s go play.”