Chapter 8 Quentin
EIGHT
QUENTIN
Quentin sat in the director's chair, his cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes, casting a shadow across his face. With a heavy sigh, he scrubbed his hands down his face, trying to wipe away the exhaustion baked in from another long week of filming. They’d been at it for a month straight, with no break longer than a day or two.
Leaning back, he took a moment to soak in the view: mountains in the distance, rolling plains stretching endlessly, all bathed in the golden light of late afternoon. It was the kind of scene that should’ve felt peaceful. Instead, it just reminded him how badly he needed a nap.
Then his phone buzzed, dragging his attention away from the horizon. He tugged it out of his pocket.
It was a text message from Todd, his annoyingly persistent manager who firmly believed that any screentime was a win, whether it was a gritty prestige drama or a yogurt ad involving interpretive dance. The man had once called a six-second cameo in a dating app commercial “career-expanding.”
TODD: Would you be okay next to a barn owl? Holy Oat Milk wants you perched beside one while sipping their latte. The brief just says: ‘wise but jacked.’
A second buzz came right on its heels.
TODD: Also, there’s a kombucha company that wants you standing in a wheat field doing a brooding stare. No lines, just... vibes. They said you give ‘fermented emotional depth.’
He didn’t even bother replying. Just shoved the phone back into his pocket and tipped his head to the sky. Somewhere out there, real actors were winning Oscars. He was out here being spiritually typecast by beverages.
“Ach, everyone,” the director, Otto, called out, clapping his hands once. “Tessa is running a little late. Makeup emergency. So we start a few minutes later, ja?”
Quentin exhaled sharply. Fantastic. More waiting. At this point, he had spent so much time sitting around on set that he was starting to develop a spiritual bond with his chair.
His gaze drifted to the right, landing on Sadie a few feet away. As he watched her, the flame of her auburn hair glowed under the afternoon sun, catching the light in a way that made it look almost alive. She was busying herself with setting up the makeup brushes and palettes.
Last night was unexpected. He had wanted to kiss her and she seemed like she half wanted him to.
The memory sent a rush of heat through him, and he couldn't help but replay the moment in his mind.
He had never felt an urge like that before.
None of it made sense. She barely tolerated him on a good day.
For weeks, she had been firing off sarcasm like it was a renewable resource.
And yet there it was, this thing between them.
Something electric, something undeniable, and something deeply inconvenient.
If he had half a brain, he’d look away from her, focus on literally anything else. The dust on his boots. The distant sound of a crew member dropping something expensive. The origin of life.
Instead, his eyes stayed on her, and his mind kept drifting right back to last night.
She had stayed with him, patiently running lines, never rushing him, never making him feel stupid. Now every line he thought of came with her expressions attached. The way her brows knitted when she concentrated. The teasing curve of her mouth when she caught him overthinking.
He hated to admit it, but whatever had happened last night had rewired something in his brain. Her voice, her focus, the way she challenged him without coddling him had unlocked something he had not even known was stuck. The words had flowed more easily. The scene had clicked.
Fine. Whatever worked. If thinking about Sadie helped him nail the role, then great. He would use it. Strictly professional. Totally reasonable. No big deal.
Except then a guy walked up to her. He was tall and smiling way too much. Quentin’s entire thought process ground to a screeching halt. Who the hell was that?
She was laughing at whatever he said. Like this guy was funny. Like she enjoyed talking to him. Quentin immediately, viscerally, hated everything about it.
An unfamiliar, unpleasant heat climbed up his neck. He felt an irrational urge to stride over and insert himself into the conversation, maybe with a totally casual, Who’s this clown? But before he could move, Otto’s German accent cut through his thoughts.
“What is taking so long?” the director groaned, rubbing his temples. “Let us set up the shot already. Quentin, into frame, please.”
Quentin tore his eyes away and made himself move. He hit his mark, sucked in a deep breath, and told his brain to knock it off. He was an adult. A professional. A man capable of emotional regulation. He was not jealous. Absolutely not jealous.
Just because some random guy had made Sadie laugh did not mean anything.
Laughing was a normal human activity. People laughed all the time.
And just because she was standing a little too close to him and casually swatted his arm like she enjoyed it did not mean Quentin had any urge whatsoever to pick the guy up and hurl him into the nearest haystack.
He’d called Eden the night before, which in retrospect ranked somewhere between “texting an ex” and “trying gas station sushi” on the bad decision scale.
Naturally, she’d asked about her sister-in-law.
Naturally, Quentin had imploded on impact.
The man could summon tears for an Oscar scene, but lie convincingly? Not his brand.
Eden clocked him instantly. He’d launched into a calm, very rational explanation about how Sadie did not affect him in any way. He was normal. He was unbothered. Eden had just laughed. The patient, long-suffering laugh she used when she was having a great time watching someone else spiral.
Joel, the cameraman, adjusted the focus, while a gaffer fine-tuned the lighting. Quentin exhaled, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake off whatever this was.
Joel looked up from the monitor, giving Quentin a once-over. “You good, man?”
Quentin forced a grin. “Peachy.”
Joel frowned. “You sure? You look like you’re about to fight someone or throw up.”
Quentin gritted his teeth. “Just getting in character.”
Joel shrugged. “Cool, cool. Just… try not to look like you want to strangle someone while delivering a love confession, yeah?”
“We need a stand-in for Tessa,” Otto announced, already sounding tired of the day, and Quentin shot another glance toward Sadie.
She was still talking to the lanky guy, laughing again, the sound scraping straight down Quentin’s spine. Something tight twisted in his chest. He had no right to feel this way, and yet watching her hand out her laughter so freely lit something ugly and undeniable in him.
“Sadie is the right height,” Quentin said. It was a bold-faced lie. Sadie was at least a head shorter than Tessa.
The camera guy snorted. Someone else muttered, “Not even close.”
Otto followed Quentin's line of sight and rolled his eyes, clearly exasperated. “Sadie!” Otto called out, his voice cutting through the chatter on set.
Sadie looked surprised, her brows knitting together as she pointed to herself.
“Yes, you,” Otto said, waving her over. “Come, come. Get in the frame and stand in. We must find the correct angle for the cameras. Height is… flexible.”
As she walked over slowly, her gait cautious, it was as if she was approaching a trap.
“Wow. Was my performance last night that life-changing? Because I am pretty sure Tessa would not love being quietly replaced,” she whispered, her tone laced with a hint of sarcasm as she shot him a look.
“I was just trying to get you away from the guy practically imprinting on you. He’s following you around like a golden retriever with a crush,” Quentin muttered, his voice low and dripping with irritation he wasn’t even trying to hide.
“Reggie?” she asked, head tilting, clearly amused by the idea.
“Yes, Reggie,” he said with a small huff. Reggie? What kind of name is that? Was he a fucking cartoon character?
“Reggie is harmless! We met on the plane and ended up working together. Isn’t that crazy?” she said, her eyes lighting up with the kind of enthusiasm that made his chest tighten.
“Yeah. Positively bonkers. A real rom-com moment,” he grumbled, crossing his arms tighter, as if that could contain the irrational irritation clawing at him.
Sadie rolled her eyes. “What is your deal?” A very valid question. One he had absolutely no reasonable answer to.
He just knew that watching Reggie hover around her like an overeager Roomba was making him want to kick something. Preferably Reggie.
“Closer, Quentin,” Otto called out. “This is the kiss scene, so lean in a bit more. Yes. Like that. Pretend you like each other. It helps.”
Quentin took a slow breath and closed the gap. Immediately a mistake. She was warm, smelled faintly like strawberries, and his brain promptly shut down all nonessential systems. Oxygen included.
“No, no,” Otto said. “Shift a little. To the left. Other left. You are blocking the light with your American awkwardness.”
Quentin adjusted. Sadie adjusted. Now they were close enough that blinking felt intimate.
“Closer. Put your faces together,” the director barked again, clearly unsatisfied.
Quentin obeyed, moving in until their foreheads were nearly touching.
He could see everything. The slight tremor of her lips.
The nervous flutter of her eyelashes. The way her green eyes sparkled in the sunlight like she had swallowed an entire galaxy and wasn’t planning on giving it back.
Otto groaned. “Ach. You are both so tense. Such uptight Americans.” He waved a hand. “Relax. This is a movie set. There are intimacy coordinators somewhere. Probably.”
Somewhere was not reassuring.
“The sun is doing strange things,” Otto continued. “I need shadows. Chemistry. Romance. Can you just kiss? Or almost kiss. Something convincing but not stupid.”
He rubbed his temples like this production was actively shaving years off his life.
Quentin knew this was about lighting, angles, whatever but that didn’t make it any less ridiculous that Sadie was the one standing in front of him.
Her gaze skimmed over his face, pausing at his mouth before darting away, and it was like fate itself had elbowed him in the ribs, whispering go on. A knot twisted hard in his stomach.
Should he kiss her? Definitely not. Did he want to? Catastrophically.
What kind of boundary-less, wild west filmmaking was this, anyway? Was Otto just blindly throwing darts at a board labeled deeply unprofessional suggestions?
Yet, despite the glaring ethical gray area and the literal camera pointed at his face, Quentin couldn’t shake the magnetic pull.
Her plush pink lips practically sparkled under the lights, like they’d been kissed by cherubs or professionally glossed by temptation itself.
And when she sucked in a breath, pupils darkening just a fraction, it only made things worse.
God help him, if they didn’t yell cut soon, he was going to do something profoundly stupid.
“Please,” Otto said, exhaustion baked into every syllable. “Just kiss. Or pretend very, very well.”
“I’m going to,” Quentin murmured, barely audible. “I’m being actively peer-pressured by my boss.”
Sadie pulled in a small breath. Hesitated. Then she nodded, just once.
That was apparently all the permission his self-control needed.
His head dipped before his brain could file a complaint, and his mouth brushed hers.
Just barely. A whisper of contact. A toe dipped in lava.
And then their lips actually met. Everything went off at once.
There was electricity. A full-body ignition. Like a defibrillator to the soul.
Sadie inhaled sharply, her lips parting in surprise and he lost whatever grip he had left on reality. His heart took off like an overcaffeinated drummer discovering double bass pedals.
Her fingers twitched against his chest, and for one suspended, dizzying second, he braced for the shove. For the slap. The very public end of his career.
But instead, she leaned in. Sank into him like he was something solid. Something safe. Something she wanted. And that almost took him out at the knees.
Somewhere far, far away, reality continued to exist. There was a camera. A crew. A boom mic hovering overhead like a judgmental bird. Quentin could not have cared less if the set caught fire or Spielberg himself wandered through with a latte.
All that mattered was her, the intoxicating heat of her mouth, the silken glide of her lips, and that faint taste of whatever strawberry-flavored sorcery she always wore. Chapstick? Lip gloss? A government-issued aphrodisiac? He didn’t know. He just knew he wanted to bathe in it.
He wanted more. So much more. But instead of deepening the kiss, he let it linger.
A slow, torturous taste. Heat crawled up his spine, his pulse thudding in time with every second he didn’t push this further.
It was maddening. A perfect little sample of something he absolutely was not allowed to have.
Still, somehow, he forced himself to pull away. And then, like a complete idiot, he looked at her.
Sadie’s green eyes were wide and a little dazed, her lips still parted like she was trying to make sense of what the hell just happened. A pink flush crept up her throat, her breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls.
Quentin swallowed hard. That was a huge mistake. Titanic-meets-iceberg levels of catastrophic. Because that kiss had not solved a single thing. It had only created a brand new problem. He needed more. And now he knew exactly what he was missing.