2
Late that afternoon, both Maria and Peter signed their contracts after due consultation with their agents and—in her case—her
brother Filip, a lawyer.
It was all a bit surreal, frankly. A couple of months ago, she’d sent in her audition materials on a lark. Eager to get far,
far away from her family’s concerned scrutiny and her own wounded heart, itching for a new professional challenge, she’d taken
her shot but hadn’t expected much to come of it. Because yes, despite her talent, she wasn’t actually an experienced film
or television actor, and no one in the United States knew her work.
But now she’d somehow landed a plum role on Gods of the Gates , the biggest show on television. Not just in America, but around the world, including in Sweden. She couldn’t be prouder
or more excited, and she couldn’t wait to tell her family.
Only one cloud currently darkened her delightfully sunny skies.
Peter. Tall, dark, sexy, surly Peter Reedton.
Her closest colleague would be the man she’d fucked and left without a word last night.
It wasn’t optimal, frankly.
All afternoon, she’d tried to catch his eye and get him alone for long enough to smooth things over.
To offer what explanations she could, whether or not he found them satisfactory.
To diffuse any awkwardness between them in a private conversation.
Maybe even to tell him how unexpectedly hard leaving him behind had been, how often thoughts of him had entered her mind that morning, and how much she’d not only wanted him but also . . . liked him.
Enough to frighten her. Enough to make her run.
From the moment Peter walked into that sauna, she’d wanted to fuck him. But she’d seen no possible future for them, and these
days, she allowed herself no intimacy of the nonsexual variety with short-term lovers. She did entirely casual or fully committed.
Nothing in between.
There was no point to it, and she wouldn’t waste her time, her energy, or her heart. She’d learned that lesson early and well,
and suffered through a refresher course on the topic only months ago. When it came to their one-night stand, liking Peter
hadn’t been a bonus but a threat.
So she’d insisted on a hotel room—and hadn’t offered hers as an option. When they were finished, she didn’t have to persuade
him to leave. She could simply go, and that was exactly what she’d done.
Now he was avoiding her. Which was quite a trick, given her centrality to the day’s proceedings.
No matter. She could bide her time.
Hours later, her opportunity finally came. After various rounds of congratulations and discussions about their next steps,
the two of them were allowed to leave the studio. Peter didn’t hesitate, and he didn’t offer her a single unnecessary moment
of his attention before heading toward the parking lot.
He wasn’t an especially chatty soul. That had been evident from almost the first moment she’d spotted him across a steam-hazed
sauna.
She hadn’t cared.
The other men in his group she could take or leave. They were tall and tanned and impeccably groomed. Lean. Ripped. Their bodies were hard, top to toe, and good for them, but that wasn’t what she most wanted in her eyes and in her bed.
The big guy in plaid swim trunks at the end of the bench, though...
He was tall— very tall—and tanned too, but rougher around the edges. Maybe midthirties, about a decade older than her, with intriguing little
lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes. His wavy near-black hair, slicked back from his face, fell to his broad shoulders.
His beard was thick and well maintained, but just a little too long for the cover of GQ , unless they had an annual Big Hottie Lumberjacks issue she hadn’t yet encountered on newsstands.
And best of all, he was clearly strong, but not lean. Not ripped. He had heft over those muscles, softness over that strength.
A belly that told her he liked his food as much as she did. If he held her, he’d envelop her with that broad frame of his.
As a woman with her own tall, generous body, that didn’t always happen, but she loved it whenever it did.
If she was built like a Valkyrie, like an opera singer in a horned helmet and molded breastplate belting out her final aria,
he was the dark, thick-thighed Viking striding onstage, bent on plundering her, and she would gladly welcome her ravishment.
“Anything happening with you, Peter?” the guy with sandy-blond hair had asked her Viking. “Did you get a callback for that
mobster movie?”
In response to his companion’s question, the Viking had given a single, definitive shake of his head. “Nope.”
And that was it. Nothing more.
As she’d discovered, such a laconic response was fully in char acter for him.
He’d sat quietly for fifteen minutes with his back against the side wall, his knees bent, his feet flat on the bench.
In that time, he interjected with his rumbly, deliciously deep voice once or twice, but otherwise listened to his companions, his face calm to the point of expressionlessness.
Except when he looked at her. His eyes were as dark as his hair, and they flicked her way frequently. Eventually, she’d caught
his gaze and held it. Smiled at him, a slow curve of her lips, and his expression hadn’t been so difficult to read then. He
hadn’t looked away until the guy to his right called his name and started yammering about a role in some sitcom pilot.
At that, he’d broken their prolonged eye contact and turned back to his group, his thick brows pinched in irritation.
But he hadn’t spoken another word until the other men had finally departed.
So yes, based on what she’d seen last night and today, Peter Reedton did not enjoy small talk, and his baseline temperament
in a group setting could not, in good conscience, be termed jolly . Even in a moment of professional triumph, his sharp-eyed intensity hadn’t softened, and he hadn’t offered more than a fleeting
smile in response to praise and good wishes.
As far as she could tell, he was reserved with nearly everyone.
With her, however, he was now—unlike last night—absolutely silent. And unless circumstances forced him to acknowledge her,
he didn’t.
She got it. He was pissed at her, and maybe he had reason to be, even though she’d made him no promises and done her best
not to mislead him.
Apparently he hadn’t understood, and he was angry. Fair enough.
But very soon, the two of them would be spending nearly every workday in close, unavoidable proximity, and unnecessary animosity was a luxury they could no longer afford.
Not if they wanted to excel in their performances, because that kind of one-on-one acting required a certain level of trust and teamwork.
He didn’t have to like her. He did need to cooperate with her.
So she followed him to his car, determined to clear the air. With each stride, he covered an absurd amount of ground, but
luckily, her legs were almost as long as his, and she was motivated to hustle.
She was also motivated to stare at his fine ass in those dark-wash jeans and the breadth of his shoulders testing the seams
of his untucked pale blue button-down. He wouldn’t welcome that kind of attention and admiration from her anymore, though.
Which caused a pang of—something—near the vicinity of her heart, but she couldn’t let that bother her.
“Peter!” she called.
He didn’t even glance her way.
His SUV was parked halfway across the expansive lot. By the time she caught up with him, her heart was thumping with exertion
and seemingly lodged in her throat. The rapid tap of her footsteps on the pavement must have warned him of her approach, but
if so, he chose to pretend otherwise.
“Peter.” As he searched his pockets for his keys, she laid a hand on his lower arm and tried to catch his eye. “We need to
talk.”
Beneath the sleeves rolled to his elbows, his forearms were thick, and the LA sun on his skin nearly seared her fingertips.
Not for long, though.
Within a heartbeat, he’d shaken off her touch and taken a step away, but at least he turned to face her. At least he made
eye contact, however begrudging.
He raised his dark brows. “Do we?”
Such stony displeasure for so little cause. She’d never understand men, at least men who weren’t members of her family.
And upon further reflection, he really didn’t have good reason to be pissed at her. She’d offered him a fuck, he’d accepted, and they’d both gotten off safely and repeatedly.
What precisely had he expected after one night spent with a stranger? An appointment to choose wedding announcements?
She hadn’t even given him her last name, and if he hadn’t picked up on that rather obvious clue, she didn’t know what to tell him.
“I think we do.” Hands on her hips, she studied him for a moment. “Is last night going to be a problem? Because if so—”
“Nope.” His tight smile didn’t reach his eyes. “No problem at all.”
In her opinion, an actor of his talent and wide-ranging experience—because yes, she’d used her phone to check out his IMDb
page back in her own hotel room that morning—should really be a better liar.
“I see.” She tipped her head to the side, her skepticism obvious. “Then why do you look so unhappy after landing the biggest
role of your career?”
With laudable insouciance, he leaned that fantastic ass against the side of his hybrid SUV, crossed his arms over his broad
chest, and met her gaze head-on. “You sure you want to know?”
The question was a warning of ugliness to come, but so be it. Better to lance the wound now and give it time to heal before
their first day on set as castaway castmates.
And luckily, her knowledge of American cinema provided the perfect response.
“Bring it on,” she told him, her smile wide and full of genuine amusement.
He didn’t ask her twice.