Chapter 5 Sadie #2
Quentin exhaled sharply, his jaw ticking, and the entire set locked up. Conversations died mid-word. People suddenly discovered urgent business with the dirt. Someone three rows back became deeply committed to inspecting a loose thread.
“We take five,” Otto added, rubbing his temples. “Before I lose what little patience I have left.”
Otto was a directorial genius. That part was not up for debate.
Freshly imported from Germany and armed with an almost religious devotion to artistic integrity, he had directed half a dozen films critics described with phrases like visionary, punishing, and absolutely not for everyone.
He had an accent thick enough to spread on toast and standards so high they were probably regulated by air traffic control.
He was also, objectively, a nightmare. The man had the temperament of a director who absolutely would have thrived in the black-and-white era.
The kind who threw glassware for inspiration and called it character building.
His patience for imperfection hovered somewhere below zero, and Quentin had apparently decided today was the day to test the limits of German restraint.
Sadie watched Otto stalk off, muttering ‘verdammt' and something about ancestors that felt deeply personal.
A crew member coughed. Another took a careful step backward, like Otto might suddenly pivot and start assigning blame with eye contact alone.
Tessa strolled over to her chair, radiating the kind of effortless cool that Sadie could only aspire to.
Sadie followed her with her fluffy brush and gently applied a small amount of powder under Tessa’s eyes.
Because nothing, not talent, not beauty, not even the ability to speak multiple languages could defeat the mortal enemy that was under-eye creases.
“What do you think?” Tessa asked, her French accent sliding back into place now that the cameras were off. “Sadie, yes?”
Sadie nodded, resisting the urge to bow, because Tessa had the air of someone who casually ruled a very chic micro-nation.
“Should I get a shock collar for Quentin?” Tessa added lightly, her gaze flicking toward where he stood, all rugged and irritatingly attractive, muttering his lines under his breath. “He forgets everything.”
It had been a week since filming started, and she had definitely noticed Quentin’s struggles with remembering the dialogue.
To be fair, the man was carrying half the film on his stupidly broad shoulders, but when he did get the lines right, he was magnetic, charismatic, intense, everything the role needed.
Still, something about the way Tessa lobbed that jab didn’t sit right.
Maybe it was because Sadie had spent way too many hours up close and personal with Quentin’s face, dabbing on concealer and pretending not to notice every twitch of frustration, every flicker of concentration. She knew how hard he was trying.
Not that she cared or anything. Obviously. It was just… a professionally observed fact. Totally neutral. Like noticing a coffee stain or a bad wig.
“Well, I can’t fault him,” Sadie replied with a small laugh. “I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast this morning.”
“Ah, yes, but breakfast isn’t your job, my dear,” she said smoothly, her voice laced with the kind of effortless condescension that could only be honed through years of expensive schooling and an excessive amount of French confidence.
Instead of rising to the bait, Sadie forced a casual shrug, tugging her scarf tighter around her neck to shield against the biting wind.
Tessa wasn’t the worst, not by a long shot.
She’d handled her share of nightmare personalities, the kind of actors who thought the sun rose and set on their trailer calls.
That was what she hated about her job, the ego-drunk actors and directors were treated like gods, while people like her, the ones keeping it all running, were treated like they were disposable.
It’s why she dreamed of starting her own makeup line someday. But for now, she was stuck in the grind. Bills didn’t pay themselves. And if she had to smile, nod, and survive one more day of being looked down on by someone with an IMDb page longer than a tax form, so be it.
Her eyes returned to Quentin, who stood apart from the crew, his jaw clenched, staring out at the snow-capped mountains like they held answers. He had the brooding-artist pose down pat. He probably practiced it in the mirror.
He hadn’t been a nightmare yet, but she wasn’t about to hand out gold stars for basic human decency. Give it time. Shoots always had a honeymoon period before the claws came out.
Tessa shifted in her seat, murmuring a quick “thanks” for the touch-up, but Sadie barely registered it.
She was too absorbed in watching Quentin, on the way the winter wind whipped against him, yet he didn’t flinch.
His broad shoulders remained squared, his tall frame unmoving as if the cold somehow sharpened his edge rather than dulled it.
A brief flicker of sympathy tugged at her.
She even took a half step in his direction, tempted to say something reassuring, despite having absolutely no idea what that something might be.
Then a hand waved wildly in her peripheral vision, dragging her attention away before she could do anything that might later haunt her.
She turned and nearly choked on her own shock. It was the man from the airplane. The stranger she had accidentally assaulted with her suitcase before their flight.
He grinned and lifted his hand like they were old friends and not two people bonded by mild assault and TSA judgment. Heat crept up her neck at the memory, but she waved back anyway, a reluctant smile sneaking out.
With one last glance at Quentin, she pivoted and headed over, forcefully evicting all thoughts of moody actors and their unfairly sculpted jawlines.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her brows knitting together.
“I’m the prop master!” he announced proudly. “And judging by the brushes, you’re in makeup?”
“Wait. You’re the prop master? Wow. For a second I thought you were stalking me, and honestly, I was extremely flattered.” She laughed, shaking her head. “Small world.”
“Very,” he said, smiling easily.
And then… nothing. No comeback. No riff.
No playful escalation. She had lobbed him a premium stalking joke and he had simply watched it hit the ground and roll away.
Quentin would have absolutely demolished that setup.
Something smug and annoying. Something like, ‘Guilty. though in my defense, your location-sharing settings made it really easy.’
Maybe her humor was broken. Or maybe she was spending too much time around Quentin, the walking, talking embodiment of ego, had warped her sense of what normal banter was supposed to be.
She crossed her arms, tilting her head. “So, does that mean you’re the guy responsible for all the cool stuff that makes it look like 1880?”
“Pretty much,” he said, sweeping a hand toward the set. Actors adjusted corsets, crew members hustled past like caffeinated squirrels, and someone yelled about a missing hat. “Anything that needs to look real but isn’t. I make the magic happen.”
“The first day on this job,” he continued, turning back to her. “I thought I saw you when I got here, but I wasn’t entirely sure until now.”
“Yup, it’s me! The human baggage claim disaster at your service,” Sadie quipped, flashing a grin. “I’m Sadie, by the way.”
“I’m Reggie,” he said, extending his hand. “Nice to see you again. Minus the suitcase assault.”
Sadie smirked and shook his hand. “Likewise, Reggie. And hey, if I ever need a candelabra or a fake sword, I know where to find you.”
“I’ll make sure you get the best prop candelabra money can buy,” he said with a solemn nod, his eyes gleaming with humor.
“Five minutes are up!” The director’s voice called out.
Sadie glanced over her shoulder at the set, where the crew was bustling around, readying for the next take. She turned back to Reggie, a smile lingering on her lips.
“I’ll see you around, Reggie,” she said, giving him a small wave before heading back to her makeup tent.
She had been single for years by design. Flings, swipe-right connections, minimal effort, and absolutely no morning-after small talk. Her relationships had the shelf life of yogurt, brief, occasionally questionable, and easy to toss without guilt.
The last time she tried something real was with Brian.
One year of commitment, emotional investment, and pretending to care about his fantasy football draft.
It ended with her finding earrings in his car that weren’t hers.
Romantic trauma, trust issues, and a bruised ego followed.
She hated how much power he’d had over her feelings.
Worse, it made her realize she didn’t just want love. She wanted storybook love. The kind her parents had. High school sweethearts turned nauseatingly adorable adults who still held hands in public and finished each other’s sentences without anyone vomiting. They’d set the bar unreasonably high.
Maybe she was chasing a fairy tale. Or maybe she just refused to settle for anything less. Either way, her standards had lapped her patience.
Commitment wasn’t just scary. It was impractical. Her job bounced her around the country like a production-hopping nomad. She hadn’t even unpacked all her moving boxes. Why bother building roots or a relationship when she might be gone in six weeks?
So yeah. Casual flings were fine. Reggie was hot, charming, and about as emotionally dangerous as a Labradoodle in a bowtie. Perfect on paper.
But as she walked away, feeling his gaze stick to her like lint on black pants, something felt... off. No butterflies. No swoony stomach flip. Not even a lazy eyebrow raise from her libido. Just meh.
Usually, the thrill of a new flirtation gave her a contact high. The chase was the fun part. But this had all the excitement of renewing her driver’s license.
She shook it off and made her way to Devi by the makeup station, slipping back into work mode. At least, until her gaze drifted to the couple in front of the camera. More specifically, the man in the cowboy hat. Because that one? Definitely not a Labradoodle.