Chapter 6 Quentin #2
“It’s not about the party,” she said quietly. “We met before. And you don’t remember.”
The words were soft, almost a whisper, but the edge in her tone cut deep. Her breath was close to his ear, sending an unintentional shiver down his spine.
His frown deepened. He searched her face, trying to piece together something that would make her words make sense. But he didn’t remember her. Not beyond being Eden’s sister-in-law. His makeup artist on set. That was it.
And if they’d hooked up, he would’ve remembered. Because she was her. Gorgeous, sure, but more than that. She was sharp and quick. The kind of woman who left an impression. The kind you didn’t just forget.
“At Eden’s?” he guessed, frowning.
She gave a hollow laugh. “If you don’t remember,” she said, her voice low and edged, “then it clearly didn’t mean enough to you.”
His mind flipped through years of industry blur, faces and names and half-formed memories, trying to find her anywhere. There was nothing. Just blank space and the sinking realization that he had hurt her without even noticing.
“Tell me,” he said, and hated how much he needed it. “Please.”
Her fingers twitched against his jaw like she might say more, like she might give him the missing piece. Then she pulled back, and whatever window had cracked open slammed shut.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said quietly, her voice thick with something he couldn’t quite place. Regret, maybe, or something sharper, like disappointment. The words lingered between them, heavy, final. He could feel the invisible wall she was rebuilding, brick by brick, pushing him out.
“What’s done is done,” she added, her tone cold. For a moment, he fought the urge to push her for more, to demand an explanation that made sense. The look she gave him was a clear warning to back off.
So he did as she asked, swallowing the questions that clawed at the back of his throat.
After a few minutes of heavy silence, Quentin’s eyes wandered as Sadie worked on his scar. Her hands moved with machine-like efficiency, dabbing and blending. Then she reached behind her without looking and grabbed the exact concealer she needed.
He stared. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?” she asked, eyes still locked on his cheek.
“The thing,” he said. “The grabbing stuff blind like some kind of beauty ninja.”
“Photographic memory,” she replied with a shrug.
That was unfair. Quentin could barely remember what day it was, let alone memorize a full page of emotionally tortured monologue. And here she was, plucking products out of thin air like a sorceress.
“Okay,” he said, sitting up straighter. “I know you just said you hate my guts but can you help me run lines?”
Sadie didn’t respond. Just continued applying makeup with the calm precision of someone deeply unimpressed.
“Wait! Hear me out!” he said quickly, hands up like she had a gun trained on him. “You help me, I owe you one. No, I owe you eternally. I will become your servant. A humble line-memorizing goblin.”
Still nothing. She was either ignoring him or just savoring his spiral.
Desperate now, he grabbed her arms. “Please,” he said, eyes wide. “I’m begging. I’ll do anything. I’ll fan you with palm fronds. I’ll feed you grapes.”
She finally looked at him, eyebrow arched. “Will you massage my feet every day for the rest of my life?”
“Yes.” The word came out instantly. Then he hesitated. “But wouldn’t seeing my face every day slowly drive you to murder?”
“Hmm. Valid concern.”
“I’ll still risk it,” he said solemnly.
He pressed his hands together in a prayer pose. “Please, Sadie. I will fetch you coffee. I will defend your honor in public forums. I will fight teens who say contouring is out. Just, please.”
She let out a long-suffering sigh, shaking her head like he was the most exhausting human she’d ever met.
“I’ll help you,” she muttered, turning back to her kit like the words physically pained her.
“Wait, really?”
“But not because of you,” she said, stabbing a concealer bottle back into place. “Because I need this movie to be finished. On schedule. Preferably before I age out of my dental insurance.”
He tried to contain his grin. “So… it’s a professional courtesy.”
“Strictly professional,” she said flatly. “You flubbing your lines makes my days longer. And I value my time more than I value your continued suffering.”
Quentin grinned like he’d just won an Oscar. “That’s the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Her lips twitched like they were considering a full-on grin before thinking better of it. She glanced away, attempting to appear indifferent, but there was no denying the tiny smile creeping up.
Quentin’s smile matched Sadie’s just as the trailer door swung open.
“Did I wake up in the Twilight Zone? Why are you two smiling at each other?” Avery’s voice cut through the air, thick with suspicion.
Sadie’s smile immediately vanished. “Toxic fumes from the latex,” she deadpanned.
“Glitch in the Matrix,” Quentin said at the same time, nodding solemnly.
Avery narrowed her eyes, glancing between them. Shaking her head like she had more important things to deal with, she handed Quentin the script for the day’s scene.
He flipped it open, attempting to focus.
But before his eyes even hit the first line, he glanced at Sadie again.
And to his surprise, that barely-there smile had crept back, soft at the corners of her lips.
It was small. Almost imperceptible. But it was there.
And just like that, his own grin returned.