Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Grant
No wonder she doesn't date. She's only been with idiots. If she were mine, she'd know exactly how she should be treated.
I shake those thoughts from my head, but the more time I spend with Sophia, the harder it gets.
Thank God we've arrived because I need a break from being this close to her.
Her sweet scent reminds me of summer, which makes me think about her in those shorts and that tank top, or more accurately, how they'd look crumpled on my floorboards right now.
Talking to her feels easy, natural, which somehow makes me antsy. Usually, I don't feel anything for women—not beyond physical pleasure and the satisfaction of no strings attached. This…feeling…is new. Unwelcome.
I've been accused of being cold or emotionless before, but those accusations usually come from women who don't believe me when I tell them upfront I'm not interested in a relationship.
I never lie about what I can offer—casual, uncomplicated fun.
They always say they're fine with it, but they fool themselves into thinking they'll be different, that they'll break through and make me fall in love.
When I don't, they call me cold. But I've never played games.
I've always been truthful. That's just who I am.
Sophia, though, makes me wonder if I've been wrong all this time. Could she break me? Could she be the exception?
"This way." My voice comes out rough, and I clear my throat. "We'll walk through the frontier set. That leads back to the trail for our hike."
She steps ahead, and I immediately regret letting her take the lead.
I hadn't gotten a good look at her outfit earlier, but now…
now I'm getting the full picture. Black athletic shorts.
A hot pink tank top clinging to her curves like it's painted on.
Sensible Brooks sneakers. She's not trying to impress me—she's practical, grounded—and that somehow makes her even hotter.
My mind wanders to dangerous places. I have to force myself to focus.
"How many sets are up here?" she asks, glancing back at me.
"There's the western town, a suburban neighborhood, and a campground with cabins. Those are fully built out—you can actually stay in them."
"Amazing. It's gorgeous up here."
She takes in the scenery with wide-eyed wonder, and I can't help but admire her. Most people in this business get jaded, but she's not. She still sees the magic, the possibility. It's refreshing.
"So, Grant," she says, breaking the silence, “I know you grew up in New York. How'd you end up in LA?"
"It's a story as old as time. A boy sees a movie he loves and decides right then to make movies. The rest is history."
"What movie?"
"I knew you were going to ask that."
"Of course! You set me up for it."
I laugh at her exaggerated irritation. She's trying to look annoyed, but that smile on her face gives her away.
"You can't judge me."
"I'd never."
"The Breakfast Club."
She stops, whipping her head toward me, her jaw dropping.
"I said you can't judge me," I remind her.
"I'm not! I mean—were you even born when that came out?"
"You flatter me," I say with a smirk. “But no, it came out a few years before my life began. Caught it during a sleepover at a buddy's house. His older sister was having a slumber party movie night, and we crashed it.”
"Cute."
"Something like that."
"I have to know, why was that movie the one?"
"I understood it. I felt that it was written for me. Even though I was younger than the characters, the storytelling was so authentic. It was real life. I wanted to tell stories about real life so other kids like me felt seen, understood."
I don't tell her the rest of the story—how that night changed everything for me, why I went to NYU, why I ended up in LA.
I don't want to bring the mood down, so I keep the details about my dad dying that same night to myself.
I spent the evening watching teenage girls swoon over the story on the screen, believing love was the answer to all their problems. It reminded me of my parents—how in love they were, how unstoppable they seemed together.
They were an unlikely duo from different parts of society, but with a connection like no other—and undeniably meant to be.
The next morning, I went home, and my world shattered. Love didn't save anyone. Love destroyed my family. It stole the strongest woman I knew and left her a shadow of herself. Love is not a risk worth taking. I'll pass.
"Where'd you go?" Sophia's voice pulls me out of my thoughts.
"Nowhere," I lie. "Just thinking how long ago that was."
"How old were you?"
"Eleven."
Her lips press into a frown, and her eyes soften.
"What?"
"I don't think I was even born yet."
"Jesus. Way to make me feel ancient," I joke, shaking off the heaviness.
"Will you be able to make it up this hill, old man?"
"Ha, ha. Just go."
I gesture for her to lead the way again, but it's a mistake. Watching her climb the incline in those shorts is like torture. Her thighs flex, smooth and endless, and I have to force myself to focus on anything else. With every step, they taunt and tease the possibility of seeing more.
I take a deep breath and send a message along with the blood that seems to rush to my dick to chill the fuck out.
This is a professional work trip, for Christ's sake.
I must have grunted out loud because Sophia turns to look over her shoulder and ask if I'm alright.
No, Sophia, I'm popping a boner at the thought I might catch a glimpse of that perfect peach with every step up you take.
Throughout our hike, her arm brushes against mine, or her hip grazes my leg, and these little touches are driving me insane. It's like she has no idea how much she's touching me and how crazy it's driving me.
We crest the hill, and the view is breathtaking—a perfect stand-in for a mountain town. Sophia stops abruptly, laughing as she takes it in.
"It's so beautiful, I think I just had a joygasm."
"What?"
Before I can process what she just said, she stumbles. Instinct kicks in, and I grab her by the waist, steadying her. Now she's straddling my knee, with her ass pressed against my cock.
"Careful," I murmur, stepping back quickly. "I've got you."
I steady her and then remove my hand, doing my best to pretend what just happened is completely normal and not awkward at all.
"Thanks," she says. Her cheeks flush, and she straightens her tank top, avoiding my gaze.
"Sorry about grabbing you; my dad instincts kicked in," I say, trying to lighten the mood a bit.
"Good thing. Thank you," she says, finally looking back over her shoulder at me. "It really is beautiful up here."
I point out a few places where I think we can create the scenes in which her character plays the role of a stubborn daughter who refuses to leave her home despite a mandatory evacuation and where she'll end up helping firefighters place sandbags to divert the flooding and fend off mudslides.
It's also where she'll fall in love with one particular firefighter and… well, I won't spoil it for you.
As we head down the mountain, back toward the western sets, Sophia reaches out and holds on to me so she doesn't stumble again, and a whole host of feelings spreads through my body—mostly how I'd be happy to rescue her from this mountain, carry her over my shoulder like the firefighter she'll fall in love with, and find a soft place to lay her down and worship her.