Chapter 21 Sadie
TWENTY-ONE
SADIE
Sadie knew she was being wishy-washy. Emotionally wobbly, morally questionable, and hormonally possessed, but how could she not be? She was trapped somewhere between her pride and the magnetic pull of Quentin’s everything: his mouth, his voice, his hands, his sheer nerve.
But there was nothing wishy-washy about the way his tongue was currently in her mouth like he was trying to memorize the shape of her soul.
Or the way his fingers had been inside her like they were conducting a personal symphony in broad daylight.
They were on a goddamn movie set. Surrounded by cameras, boom mics, and a catering table with four types of hummus.
What the actual hell is wrong with me? she thought, even as she arched into him like a woman possessed. Which, fine, maybe she was. Possessed by hormones and unresolved sexual tension and whatever feral demon lived in Quentin’s mouth.
But she couldn’t stop. And clearly, neither could he. He was famous, for crying out loud—a tabloid magnet with a jawline that could cut glass. And she’d just let herself be ravaged like a subplot in a telenovela.
His mouth was still on hers, hot, greedy, maddening, pushing her further back against the bark of the tree. Her jeans were unbuttoned, her hair was a tangled mess, and her lipstick was probably somewhere around her left ear.
But God, it was so good. Too good. He kissed her like he was trying to erase the time they’d wasted pretending they didn’t burn for each other.
Then she heard it. Footsteps crunching closer. The sound sliced through the haze like a bucket of ice water to the face. Sadie’s eyes flew open in horror. Oh my God. People. Actual humans. Approaching at speed.
Reality came rushing in, loud and judgmental and fully clothed. She pulled back like she’d been electrocuted, panting, lips swollen, eyes wide.
“Shit,” she whispered, frantically trying to button her jeans with trembling hands. But her fingers were all thumbs and betrayal.
“Sadie—” Quentin’s voice was low and raspy, his face flushed, lips glistening like sin incarnate. He looked like a man who had just committed an extremely satisfying crime.
She shoved a palm into his chest. “Don’t even think about saying something sexy right now.”
He blinked, almost innocently. “Wasn’t gonna. I was gonna ask if you need help with your zipper.”
“Quentin!”
“I’m being supportive.”
The footsteps got louder. She could hear someone laughing about burrito bowls. They were probably only twenty feet away.
“Oh my God, my hair—” She reached up and felt the disaster zone of tangled curls, leaves, and what might’ve been a twig. She looked like she’d lost a fistfight with a raccoon who fought dirty.
Quentin just leaned back against the tree, looking maddeningly unruffled, the smug bastard. “You look hot.”
“I look feral.”
“I stand by my statement.”
She muttered something deeply unladylike and yanked her jacket down over her hips, clinging to the last scraps of dignity. “If anyone asks,” she said through her teeth, “we were rehearsing.”
Quentin smirked, slow and dangerous. “For a very hands-on role.”
“I swear to God, if you make one more joke—”
He leaned in, brushing his mouth against her ear, voice low and smug. “What? You gonna punish me?”
Her thighs clenched in response.
Before she could reply, voices echoed down the path. She heard someone laugh and say “Where the hell is Sadie?” and her soul left her body.
Her eyes went wide. “Oh my God. They’re looking for me.”
Without thinking, she grabbed his wrist and yanked him behind the thick trunk of a nearby tree. They barely fit. His chest pressed flush to hers, solid and warm, his breath ghosting over her neck like it was trying to start problems on purpose.
“This is deeply humiliating,” she whispered.
“I don’t know, I’m having a great time,” he whispered back, grinning like the bastard he was.
She jabbed an elbow into his side.
“Ow! That was a rib,” he whispered, delighted.
Footsteps crunched closer, close enough that Sadie could smell blueberry vape. She slapped a hand over Quentin’s mouth as he opened it again, absolutely certain he was about to say something like “Let’s give them a show.”
The crew passed by on the trail, still discussing burrito bowls toppings. One of them paused.
“Did you hear something?”
Quentin licked her palm.
She yanked her hand away, whisper-hissing, “You absolute freak!”
The other crew member shook their head. “Probably just a squirrel or something. Come on.”
As the voices finally faded, Sadie let out a shaky breath and sagged against the tree, still flushed and disheveled.
“You licked me,” she muttered.
“Reflex,” Quentin said breezily. “You put your hand near my mouth. That’s on you.”
“I am going to knock you out with a boom mic.”
“Sure, but first, wanna make out behind a different tree? Just to keep things fresh.”
She groaned and shoved past him, stomping toward the path like a woman on a mission. A mission to not walk like someone who’d just been fingered to completion by an A-list celebrity under a fucking pine tree like it was a deleted scene from National Geographic: Horny Edition.
Behind her, Quentin chuckled under his breath. “You coming back for Round Two later?”
She flipped him off without breaking stride. “Fuck you!” she snapped and then, because she had the impulse control of a wet paper bag, she whisper-yelled, “But yes! My cabin after we wrap for the day. No talking, no clothes, no trees.”
She speed-walked the rest of the way like she was fleeing an active crime scene, nerves buzzing, skin still humming with the very real awareness of his gaze burning into her back. She made a beeline for her trailer.
All this chaos… for an eyeshadow palette. That was what she’d been trying to grab before getting intercepted by Mr. Handsy and his frankly unreasonable finger coordination.
She yanked open the trailer door and froze. One look in the mirror nearly took her out at the knees. Her hair looked like it had tried to escape her scalp. Her lips were swollen, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes. Dear God, she had “just got fingered” eyes. They were wild and unfocused.
She frantically grabbed a brush and attacked her hair, then did a panic-patrol on her face with concealer and a half-dried baby wipe. Once her breathing stopped sounding like she’d sprinted uphill, she stepped back out, doing her best impression of a functional adult woman.
By the time she rejoined the crew, her legs were still jelly, her panties were tragically damp, and she felt like she was wearing a blinking neon sign that read: QUENTIN RAMOS JUST MANUALLY STIMULATED ME UNTIL I SAW GOD 400 YARDS FROM HERE.
She avoided everyone’s eyes. Especially Quentin’s. Which was a challenge, because the bastard had a sixth sense for smirking at her whenever her pulse got too steady.
Devi kept side-eyeing her like she knew something was up, whispering, “Are you okay? You look… different,” and all Sadie could do was make vague hand gestures and mutter something about allergies and low blood sugar.
The rest of the day crawled by with all the grace and speed of a DMV line in hell.
Every time someone mentioned “the tree line” she flinched like she was being tased.
It was slow, torturous, and every time Quentin came within ten feet of her, she had to fight the urge to throw a makeup brush at him or rip his pants off. It was a toss-up.
Finally, they wrapped for the day. Sadie practically fled to her cabin, closing the door behind her like she was bracing for an apocalypse.
She paced like a lunatic. Back and forth. Back again. Her mind was running every possible scenario. Was Quentin really about to booty call her? Should she play it cool? Pretend to be asleep? Fake her own death and disappear into the woods forever?
She heard footsteps, slow, heavy, unmistakably his. Her heart flipped, then stuttered hard against her ribs. The doorknob turned. No knock. Quentin didn’t knock. Quentin arrived. Exhibit A: the bathtub incident five nights ago,
He just walked in like he paid rent. But she didn’t care. He could’ve kicked the door down, slid in wearing nothing but a smirk and a tub of coconut oil, and she would've clapped.
But then she saw his face. He was framed in the doorway, broad shoulders blocking the light, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. Something was off.
He wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t giving her that I’m-gonna-rock-your-world-again look. No hunger, no cocky swagger. He looked serious and it made her stomach drop.
“Oh no,” she muttered immediately. “This is the face of a man who’s about to say it was a mistake. Or that he’s married. Or that I’m married and somehow forgot.”
“Sadie,” he said, voice low and unreadable.
She held up a hand. “If you’re about to say something that’s gonna make me cry, scream, or burn down the cabin. I need you to know I am at maximum emotional bandwidth. Like, full capacity.”
“Bad news,” he said gruffly, rubbing a hand over his face like someone who’d just aged a decade in the last ten minutes.
She stiffened. “Okay. Hit me. Who’s pregnant? Are you pregnant?”
“Linda’s in labor.”
“Who the hell is Linda? Is she your mistress? Your secret wife?”
He let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, like she’d just asked if he moonlighted as a clown.
“Do your hookups often have mistresses?” he asked.
“You’d be surprised,” she deadpanned. “Men are creative. One had a secret fiancée and a parrot who hated me.”
“I need a name for public shaming,” he said, still chuckling. “Linda’s my horse on set.”
There was a beat.
“Your horse is in labor?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you say that like it’s a totally normal sentence to deliver to a woman you just fingered behind a tree?”
He shrugged. “It’s been a weird day.”
She closed her eyes for a few seconds, trying to recalibrate her brain to a world where Linda the damn horse was cockblocking her.