Chapter 11
eleven
. . .
Sophia
I jolt awake. Shadows flicker across an unfamiliar ceiling, and panic grips my chest for a split second before memories of last night race in. The flood. Grant's offer. The guest house.
Grant's guest house.
I groan and pull the duvet over my head, but even the expensive Egyptian cotton can't smother the butterflies that take off in my stomach at the thought of him. Of his gentle insistence that I stay. Of the way his hand tucked my hair behind my ear when he was showing me around the kitchen.
"Get it together," I mutter into the pillow. "It's just temporary. Just a studio exec helping out talent."
A studio exec who somehow manages to look devastatingly handsome even during rushed production meetings. Who has a way of making everyone—even the greenest PA—feel seen and heard.
A soft knock at the door makes me freeze.
I wait, holding my breath, until I hear retreating footsteps.
Padding over, I peek out. On the doorstep sits a steaming cup of coffee.
My heart flips as I pick it up and inhale the rich aroma.
There's a sticky note attached: Thought you might need this. Have a great day on set. – G.
I smile, biting my lip, until my phone buzzes. It's a text from Brandon.
brANDON
Girl, you never called me back last night. Everything ok with the flood situation?
I stare at the screen for a long moment before typing.
ME
Staying at Grant Hall's guest house. HELP.
His response is immediate.
brANDON
WHAT??? Can you meet me at the studio? I'm at Stage 18 today for a commercial shoot. YOU OWE ME DETAILS.
"You're living in his guest house?" Brandon's voice booms across his makeshift green room tent as I step inside. I frantically shush him, glancing around the space.
I met Brandon Grimaldi years ago when I was still finding my footing in the industry.
I was young, eager, and completely out of my depth on a physically demanding set, and Brandon—already a rising star in the stunt world—had swooped in like a real-life action hero, showing me how to take a fall without bruising more than my ego.
What started as him giving me a few survival tips quickly turned into an unshakable friendship.
He became my mentor, my partner in crime, and another big brother to me.
He also grew up surrounded by women—six sisters, to be exact—so, while he's all man, he's also completely at ease in a room full of women.
The honorary girlfriend who knows the best shade of lipstick, who will hold your purse without complaint, and who somehow ends up in the middle of gossip sessions like he belongs there.
But make no mistake—he's a notorious flirt, charming his way through an ever-revolving door of casual dates, never staying too long, never letting anything get too serious.
"Sorry, sorry," he whispers, motioning for me to join him on the chairs set up. "But seriously, Grant Hall. The Grant Hall. The guy whose mere presence on set makes you flub your lines?"
"It's not like that," I protest weakly, clutching the coffee Grant left me. "He was just being nice. You know how he is—he probably would've offered it to anyone on our cast and crew if they needed it."
Brandon arches an eyebrow. "Honey, he's the head of the studio. He could've had his assistant book you the presidential suite at the Four Seasons. Instead, he personally offered you his guest house. Try again."
"It's just temporary," I insist, warming my hands around the cup. "A few days, maybe a week tops, until the restoration company sorts everything out. And it's not like I'll see him much. Unless we cross paths here at work."
"Uh-huh." Brandon's knowing smile makes me want to crawl under the nearby makeup table. "And how did you sleep last night?"
"Terrible," I admit. "The bed was amazing, but…
" I trail off, remembering how I lay awake for hours, hyper-aware that Grant was just a hundred yards away in the main house, wondering if he was awake, too, and if he was thinking about me being there.
"It's just weird, you know? Yesterday morning, I left my house for a scouting trip with Grant.
Now I'm living in his guest house like the plot of some cliché romance novel.”
"Maybe it is,” Brandon says bluntly. "Sometimes, the best stories write themselves."
"I just need to stay focused. Keep things professional. Get through this without making a fool of myself."
Brandon squeezes my shoulder. "Or maybe, just maybe, you could let yourself see where this goes? The universe literally flooded you onto his doorstep, Soph. Even Edie would say that's a sign—and you know how she feels about improvising."
A voice calls out and makes us both jump. "Taping in five minutes," a PA calls out.
I swear Brandon to secrecy about my living situation as I stand and straighten my shoulders, preparing to pretend my world hasn't shifted on its axis.
The sun is setting as I make my way past the driveway gate toward the guesthouse, my mind still running through today's shot list. We're right on schedule, and if we can get approval to shoot at Honey Pine—
"Sophia!"
A blur of motion is all the warning I get before Hazel crashes into me, her arms wrapping tight around my hips. The force of her enthusiasm makes me stumble back a step, and I laugh.
"You're home!" She beams up at me, and my heart does a funny little flip at her choice of words.
Home. I glance instinctively toward the main house, where Grant is watching us from the patio.
Instead of the awkward tension I half-expected, there's something soft in his expression that makes my chest tight.
"Perfect timing," Hazel declares, grabbing my hand. "It's pasta night. You have to stay! It's all he knows how to make." She whispers that last part, and I pull my lips together so a laugh doesn't escape.
I lift my eyes to find Grant again. The last thing I want is to intrude on their time together, but he's already pulling out another chair.
"Come on," he says, that polished smile of his making an appearance. "You've got to eat, right?"
"Well, when you put it that way…" I let Hazel pull me toward the table. The patio is strung with lights that cast everything in a warm glow, and the smell of tomato sauce and garlic bread makes my stomach growl embarrassingly loudly.
"Someone skipped lunch," Grant observes, sliding a plate in front of me.
"I neither confirm nor deny these allegations." I reach for a slice of bread still warm from the oven. "Though I will say craft services was seriously lacking today."
"Dad never skips lunch," Hazel informs me solemnly. "He says it makes him hangry."
"Hangry?" I raise an eyebrow at Grant, who's suddenly very focused on twirling pasta around his fork.
"I have no idea what she's talking about," he says with dignity. "I am a perfect professional at all times."
The banter flows easily as we eat. Hazel bounces between topics with the delightful randomness of a six-year-old as she tells me all about the working volcano her class is building for the school's science fair and how her best friend Hannah just got a new golden retriever puppy named Pancake.
"Ok," Hazel announces when we're mostly finished eating. "Time for struggles and wins!"
"Struggles and wins?" I ask.
"It's our thing," she explains. "Every night at dinner, we each share one struggle from our day and one win. Even if it was a terrible day, you have to find one win. And even if it was a great day, you have to admit one struggle." She sits up straighter. "Want to play?"
I catch Grant watching me with something unreadable in his eyes. "I'd love to," I say softly.
"I'll go first!" Hazel clears her throat dramatically. "My struggle was that Charlie said my volcano ideas were boring, but my win was that our teacher said my design plans were really creative and different from the usual volcano projects."
"That is a win," Grant agrees. "And Charlie sounds like he might be a little jealous of your ideas."
"Your turn, Dad!"
Grant leans back in his chair, considering. "My struggle was having to push back some marketing meetings because we're behind on getting approval for the promotional materials." His eyes meet mine briefly. "My win was getting to see some really incredible dailies from Sophia's movie today."
The warmth that spreads through my chest has nothing to do with the yummy pasta and everything to do with the way he's looking at me. I duck my head, suddenly fascinated by my napkin.
"Sophia?" Hazel prompts.
"Ok, let's see…" I take a breath. "My struggle was feeling like we weren't getting anywhere with this one particular scene today. We must have shot it fifteen times, and it still didn't feel right."
I don't mention that it was a romantic scene with James or that, for some reason, I kept imagining someone else in his place.
"My win was…" I look around the table at the twinkling lights, empty plates, and these two people who've somehow made me feel so welcome. "My win was this. Right here. Coming home to…" I stumble slightly over the word. "To such a lovely dinner invitation."
The silence that follows feels charged. Hazel breaks it by launching into a detailed explanation of proper volcano construction techniques, but I can feel Grant's eyes on me. When I finally look up, the intensity in his gaze makes my breath catch.
Later, after Hazel has gone inside to finish her homework, I help Grant clear the table. We move around each other with an ease that feels dangerous, like we've done this a hundred times before, like we could do it a hundred times more.
"Thank you," I say quietly as I hand him the last plate. "For including me."
"Of course," he replies.
Our fingers brush during the handoff, and the contact sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the evening breeze. For a moment, we're frozen there, connected by a dinner plate and something much more complicated.
Then his phone buzzes, and Hazel asks for help with her math homework, and the moment breaks. But as I walk back to the guest house, I can still feel the ghost of his touch on my skin.
I'm in so much trouble.