For the rest of the ride, I slide my tongue back and forth between my teeth to keep from grinding them together.
When we reach the location for the shoot—a historic diner in the heart of downtown Nashville that’s been rented out for the entire day—Lucas stops me before I open my door. “Look, I don’t . . . do very well with this kind of thing with other people around.”
Shyness is not something I expect from Lucas, and I’m taken aback. “Meaning you want me to stay outside,” I say.
“Don’t sound so dejected. You’ve got the business credit card Kylie left, right?”
“Yes,” I say.
“There’s seven more days after this. You have a tendency to dress like a first grade teacher and since you’re a direct reflection of me—well, do something about it.”
“I’m a wardrobe girl.”
“Who dresses like a 23 year old teacher.”
“I am 23.”
“And you’re my a.s.sistant who’s agreed to do as I say. Right now I’m telling you to buy clothes that fit the role. Don’t tell me you can’t because I know you’re f**king incredible at what you do,” he says. Then, lifting his eyebrows suggestively, he leans forward and places his elbows on his knees. “Because as it stands, the only thing I want to do when I look at you is take a ruler, bend you across a desk and—”
“I’ll do it!” I cry out, squeezing my eyes shut to flush out the imagery that’s just thrust itself into my brain. Every time I think I’m making a little progress of not thinking about s.e.x and Lucas, he stomps all over it.
If he notices that I’ve not referred to him as Mr. Wolfe or Sir once during this exchange, he doesn’t say anything. He sits in the same position, staring at me expectantly until I realize at last that he’s waiting for me to let him out.
Seven days.
He winks at me as he steps out of the Cadillac. As he slides past me, his body brushes mine. It’s just the tiniest of touches, the back of his wrist against my belly b.u.t.ton, his shoulder skimming the top of my head so that strands of my red hair cling to his V-neck tee, but it’s enough to make us both pause.
Tentatively, I shift forward. The muscles jump under his cheeks, and he reaches up, past me, to close the car door. He keeps his eyes off of my face as he says, “When you’re shopping . . . remember you’re dressing a rocker’s personal a.s.sistant, remember we’ve got a semi-formal birthday party to go to while in Atlanta. And if I so much as see one lame a.s.s cardigan, I swear I’ll burn it.”
He stalks past me and into the diner. Instead of following him with my gaze, I close my eyes.
Fantasize about what would’ve happened if our lips had touched.
Feel parts of me that I shut down two years ago wake up once again.
†
As I shop at the trendy boutiques and vintage stores downtown Nashville is popular for, my mind pings back and forth between Lucas, my duty to finish up my seven days and get the house back.
And my life in California.
And I can’t resist wondering if I had given in to Lucas when we almost spent the night together, would things be different now? Would I be different? My attraction to him was immediate, one of those things that took my breath away, numbing my senses and making me ache all at once. I was drawn to his music, the way his voice had a way of tearing away my layers and digging to my very core, even when he was singing about strippers and partying.
Apparently, Lucas was drawn to me because . . . I had a hard time saying “no” on set.
Except to him, and he was too infatuated to realize that until it was too late.
The back of my neck tingles, and I tilt my head to each side to stretch it. I’ve got to quit letting the past mess with my head. I just need to forget Lucas Wolfe and all of this and move on. I just need—
“Sienna?” a female voice calls my name.
I glance up from the black skinny jeans that I’m clutching to face a girl with short, spiky turquoise and pink hair and snake bite piercings. I squint for a second, trying to place her. As she comes closer, her face unblurs, and I mentally take away the facial piercings and picture her with blonde Jennifer Aniston-esque layers and a pink Polo shirt. I feel my lips automatically curl into a grin. Jessica rushes forward to hug me.
Drawing back, she squeals. “Dude, I haven’t seen you in—what?—four or five years? What are you now, a teac—?”
“Wardrobe a.s.sistant for Echo Falls,” I say before she has the chance to call me a teacher. Self-consciously, I tug at the hem of my flutter sleeve top. Guess it does its job of making me look professional. To the point that my boss wants to spank me with a ruler and an old friend a.s.sumes I spend my days drilling addition into first graders’ brains.
Nice.
“No s.h.i.t,” she says. She drapes the armful of clothes she’s carrying across a mannequin’s arm, despite the nasty look the sales girl working the floor gives her. Jessica rolls her eyes. “I f**king hate that show.”
“Me too,” I say, and she grins.
“How long you here for?”
Glancing down at a rack, I shrug. “Just another couple weeks. I’m doing a favor for a . . . um . . . friend and helping my grandma with a few things.”
“How’s she doing?” When I tell her that Gram is well, she tilts her head to the side, nodding. “And your mama?”
That familiar buzz of humiliation makes me bow my head a little, but I fight back the urge to flinch. When my mom and her husband had gone down for selling and trafficking prescription drugs, they’d taken Jessica’s uncle with them. Jessica never seemed too hurt about it—and she’s not mentioning it right now—but I hate that she’s asked about my mother.