Chapter 21
twenty-one
. . .
Sophia
I kick off my shoes outside the door to the guest house so I don't trail in the sand I picked up on the beach while hanging out with Wyatt and Blair this afternoon. I look at the script on the island and know I should review lines, but I'm so distracted by that kiss with Grant.
I can't stop daydreaming about his body pressed against mine.
Why does he have to be so hot? More than that, I can feel things between us shifting.
I think he feels it, too. I'm both excited about the idea of it and terrified.
In moments like this, where I'm alone, I can actually picture what it might be like to belong to Grant and Hazel.
I can imagine this as my home, putting Hazel to bed together, going on family trips, and maybe even having more children.
I'm letting my imagination run away again. I shake it off because the reality is it's unlikely and, more so, unrealistic for there to be anything more between me and Grant. I'm not sure if he would even let it go any further than a kiss. I'm not sure I'd want it to, either.
Our feelings are amplified right now because everything feels easy and convenient.
I'm staying at his house. I'm shooting at his studio.
But what would it be like six months from now when I have a shoot in another state or country and he's back and forth to whatever project he's running?
The "normal guy" I dated after Connor couldn't deal with it, and he was young, single, and had no children.
Grant has so many responsibilities as a single parent.
I'm also not willing to slow down on my career right now.
I know he's supportive of my ambitions, but it's as a colleague or mentor. Would he feel the same as a partner?
The buzzing of my phone snaps me out of my spiral, and I pick it up to see a message from Grant. I can't stop the smile that overtakes my face.
GRANT
You have plans for tonight?
I look up at the pool, trying to decide how to respond. Is he asking because he wants me to come over?
GRANT
I can see you trying to come up with an excuse.
I twist my head to peer out the door and search the wall of windows on the backside of his house, and then I see him standing at the kitchen back door.
ME
I'm not trying to think of an excuse. I'm trying to figure out a nice way to say…It depends…
GRANT
Your favorite show Pink Slip is having a wrap party on Season 3 tonight. It's fairly low-key and on the lot. I have to make an appearance, but I thought maybe you'd join me.
ME
And you think that's a good idea?
GRANT
It wouldn't be weird for another production team to show up. You're filming just a few stages apart from each other. In fact, I'm pretty sure a lot of your crew will be there.
ME
They did mention it to us. Who else will be there?
GRANT
Just cast, crew, and some of the Wonderland team. No press. Also, it's casual dress – nothing fancy.
ME
Time?
GRANT
I thought we could head out at 7pm.
ME
Meet you there?
GRANT
I can drive us. No need for two cars. We can park at my office and walk over.
ME
I'll be ready at 7.
I look up, and he's still standing in the doorway, looking this way with his hands in his pockets. I wonder if he's contemplating the same things I am. We keep pushing the boundaries of whatever this is, and I'm not mad about it.
The studio lot is quiet on our walk over to the wrap party, which seems to inspire Grant to lead us slightly off course.
"This isn't the way to the party," I say, but I don't stop walking.
"Just a quick detour."
We step onto the deserted New York Street set, our own private world bathed in soft amber streetlights.
Grant walks beside me, his presence warm and steady.
He's dressed like this is his version of a casual weekend—button-down shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, top button undone, dress pants just relaxed enough to be comfortable.
He looks effortless. Comfortable in his skin. It's disarming.
"This is surreal," I say, trailing my fingers along the edge of a vintage-looking newsstand prop. The texture of the worn wood is oddly grounding. "An entire street just for us."
The set is a marvel—brownstones, fire escapes, perfectly aged storefronts. It looks like a slice of Manhattan transplanted to our studio lot. But right now, it feels like a different kind of space—suspended, timeless.
"Sometimes, the most genuine moments happen in the most artificial places," Grant says. Then he makes a face like he wants to take it back immediately.
I laugh, and it comes easier than I expect. "Deep thoughts from a studio executive?"
He bumps my shoulder lightly, and though brief, the contact is distracting. "I'm not just about balance sheets and greenlighting projects."
We walk slowly; the air between us feels charged with something neither of us wants to name yet.
I can still feel his lips on mine. He hasn't touched me tonight.
Not really. But there's a moment—when our arms brush, when our steps slow at the same time—when I think he might. When I think we both want to.
"Can I ask you something?" I stop near the old-fashioned ice cream shop, hesitating before meeting his gaze. "Why this project? Why my film?"
Grant exhales and looks down for a moment like he's choosing his words carefully. "Because it reminded me of why I got into this business in the first place. Not the money, not the power, but the stories that actually mean something."
I hold his gaze, trying to see if there's anything more beneath his words.
"I was terrified of making this film," I admit, my voice softer than I intend. "Not because I thought I'd fail, but because I wanted to prove I was more than just an actress. That I could create something. Shape it. Tell a story the way I've always wanted to."
His expression shifts, and his focus sharpens on me in a way that makes my breath catch.
"You already have," he says, his voice low and edged with something protective, something I shouldn't like as much as I do.
We've stopped walking now and are standing beneath the streetlight. It casts a soft glow over us, and for a second, I wonder what we must look like to an outsider. Two people standing too close, caught in something we don't quite want to admit yet.
"You know that, right?" he adds.
I want to believe him. More than that, I want to believe in myself.
"Maybe," I say, forcing a small smile.
His fingers flex like he wants to reach for me but then thinks better of it. I let the moment stretch, let the possibility of it settle between us. Whatever this is, it's shifting, becoming something neither of us planned for, and that both excites and terrifies me.