Chapter 22
twenty-two
Sixteen hours of filming has got me beat all to hell. Every muscle in my body is screaming at me as I drag myself up the stairs. The first day is always a shitshow, but today took it to a whole new level, which means we’re already behind schedule.
A wave of exhaustion washes over me as I reach the top.
When I walk past Lizzy’s apartment, I pause, staring at her door.
Maybe this is my chance. We could talk. Clear the air between us.
I still need to ask her about being my fake girlfriend, though the thought of how that conversation would go right now would probably be more like trying to defuse a bomb—with my balls in Lizzy’s vice-like grip.
Taking a deep breath, I raise my hand to knock. But something holds me back. Maybe right now isn’t the best time.
My brain is fried, and the last thing I need is my jumbled mass of gray matter to make me say something stupid. Like how much I’ve missed her. Or how I can’t stop thinking about her.
With a sigh, I trudge across the hall to my door. Fumbling, I almost drop my keys twice before I finally manage to get the damn thing open. I still need to run some lines, but right now all I want is a cold beer, a hot shower, and a bed, in that exact order.
The apartment is dark and quiet as I step inside. Chucking my keys onto the credenza next to the door with a clatter, I strip off my jacket, tossing it onto the couch as I make my way into the kitchen.
Yanking open the fridge, I grab a beer, twisting off the cap with more force than necessary before taking a long, deep swallow.
“Fuck,” I groan, pressing the cold bottle against my forehead. Marcus pushed us hard today—endless takes, constant script adjustments, technical issues with the lighting. By hour twelve, I was ready to strangle someone.
I’m only halfway finished with my beer when I hear the unmistakable sound of guitars blasting from across the hall. The volume is so high I can feel the bass vibrating through the walls.
“Seriously?” I mutter, setting the bottle down with a hard thunk.
The music only gets louder, followed by singing—or rather, screaming—accompanying it. Lizzy’s voice, raw and powerful, cuts through the wall like it’s made of paper fucking maché.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I growl, running a frustrated hand through my hair.
She’s got to be doing this on purpose. No one blasts music this loud this time of night unless they’re trying to make a point. And if I know Lizzy, I know exactly what point she’s trying to make.
I’ll give her five minutes. Five minutes to turn it down on her own before I go over there.
Pacing back and forth in the kitchen, I finish my beer before grabbing another while I wait.
But the music only seems to get louder. If that’s even possible.
The vaguely familiar song bleeds into Metallica’s “Enter Sandman,” making me snort.
The irony isn’t lost on me considering at this rate I won’t be getting any sleep.
“EXIIIT LIIIGHT!”
That’s it.
Slamming my beer down, I storm across the hall and pound on her door hard enough to make the side of my fist sting.
“Izzy! Turn it down!” But my voice is drowned out by the thundering bass and her singing off-key.
I knock again, harder this time.
Nada.
“Goddammit, Iz!” I try the doorknob, fully expecting it to be locked, but amazingly, it turns.
For a split second, I hesitate. It’s a bad idea to just walk into her apartment uninvited, right? But then again, she’s the one blasting music loud enough to wake the dead. And I have to be back on set at six a.m.
Screw it.
Shoving the door open, I step inside.
The apartment layout is similar to mine—open concept with high windows, ceilings and exposed brick—but that’s where the similarities end. Not only is her space three times the size, it’s an explosion of color and controlled chaos.
Canvases in various stages of completion lean against multiple walls, one of which is lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves.
A terrarium housing what looks like a lizard, (go figure) sits on top of a dresser over in the corner next to a neatly made king-sized bed—a stark contrast to the mayhem currently going on in the rest of the space.
But when my gaze settles on her, my brain instantly goes blank.
Standing with her back to me, she’s focused on a large canvas, wearing a paint-splattered apron with nothing underneath.
The sides are open, revealing the smooth curve of her waist, the subtle indent of her spine, the perfect roundness of the side of her breast. Her hair is piled on top of her head, secured with a blue bandana that matches the streaks in her hair.
My mouth goes dry as all the blood in my body rushes south so fast I get dizzy. I have to brace myself so I don’t stumble as I step further into the room, shutting the door behind me.
When she shifts slightly, I catch a glimpse of tiny boy-shorts with little red skulls peeking out from under the apron. Jesus Christ. This woman is going to be the death of me.
For a second, I completely forget why I came over here. All I can do is stare, transfixed by the way her body moves as she paints, swaying to the music, completely lost in her own world.
The music. Right.
My eyes dance around, looking for the source, but I can’t seem to locate a stereo system or speakers. Frustration and exhaustion pool into a potent cocktail of irritation as I realize the music must be linked to her phone, which I can’t see from here.
Fuck it. I’ll just have to get her attention another way.
Stomping over to where she’s swaying and singing, completely oblivious to my presence, I plant a hand firmly on her shoulder.
A blood-curdling scream rips from her throat as she whips around on pure reflex, slapping cold, wet paint across my cheek.
“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!?” she shrieks, stumbling backward and clutching her chest, eyes wild with shock.
“Jesus Christ, Izzy!” I wince, fingers swiping at the blue paint dripping down my face.
Her eyes widen in shock, hand frozen in mid-air, paintbrush clutched in her fist like a weapon. Time seems to stand still as we just stare at each other—me with paint on my face, and Lizzy...
Holy shit.
My brain short-circuits as I take her in. Wild strands of black hair frame her flushed face. Flecks of paint dot her skin like colorful freckles, and there’s a smudge of crimson across one cheek. My gaze flicks down to her tits, barely covered by her apron, heaving, pressing against the fabric.
She looks like a goddamn masterpiece.
And my dick? Instantly at half-mast.
“What the fuck are you doing in my apartment!?” she shouts, lowering the paintbrush. The music is still blasting so loud I can feel it vibrating in my chest.
I reach over and grab her phone from the nearby table, turning the volume down before answering. “Your door was unlocked. I knocked three times, but you couldn’t hear me over...” I wave a hand vaguely in the air, “...your eighties throwback concert.”
“So you just decided to waltz right in?” She crosses her arms over her chest, squishing her boobs together, which only makes it harder for me to keep my eyes focused on her face.
I swipe at the paint on my cheek, this time with the back of my hand. “It’s after midnight and you’re blasting music loud enough to wake the dead.”
“Maybe I like it hard and loud,” she challenges, tilting her chin up in defiance.
God help me, the way she says those words shoves my mind straight into the gutter.
I clear my throat, trying to regain my self-control. “Yeah, well, some of us have to be on set at the butt crack of dawn,” I growl.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Her voice drips with sarcasm. “Is the big Hollywood star having trouble sleeping?” she baby-talks me quirking an eyebrow before she growls, “Maybe you should try a hotel.”
Pretty sure I’ve hit a new level of fucked when it comes to Lizzy Cade. My jaw aches from all the damn grinding. By this point I’m surprised I have any teeth left at all. Everything she does sets my libido on edge.
Fuck, this is some next-level bullshit.
My heart rate kicks up a notch as she faces off with me, hands on her hips, eyes blazing like the sexy as hell spitfire she is.
Jesus.
Every raging teenage hormone I thought I’d let go of comes rushing back. My cock thickens against the buttons of my jeans, and it takes everything in me not to throw her over my shoulder and smack her ass.
My girl is so sexy it hurts.
Wait. My girl?
The realization hits me hard. She’s always been my girl. Always been in my heart and owned a piece of my soul. Even when we weren’t together.
I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my temper. “Look, I didn’t come over here to start a fight. I just need to run some lines and get some sleep.”
“And I need to paint,” she fires back, eyes narrowing as she slams the paintbrush down on the table. “This is my home. I can do whatever I want.”
“Come on, Iz. I’ve had a long fucking day.”
A brief look of guilt flickers across her face before she schools her expression back to one of annoyance. “Fine. I’ll keep it down.”
An awkward silence settles between us as I stand there, unsure if I should leave or try to say something else. Being this close to her after all these years is messing with my head. All I can think about is how much I’ve missed her face, her fire, even her stubbornness.
I take a step closer, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet my gaze. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you?”
“Maybe.” She shrugs. “It helps me relax. What’re you gonna do about it?”
The need to be inside her hits me hard. My cock is straining against my jeans and it takes everything in me not to grab her and pull her against me.
Lowering my voice to a low rumble, I lean in a tad closer. “I can think of so many other ways to help you relax.”
Her eyes widen, pupils dilating as she takes in the look on my face. I watch her throat bob as she swallows, and suddenly I’m intensely aware of how little space I’ve left between us.
“Pretty sure you’re all talk, Hollywood,” she murmurs, a slight tremor in her voice.
One step closer eliminates what little space remains. “Oh? You think so?”
Her breath hitches as I reach up and brush my thumb across the smudge of crimson on her cheek. The gesture is intimate, familiar—as if we’ve done this a thousand times before. Because technically, we have.
She doesn’t move. If anything, she leans imperceptibly closer, her green eyes, full of defiance, locked on mine.
“I think,” she says, her voice low and husky, “that you should go back to your apartment and let me get back to work.”
“Is that what you really want?” I ask, voice low and guttural.
The tension between us is so thick you could (here comes the cliché) cut it with a knife. Fifteen years of unresolved feelings, hurt, and desire all compressed into this single moment.
A combination of scents—paint and something floral and spicy—wafts under my nose.
“What I want,” she says carefully, “is for you to stop looking at me like that.”
I tilt my head with a smirk. “Like what, Iz?”
Her throat bobs on a nervous swallow. “Like you used to.”
Those words, loaded with meaning, hang heavily in the air. Her skin warms the palms of my hands still cupping her face. And the fire in her eyes she’s aiming at me? Fuck. The urge to kiss her is almost overwhelming.
“Rowan,” she whispers.
The sound of my name on her lips nearly breaks me. But there’s something I need to do before I can give in.
“We need to talk,” I say, forcing myself to drop my hands. “About everything. About why I left the way I did.”
The heat in the air instantly shifts and cools, breaking the spell. I can almost feel the coldness of the ice in her eyes as she steps away, crossing her arms over her chest again.
“No, we don’t,” she says firmly. “The past is the past. You’re here to make your movie, and then you’ll leave again. Just like you always do.”
Her words cut deep. “It wasn’t like that—”
“Save it,” she bites out. “I’m not interested in your excuses. Whatever we had—whatever I thought we had—was over a long time ago.”
Frustration building, I clasp my hands behind my head. It’s the only way I can keep myself from grabbing her and shaking some sense into her. Making her listen to what I have to say.
“Then why are you trying so hard to drive me away? If what we had doesn’t matter anymore, why the attitude any time I’m around you?”
Caught off guard, she blinks.
“Because...” Her eyes glaze over as she struggles to find her words. “Because I don’t want you here. You complicate things.”
“How?” I press. “Come on, Iz. Talk to me.”