Chapter 13
thirteen
. . .
Sophia
"To Honey Pine Farms!" As I raise my wine glass, a grin spreads across my face that I can't—and don't want to—contain.
The approvals have finally come through for us to shoot on location, and the relief flooding through me feels like liquid sunshine.
Or maybe that's the wine talking. Probably a combination of both.
We're celebrating in Grant's backyard, with string lights creating a golden canopy above us. The soft glow makes everything feel intimate, magical, and risky. Stop it, I chide myself. He's your boss—your very attractive, off-limits boss.
Grant clinks his glass against mine. "To Honey Pine," he says, "and to our very persistent producer, who wouldn't take no for an answer."
I arch an eyebrow. "I prefer the term 'diplomatically tenacious.'"
His laugh rolls through the evening air, and something inside me trembles. It's not just a laugh; it's a sound that makes my skin prickle, that sends unexpected heat racing along my nerves. Get it together, Sophia.
The evening is perfect—just cool enough that I'm glad I grabbed my light sweater but still holding the day's warmth. Soft acoustic music drifts from the outdoor speakers, creating a dreamlike atmosphere that feels dangerously close to romantic.
"Thanks for cooking dinner tonight," Grant says, leaning back in his chair. "The pot pie was incredible."
I smile as a hint of nostalgia crosses my face. "Family recipe. My grandmother used to make this every Sunday after church. Taught me everything I know about cooking. And about feeding people's souls, not just their stomachs."
He raises an eyebrow, intrigued. "Big family?"
"Not exactly." I laugh. "Just my brother and me.
But my mom's side? Total chaos. Tons of cousins, aunts, uncles—family that takes up entire parks for reunions, where someone's always cooking, always talking.
" I take another sip of wine and then pause.
"Speaking of family, Hazel's mom is pretty fascinating.
I saw the news. The new face of Ralph Lauren. "
Grant's expression softens. "Geneva's incredible. She travels a lot with her modeling career, but she's relentless about staying connected with Hazel." His pride is evident. "Last month, she was shooting a campaign in Paris and still managed a daily video call. Sometimes multiple calls."
"That sounds challenging," I say, genuinely impressed. "Balancing a high-profile career with parenting can't be easy."
"We've built a solid co-parenting system," Grant explains. "With this new gig, she'll be based in New York now, so less travel and more opportunities to see Hazel."
I can see the deep love and respect he has for Geneva's role in their lives. "You must have had great role models in your parents," I say casually.
Something shifts in his eyes—a flicker of pain quickly masked.
I wait, sensing there's more. Sometimes, silence invites conversation better than questions.
"My dad," he says finally. "He passed away when I was eleven."
The words hang between us. Not a request for pity, just a piece of himself, offered carefully.
"That must have been hard."
He nods. "It was tough on my mom after that. She…" He shakes his head.
"Grief changes everything," I say.
His eyes meet mine with a look that says he's grateful for the understanding, the space.
Suddenly, I'm overwhelmed by how attractive he is. It's not just his looks—though, God knows, he's devastatingly handsome—it's this vulnerability. The way he's sharing, carefully but genuinely. The depth behind his eyes. The careful tenderness I've seen in how he talks about Hazel, about Geneva.
Stop it, I tell myself, but the warning sounds weak, even in my own head. He's your boss, a single dad who's more than a decade older than you. Completely, absolutely OFF. LIMITS.
But the voice in my head sounds less convincing with each passing moment. He doesn't feel off-limits right now. He feels achingly, dangerously present.
The way he's looking at me like I'm someone who might actually understand him makes my heart race in a way that has nothing to do with professional respect and everything to do with pure, inconvenient attraction.
There's something in his gaze that's different tonight.
Something heated. Something that makes me wonder if he's feeling what I'm feeling.
But my body isn't listening to my brain's very rational warnings.
"Dance with me," I say suddenly, standing up.
Grant blinks, clearly surprised. "What?"
I hold out my hand, surprising myself as much as him. "Dance with me. We're celebrating, there's music playing, and I want to dance."
For a moment, I think he'll refuse. The professional distance he's maintained since I moved into the guest house has been carefully and meticulously preserved. But then his hand slides into mine, warm and strong, and he lets me pull him to his feet.
The music shifts—because of course it does—to something slower, more intimate. Suddenly, we're swaying together under the string of lights, and every point of contact feels like a live wire.
His hand rests on my waist, keeping a respectable distance. Always so careful. Always so professional. But tonight, I don't want careful. I don't want professional.
I step closer, eliminating the space between us. His breath catches—a sharp, involuntary intake that sends electricity racing through me. He doesn't pull away.
"Sophia…" The way he says my name is a warning. And a prayer.
I don't know who moves first. Maybe we both do. Suddenly, we're breathing the same air, suspended in a moment that feels both infinite and impossibly fragile. My hand finds his cheek, and my thumb brushes across his skin. His eyes are dark, intense.
Our lips barely brush—the ghost of a kiss, electric and promising.
Time suspends, crystallizes. The world narrows to just his fingers threading through my hair, the warmth of his breath against my lips, and the thundering of my heart.
For one perfect, infinite moment, everything I've been trying not to want seems within reach.
Then Grant pulls back—not abruptly, but with a deliberate gentleness that somehow hurts more than if he'd jerked away. His hand lingers on my cheek for a heartbeat longer, his thumb brushing across my skin in what feels like an apology.
"We can't," he says. The roughness in his voice betrays how affected he is, and that knowledge sends a complicated ache through my chest. "This isn't—" He stops, collecting himself.
"You're young, Sophia. You have your entire career ahead of you.
The last thing you need is complications with…
" He gestures vaguely between us, and I understand what he's not saying: With someone older. With your boss. With a single father.
The space between us feels vast now, though we've barely moved apart.
I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold on to some semblance of composure.
He's right. Of course he's right. This would complicate everything.
The movie, our working relationship, and my temporary living situation in his guest house.
"We should get some sleep," he says, his voice gentle but firm. Professional. Like we hadn't just been swaying together under string lights. Like my skin isn't still tingling from his touch.
I manage a smile that I hope looks more collected than I feel. "You're right." My voice comes out steadier than expected. "Early meetings tomorrow too.”
As I take a step back, the words I don't regret it rise to my lips, but I swallow them back. He's set a boundary. The least I can do is respect it.
"Goodnight, Grant," I say instead, proud of how normal I sound.
Something complicated—longing, restraint, regret—flashes across his face. Then, with a tenderness that makes my chest ache, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
"Goodnight, Sophia."
The guest house feels cavernous and empty after the charged evening. I lean against the closed door, letting out a long, shaky breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. The ghost of his almost-kiss lingers on my lips. My skin still hums where he touched me.
This is for the best, I tell myself firmly, but in the quiet darkness, the words ring hollow.
I move through my evening routine on autopilot taking my makeup off, throwing pajamas on, and brushing my teeth. Normal, safe things—things that don't involve almost kissing your very attractive, very off-limits boss under string lights.
In bed, I stare at the ceiling, unable to stop my mind from wandering. What if he hadn't pulled away? What if we'd given in to whatever this is between us? I can still feel the phantom pressure of his hand on my waist, the way his heart raced against my palm.
But Grant is right. I'm living in his guest house, working on his movie, and building my career. And he has Hazel to think about—sweet, creative Hazel. The timing is wrong. The situation is wrong. Everything about this is wrong.
So, why does it feel so right?
I roll over and bury my face in the pillow. Tomorrow, I'll be professional and collected, but tonight? I close my eyes, reconstructing the moment. His hand on my cheek, the electricity between us, and the way he looked at me like I was something precious and threatening.
I imagine his lips on mine—not the ghost of a touch we'd shared, but a real kiss. Deep. Consuming. The kind of kiss that would rewrite everything.
Stop, I warn myself, but the fantasy lingers.
One thing I know for sure—working together just became a lot more complicated.