Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 110360 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 552(@200wpm)___ 441(@250wpm)___ 368(@300wpm)
“Not the—” Madison groaned. “Lipstick.”
Too late.
I angled deeper anyway, because at that point it was a matter of principle.
My hand drifted up her—
Smack.
Madison slapped it away. “And don’t even think about touching the hair.”
Lofton laughed against my mouth, shoulders shaking, and just like that, the moment broke.
I dragged a hand down my face. “You really oversold that bending you over the table thing.”
Lofton laughed.
Madison grinned, prepping to repair what I’d undone.
And I stood there, wishing we were back at the farm where bedrooms existed and over fifty percent of the woman I loved was accessible.
Once the reshoots actually started, the day moved fast.
I ran threat assessments and monitored access points. I walked the perimeter three times, checked in with Apollo twice, and kept one eye on every entrance and exit without ever fully removing the other from the woman on set.
It wasn’t the makeup. It wasn’t the costume, though both were genuinely…mindboggling. It was the transformation. The way she walked onto that set and became someone entirely different.
Different posture.
Different energy.
Different tone of voice.
While somehow remaining completely, unmistakably herself at the same time.
I’d seen that woman cry in a barn. Laugh until she couldn’t breathe. Stand in her kitchen at six in the morning in mismatched socks, singing something under her breath while turning bacon.
And now she was this.
And, fuck me, she was extraordinary at it.
I stood there with an enormous smile on my face and nothing but pity in my chest for the rest of the world that only got this version of Lofton. The polished, painted, camera-ready version. Because the best pieces of Lofton Beck existed before the makeup went on and after it came off.
Those pieces were mine.
By the time the director finally called a wrap on the day, it was dark outside and the entire Guardian team was already at the beach house waiting for us.
Lofton emerged from her dressing room looking fully herself again in a simple off-the-shoulder black t-shirt dress and a pair of heels I distinctly recognized from her button-down seduction routine.
“We’re late!” she called, trotting down the hall, stopping disappointingly short of my arms.
I didn’t bother feigning professionalism. I glided my hand from the small of her back down to her ass. “Nice shoes.”
She turned her head to look up at me, eyes bright, mouth tipping into something shy and private. “I’m slightly offended you even noticed I had feet that night.”
“I notice everything. Including the fact that you wore those shoes specifically to torture me tonight, knowing good and damn well I’m gonna have to spend the next few hours counting down the minutes until I can get you out of them again.”
“Maybe you should let me keep them on this time.”
“You bring your overalls?”
She scoffed. “God, no.”
“Shame.”
Laughing, she fell into step beside me, close enough that our arms brushed with every stride. “Tell me somebody already let the chef in.”
“Handled.”
She hooked her arm through mine. “Devon Grant, First of His Name—”
I closed my eyes briefly. “Please. Not tonight.”
“Rightful Heir to All My Orgasms and Provider of Entry to Personal Chefs.”
“Lofton.”
“I’m just filling in titles as you earn them. It’s a living document.”
I steered her toward the exit, the SUV already waiting at the curb, and for one brief, uncomplicated moment, everything was right.
One hallway left.
One turn.
Twenty feet to the door.
I came to a dead stop so sudden that Lofton walked two full steps past me before she registered I wasn’t beside her.
“Devon?”
I didn’t answer her.
My eyes were already locked on the man by the door and my body had gone completely still as every alarm I had fired simultaneously.
Carter Olsen.
Six-five. Black hair. Built like a tank with an attitude that matched.
Time folded in on itself.
He’d been front and center for the worst night of my professional life. Every excruciating, career-ending, whiskey-soaked second of it. He’d been the one who’d moved first. The one who’d put me on the ground and kept me there. The one who’d carried me out while my life burned down around us.
My entire fucking body locked up tight, my heart pounding in my chest as the train wreck of my past collided with my present.
Carter held my gaze for a long moment. His expression unreadable as if the world didn’t deserve to know what he was thinking. He showed absolutely no reaction to me before flipping his gaze away, and if that didn’t tell me absolutely everything I already knew, I didn’t know what would.
He wasn’t going to make a scene.
He wasn’t going to invade my closet, gather all my skeletons, shake the dust from their bones, and set them on display for Lofton.
Because Carter was a professional to the nth degree.
But you know who wasn’t?
“Henry!” Lofton’s voice came from beside me, bright with recognition.
Fuck.
Me.
25
LOFTON
“Henry!” I called as I caught sight of him at the end of the hall.