Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Sophia
I can't stop thinking about his hands on my waist, backing into him, a certain piece of anatomy pressed against my lower back so briefly that I'm not sure if I imagined it or if it really is as big as I think.
I cross my legs, uncomfortable in the front seat of his car, so turned on by the idea of Grant with his hands on me.
His eyes wandered over my body more than once, and I may not be as experienced as he is, but I know the look of desire.
I shake my head and turn to watch the scenery pass by us on the highway.
I need to get this little crush on Grant under control.
He's been nothing but a gentleman since the day we met.
I'll never forget the Pink Slip premiere and how his undivided attention made me feel like we were on a date.
It didn't hurt that Wyatt and Blair got caught up in long bathroom lines—or so they said.
Whatever their excuse, it forced Grant and I to hang out while we waited for them.
I've never had anyone so genuinely interested in me.
Don't get me wrong—everyone is interested.
But it's actress Sophia they want to know about.
What I'm wearing, dating rumors, on-set stories, all the misogynistic questions about marriage and kids.
Grant spent time asking me about me. My hobbies.
How it felt to win the Oscar. He wanted to know if I was hungry or needed a drink.
Nobody cares if I'm fed or hydrated—ever!
But all evening, he kept me close. His soft touches on my back, his fingers brushing mine when he handed me my drink, and the way he stood just behind or beside me felt… possessive. Like I was his.
We'd only spent time together three or four times before starting this production, but each moment had left an impression.
At first, I was a little heartbroken to learn he had a daughter.
Not because of Hazel—she's incredible—but because he didn't share that with me at first. A sting of jealousy crept in when I wondered if there was someone else in his life.
But that jealousy faded the moment I saw Hazel's photos on his desk.
Her gap-toothed smile lit up the frame, and the way Grant spoke about her—so animated, so full of pride—showed how deeply he loves her.
Meeting Hazel made it even clearer why she's his everything.
She's smart, funny, and kind, and it's obvious she adores her dad just as much as he adores her.
Knowing that side of Grant only makes me admire him more.
"You're awfully quiet over there," Grant says, pulling me out of my daydream about him.
"All the ideas are flowing."
"I thought you might like it."
We spend the next hour discussing ways to adjust the production schedule. It'll be chaotic, but Grant's willingness to shuffle the budget makes me feel like we can make it work. I'll work with Edie on the script changes and sets, whatever it takes.
My phone buzzes, and my assistant's name flashes across the screen. She rarely calls, which makes my stomach tighten.
"Sorry. I need to take this." I bring the phone to my ear. "Hey, Jamie. Everything ok?"
"Sorry to bother you, Sophia, but there's a problem at your house," she says, her voice tense. "Any chance you are close by? I'm down in San Diego today, so I can't run by to check it out."
"Um, I think we are about fifteen minutes away. Grant and I are just getting back into town. What's going on?"
"Your house flooded. The fire department's there. They need someone to check it out."
"What? Flooded? How bad?"
"I don't know the details, but I called as soon as I hung up with the studio. Your neighbor called the fire department, then the studio. The studio called me."
"I'll head there now. Thanks, Jamie."
As I hang up, panic claws its way up my chest. What if everything is ruined?
"Everything ok?" Grant's voice is gentle, his concern clear.
"I don't know," I admit. "My house flooded. The fire department's there."
"Let's go. We'll figure it out."
When we turn onto my street, my worst fears feel real. A trail of water snakes along the curb, reflecting the late afternoon sun like some cruel spotlight.
I sit up straighter in my seat, and my breath catches when the gate leading to my driveway comes into view—wide open, likely opened by the fire department. My house sits a little further back from the street, surrounded by a low security fence and lush hedges that usually make it feel private.
"Oh, no," I whisper, gripping the center console.
The scene grows worse as we approach my driveway. Firetrucks and a plumbing van haphazardly block the street and my yard. Several firefighters are milling around the lawn. But it's not just the vehicles that make my heart sink—it's the sight of my furniture.
Half of it is scattered across the front yard. My plush armchairs, my vintage coffee table, even the rug I spent months searching for—it's all out there.
"What the hell happened?" Grant mutters beside me.
I step out, my legs shaky beneath me, and head toward the group of firefighters near my porch. Grant stays close, and his steady presence grounds me.
"Hello, I'm Sophia, the homeowner. Can someone tell me what's going on?" I ask, my voice trembling.
The fire chief steps forward. "Miss, it appears the upstairs bathroom has been leaking for some time. Water has been collecting between the floor and ceiling, and it finally gave out. I'm afraid most of the bathroom is now in your kitchen."
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. My eyes widen as I step inside. Pieces of my tub sit on my breakfast table, now half-collapsed. Chunks of the ceiling cover the counters, and water pools at my feet. The scene is surreal, like a nightmare I can't wake from.
Tears sting my eyes as I take it all in, and my arms wrap around my middle as I try to hold myself together. This was my first real home, something I owned, invested in, made mine, and now it's destroyed.
Grant's hands settle gently on my shoulders. "Hey. We'll figure this out," he says softly.
I glance back at him, my tears threatening to spill. "I don't know what to do."
"Well, for starters, you can't stay here," the fire chief interjects.
"I'm going to guess there is probably going to be mold, and this being an old house, there's a good chance of asbestos.
You'll need to get water remediation in here and an adjuster to do a thorough inspection, and they can tell you what kind of damage and repairs you're facing. "
I think I'm in shock.
Grant steps in and speaks to the fire chief and plumber, arranging for cleanup crews and an adjuster. Meanwhile, I sit in his car, staring blankly at my phone, trying to figure out where I'll stay tonight. The thought of dealing with more decisions feels impossible.
When Grant climbs back into the car, his determined expression softens as he looks at me. "I called someone to manage the logistics. They'll keep you updated."
"Thanks, Grant."
"I'm so sorry, Sophia. I know this is a lot, but the good news is that it's all fixable. Inconvenient, but fixable."
He's right. The destruction didn't hurt anyone, and although it damaged some of my favorite things, I don't seem to have lost anything sentimental.
I can't go upstairs to grab anything until an engineer looks at the stability of the second floor, so I'm stuck in these clothes for the foreseeable future.
I'll raid wardrobe back at the studio until I can get into my closet here.
"I have a guest house," he says, his tone casual. "You're welcome to crash there for a few days. It's off to the side of my house and totally private. The driveway is shared, but other than that, you'd have the place to yourself."
I glance at him and catch the way his jaw tightens slightly, as if he surprised himself by making the offer.
His fingers grip the steering wheel just a bit too hard, and there's something in his expression—hesitation?
Uncertainty? It's not that he doesn't mean it, but I can sense he's not entirely sure he should have said it out loud.
"Oh, um, I can just grab a hotel. It's no big deal," I say, giving him an easy out.
He just nods and drives through the studio gates. I direct him to where my car is parked, and as I'm about to step out, he stops me.
"Soph," he says, his tone softening, "my house is literally right over there." He points toward Toluca Lake, the quiet neighborhood just past the studio.
"And you drive to work?" I tease, raising a brow, trying to deflect.
He chuckles and shakes his head. "Yes, I drive. And you're avoiding my offer.”
Am I avoiding it? Or am I avoiding the idea of being so close to him? The thought of staying at Grant's house—or his guest house—sends a shiver of something I can't quite name up my spine. Excitement? Nerves? Both? Would we talk? Would I see him in passing? Would he want to see me?
"I can ask Blair and Wyatt if I can crash with them," I say, grasping for a safer alternative.
"You want to stay with a couple who are about to get married and just reconnected after twelve years apart?" His smirk tells me he knows exactly how terrible that idea is.
He's right. The last thing I need is to sit in the middle of Blair and Wyatt's rom-com montage.
"Are you sure?" I ask, needing to hear it again. I search his expression for any sign of reluctance.
"I'm sure, Sophia. You're welcome to stay as long as you need. There's food and toiletries already there, but I'll have the housekeeper stock up the kitchen. You'll be all set."
I hesitate, still watching him. There's no trace of pity in his voice, no sign that this is just an obligation. If anything, he seems…earnest, like he genuinely wants to help.
I nod slowly. "If you're sure?"
"I'm sure," he repeats firmly. "You can follow me home."
Home. There's something nice about how the word sounds coming from him. Warm. Solid. It stirs something in me.
I need to be careful. I'm an excellent actress, and sometimes, it's hard to separate reality from the roles I play. Acting. Delusion. Sometimes, they cross over and blur the lines.
"Ok, thanks, Grant. Give me a minute to run inside and grab some clothes from wardrobe. I'll be right out."
He nods, and as I climb out of his car, I feel his eyes on me—not in the way most people look at me, but in a way that makes me feel seen. I shiver again, this time from the chill in the air—and maybe a little from the warmth in his gaze.