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Authors: Lila Monroe
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way.” Paige’s lower lip wobbled
slightly; her eyes took on the slightest sheen of unshed tears. “I’ve
been under her heel so long, sometimes I forget that it’s
actually my life. I let her take over. You were so smart to move out
when you did, get yourself out from under her thumb. I’ve been
thinking about doing the same. So I can start doing things my way.”
I restrained myself from leaping up and
doing a victory dance; I didn’t want to scare her off. Instead
I asked, “Are you moving in with Sergei?”
Paige shook her head regretfully. “No.
It’s tempting—Lord, is it tempting—but I have to
stand on my own two feet first.” She looked determined, and
then she sighed. “It’s hard work, though. I’ve been
looking at apartment listings, trying to work out a budget I can live
on with my salary, but everything is so overwhelming.”
“I’ll help you!” I
volunteered.
Paige’s face lit, then fell
again. “But you’re so busy. I couldn’t impose.”
I took her hand and squeezed it. “Hey,
anything for my big sister. Especially anything for a big sister like
you.”
And then tears really did well up in
Paige’s eyes, and she stood, pulling me toward her to envelop
me in a great big bear hug that warmed me to my bones.
So that was one source of guilt
resolved.
How much trouble could the next one
cause?
(Ever hear the phrase ‘famous
last words’?)
SEVEN
“How’s my favorite ad
person?” Hunter asked, strolling onto set.
“Uh, I’m the only ad person
you even remotely consider human,” I told him, trying to ignore
how delectable he looked in a loose white linen shirt that set off
his tan, and jeans that hugged his ass in all the right ways. “And
I’m great! I mean, I’m being eaten alive by this schedule
and judging by their hungry looks, possibly eventually also by the
actors, but I’m great—”
“Excuse me!” Our director
bustled up, a feisty woman with horn-rimmed glasses, short spiky blue
hair, and the drive of Napoleon. “We still need footage of the
distillery, and if we don’t leave now, we’ll lose the
light, and of course the lighting people will do their best to fill
it in, but artificial is never the same as—”
“Right, right,” I said.
“Well, if you’re all ready, I’ll lead you there…”
“One minute!” She bustled
off again, shouting for cameramen and personal assistants and
lighting directors and sound guys.
Hunter touched my arm. “May I tag
along?”
I raised my eyebrow in mock outrage.
“On your own plantation? How dare you suggest such a thing!”
He laughed and linked his arm with
mine, strolling along with me as the director corralled her minions
and began to follow us to the distillery. On the way there I talked
almost entirely to the director—scenes we should shoot, shots
we should cut, lighting, color, camera angles—and yet I never
lost track of the sensation of Hunter’s strong arm through
mine, Hunter’s strong presence at my side. The heat coming off
his skin, the heat coming through his eyes.
It was a sensation I believed I could
get extremely used to.
As we strolled—well, as Hunter
and I strolled; I don’t think the director was capable of less
than a full-on bustle, and her assistants scurried after her—we
passed some of her colleagues conducting interviews with the workers.
One fellow, on the older side, self-conscious in his denim overalls,
shuffled his feet and said to his interviewer as we passed, “Well,
it’s the taste of the South and that’s no mistake.”
“Did you hear that?” I
asked Hunter. “I love it; it’s perfect for a tag line!”
“I defer to your expertise,”
Hunter said with a formal bow and a teasing smile.
“It’s certainly one
possibility,” the director said grumpily. Earlier in the day, I
might have taken umbrage at her tone, but by now I knew it was just
how she communicated. Compared to some of the things she’d said
earlier, this was practically a ringing
slightly; her eyes took on the slightest sheen of unshed tears. “I’ve
been under her heel so long, sometimes I forget that it’s
actually my life. I let her take over. You were so smart to move out
when you did, get yourself out from under her thumb. I’ve been
thinking about doing the same. So I can start doing things my way.”
I restrained myself from leaping up and
doing a victory dance; I didn’t want to scare her off. Instead
I asked, “Are you moving in with Sergei?”
Paige shook her head regretfully. “No.
It’s tempting—Lord, is it tempting—but I have to
stand on my own two feet first.” She looked determined, and
then she sighed. “It’s hard work, though. I’ve been
looking at apartment listings, trying to work out a budget I can live
on with my salary, but everything is so overwhelming.”
“I’ll help you!” I
volunteered.
Paige’s face lit, then fell
again. “But you’re so busy. I couldn’t impose.”
I took her hand and squeezed it. “Hey,
anything for my big sister. Especially anything for a big sister like
you.”
And then tears really did well up in
Paige’s eyes, and she stood, pulling me toward her to envelop
me in a great big bear hug that warmed me to my bones.
So that was one source of guilt
resolved.
How much trouble could the next one
cause?
(Ever hear the phrase ‘famous
last words’?)
SEVEN
“How’s my favorite ad
person?” Hunter asked, strolling onto set.
“Uh, I’m the only ad person
you even remotely consider human,” I told him, trying to ignore
how delectable he looked in a loose white linen shirt that set off
his tan, and jeans that hugged his ass in all the right ways. “And
I’m great! I mean, I’m being eaten alive by this schedule
and judging by their hungry looks, possibly eventually also by the
actors, but I’m great—”
“Excuse me!” Our director
bustled up, a feisty woman with horn-rimmed glasses, short spiky blue
hair, and the drive of Napoleon. “We still need footage of the
distillery, and if we don’t leave now, we’ll lose the
light, and of course the lighting people will do their best to fill
it in, but artificial is never the same as—”
“Right, right,” I said.
“Well, if you’re all ready, I’ll lead you there…”
“One minute!” She bustled
off again, shouting for cameramen and personal assistants and
lighting directors and sound guys.
Hunter touched my arm. “May I tag
along?”
I raised my eyebrow in mock outrage.
“On your own plantation? How dare you suggest such a thing!”
He laughed and linked his arm with
mine, strolling along with me as the director corralled her minions
and began to follow us to the distillery. On the way there I talked
almost entirely to the director—scenes we should shoot, shots
we should cut, lighting, color, camera angles—and yet I never
lost track of the sensation of Hunter’s strong arm through
mine, Hunter’s strong presence at my side. The heat coming off
his skin, the heat coming through his eyes.
It was a sensation I believed I could
get extremely used to.
As we strolled—well, as Hunter
and I strolled; I don’t think the director was capable of less
than a full-on bustle, and her assistants scurried after her—we
passed some of her colleagues conducting interviews with the workers.
One fellow, on the older side, self-conscious in his denim overalls,
shuffled his feet and said to his interviewer as we passed, “Well,
it’s the taste of the South and that’s no mistake.”
“Did you hear that?” I
asked Hunter. “I love it; it’s perfect for a tag line!”
“I defer to your expertise,”
Hunter said with a formal bow and a teasing smile.
“It’s certainly one
possibility,” the director said grumpily. Earlier in the day, I
might have taken umbrage at her tone, but by now I knew it was just
how she communicated. Compared to some of the things she’d said
earlier, this was practically a ringing
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