8. Heidi
HEIDI
Isit in the dim light of the edit bay, watching the sauna footage on the monitors.
I hate to admit it, but Max was right. The idea was actually good.
On screen, he’s is giving perfect commentary about leaving his old life behind for a future with someone in the house, comparing the heat to shedding an old skin. It’s a producer’s dream.
So is the footage of him leaning back on that bench, sweat slicking his chest and that towel hitched dangerously low.
I should be focused on the pacing, but my mind is a mess.
It turns out I’m not as immune to him as I thought.
He’s spent the last seventy-two hours being a constant, irritating presence.
He brushes against me at every opportunity, and when I passed him in the hall yesterday, he put his palm against the small of my back.
My skin actually hummed. It was a brief, heavy heat that made me forget my own name for a second. I hate that he can do that.
After what he said this morning in the sauna, his agenda is glaringly obvious. He’s tormenting me. He’s trying to bait me into making a move. It’s a game to him. A way to feed that massive ego.
“What do you think?” Miles asks, pausing the frame on a high-definition shot of Max’s abs.
“It’s great,” I say, my voice steady despite the way my skin still feels tight.
“Whatever you’re doing to him, it’s working,” Miles says.
“I’m not doing anything,” I say, the words coming out too fast.
“He wasn’t like this with Vanessa.”
For a moment, I’m terrified Miles can tell just how much Max is getting to me. I look away from the screen and shrug, saved by the sudden trill of my phone. But when I see the name on the display, it doesn’t feel like a save at all.
Vivian.
I answer, and she skips the pleasantries.
“Heidi, this sauna footage is gold,” she says, her voice humming with rare approval. “Max is finally giving us something to work with. Whatever you’re doing to keep him on track, keep doing it. This is the direction we need.”
“Thanks—” I start.
“Bye for now.”
She hangs up.
A surge of relief hits me, at least the professional side of this disaster is a success.
“See? Even the boss is happy,” Miles says, stretching his arms over his head. “I’m going to get some sleep.”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“You should, too.”
I nod and wait for the door to click shut. The room falls silent. I’m alone in the dark, staring at the monitors where the video is paused on a shot of Max.
Looking at him, I feel a slow, heavy heat stir inside me. It’s an ache that makes me angry.
What am I supposed to do with this? He’s on that screen, soaked and completely unbothered, and the truth finally sinks in: I’m losing my grip.
I need to move. I stand up, my legs feeling heavy, and head for the door. I need a cold shower to get this under control.
I pull my bedroom door open and stop dead.
“Freckles. We need to talk.”
The voice comes from the corner of the room. Max is sprawled in the armchair, looking far too comfortable in nothing but low-slung sweatpants. In his lap is that ridiculous manual I’d stuffed away in here.
“Max,” I breathe, my hand still gripping the door handle. “You can’t be in here.”
“Sure I can,” he says, cool and completely unbothered. “First of all…a fifty-pack?” He pulls my box of condoms from his sweatpants pocket and I quickly close the door. “Planning a busy week?”
“Those are for an emergency—”
“Seal’s intact.” His jaw ticks. “Good.”
He tosses them onto the bed. “Secondly…” He drops the book to the floor like it’s trash. “This isn’t good literature. I apologize. If you followed this advice, you wouldn’t get very far.”
“And you’re an expert on the subject, I guess?” I say, crossing my arms.
He looks up at me. The playfulness vanishes, replaced by a steady, heavy gaze that makes the room feel half its size.
“Actually,” he says softly. “Yes. I am.”
I roll my eyes, even as my heart kicks up. “Fascinating. Well, after the show wraps, maybe you can write your own manual. How to Drive Women Crazy. I’ll give you a testimonial for the back cover.”
I force myself to take a step toward the vanity, grabbing my brush. I pull the pins from my hair, letting it fall, and start brushing with more aggression than necessary. “What do you want? Let’s get this over with. I’d actually like to sleep tonight.”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, I hear the slow creak of the chair as he stands. He moves with a predatory grace that tells me sleep is the last thing on his mind.
“You were a bit flushed earlier,” he says. “I came to see if you’re alright.”
God, he’s arrogant. I steel myself, gripping the hairbrush tight. “It was a sauna. People get flushed. It’s biology.”
“Is it?” He’s closer now. I can smell him. Clean skin and his expensive aftershave. “Then let’s check your vitals. I’d hate for you to faint on my watch.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Duty of care,” he says. His hand closes around my wrist. His thumb circles slowly, sending a prickle up my skin before pressing into my pulse. He waits, his gaze locking onto mine. “Can’t feel it.”
Before I can pull away, he reaches for my neck, his palm cupping my jaw to tilt my face up. His thumb slides down, finding my pulse. He forces me to look at him, and for a second, he just wets his lips, watching the way I track the movement.
The pressure of his thumb against my pulse is hypnotic.
“Your pulse is racing. Feeling something?”
“No.” The lie is paper-thin.
My eyes betray me, darting to his lips. I try to pull back, to find some shred of professionalism, but he leans in, his shadow swallowing me. “Your heart says otherwise.”
He’s too close.
The air between us is charged. I tell myself I’m going to push him away—that my hands are moving to deliver a firm shove toward the door.
But as my palms land on his chest, I realize touching him was a mistake.
Logic vanishes. He’s solid and warm, his muscles tense under my touch.
Instead of a shove, my fingers curl around his neck, tangling in the hair at the nape of his head.
I pull him down that last, impossible inch, desperate to bridge the gap.
Our lips barely touch, but the contact sends a jolt straight through me. He starts slow, almost careful, like he’s giving me a second to pull away.
I don’t. I kiss him harder.
His restraint snaps. His mouth moves against mine, rough and urgent, and suddenly I’m off the ground, my back hitting the wall. I wrap my legs around his waist without thinking.
His mouth claims mine like he’s been starving. And God, so have I.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
We freeze. Then break apart. The air between us turns ice-cold as reality crashes back in. Max swears under his breath and dives for the ensuite. I scramble, kicking the box of condoms under the bed and frantically smoothing my hair.
“Just a second.” I take a frantic breath and open the door just as Molly raises her hand to knock again. She doesn’t wait for an invitation; she barrels past me.
“I can’t do this,” she announces, pacing in her silk pajamas. “I’m not getting enough screen time. My eyelash glue burned today. And I know the girls hate me.”
“Molly, it’s almost midnight.”
“I know that.” She flops into the armchair Max was just lounging in, looking like a dying starlet. “But how am I supposed to sleep when they’re plotting my downfall? Grace gave me a look at dinner. Like she was picturing me falling into a sinkhole.”
I’m trying not to sweat. Literally. The room still smells like Max’s aftershave, and my skin is still humming.
“It’s almost midnight, Mol. You’re tired. Everything feels worse when you’re tired,” I say.
“She hates me. She’s not even that pretty, really. If you took away the shiny hair and the perfect skin—”
Molly stops and squints at me. “Why are your cheeks so red?”
I touch my face. I’m flushed and hot. “I was just working out.”
“At midnight?” Molly gasps. “God, I really need to step up my game.”
“You need to sleep. Or...you’ll have dark circles.”
She looks horrified and races to the door. “Oh my God. That’s Grace’s plan, isn’t it? Make me stay up all night worrying…”
And she’s gone, sweeping out like she’s storming off a stage. I close the door, lock it, and exhale hard.
Max emerges from the ensuite, looking entirely too composed for a man who was just hiding in a bathroom. He closes the gap between us until the space feels claustrophobic again.
“Where were we?” he asks.
My traitorous heart gives a violent lurch. I can still feel the press of his body against mine, the heat of his mouth. I force myself to meet his eyes, praying he can’t see how thoroughly he just undid me.
“You were just leaving.”
“Is that what was happening?” His gaze drops to my mouth.
For a second, I slip. I look at his lips, at the faint pull of a smile he hasn’t fully committed to yet. Then I snap back. I’m a producer. One who almost got caught making out with the lead.
“Go.” My voice is final.
He finally relents, the door clicking shut behind him. I collapse against the wood, my forehead pressing into the grain. My breath comes in shallow hitches, and it takes far too long for my heart to settle.
I kissed him. He could tell anyone; he could get me kicked off this job. Maybe that’s his play—to get me out of the way so he can go back to his old habits.
I take a steadying breath.
Don’t panic.
It was just a kiss. I can spin a kiss. It was a heat-of-the-moment mistake caused by the stress of the shoot. No one cares about one kiss. But the ache he left behind, and the fact that I want to do it again? That’s going to be a much bigger problem.