Текст книги "Fighting the Fall"

Автор книги: Jennifer Snow

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 15 страниц)

Chapter 8

Two weeks later, Parker bit her lip as she walked back and forth in front of the scale at the gym, not sure what result she was hoping for. After all the food she’d been stuffing into her face twenty-four-seven the last two weeks, there better be a difference . . . but she was terrified to see it. “Why don’t we weigh in tomorrow?”

“Get on the scale,” Tyson said.

“Why are you so bossy and rude all the time?” She placed her hands on her hips and glared at him.

“If you’re trying to start an argument to procrastinate, it’s not going to work. Now, either step on willingly or I’ll pick you up and put you on there myself.”

She swallowed hard, half tempted to let him, if only to have those hands on her. The last two weeks, they’d cooled things a little . . . After the fiasco with the paparazzi, the last thing either of them needed was unwanted media attention. It made sense—he had a fight coming up, she had the movie to think about.

It was smart. It was the right thing to do.

It sucked.

Seeing him every day at the gym—training with him, feeling his hands on her body to correct her form but lingering just a little too long and then leaving him at the end of the day—had been tough. He still looked at her with open attraction, yet his restraint was off the charts. It annoyed her to no end, especially when she lay in bed fantasizing about him every night.

“Parker!”

Her cheeks flushed at the path her thoughts had taken and she stepped onto the scale.

He moved the lever along the bar. He smiled. “Ten pounds in two weeks. Great job.”

She wasn’t listening as she stared in disbelief and panic at the number.

“You can get off now,” he said behind her, but she was frozen in place.

She hadn’t weighed that much since junior high, since her grandmother had put her on her first diet. Her chest hurt and her breath caught. So this was what an anxiety attack felt like.

“Parker, you okay?” Tyson asked, coming closer.

She nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again.

She felt his hand on her arm, helping her off the scale. “It’s ten pounds, not a hundred. Breathe.”

Ha! Obviously he had no idea how hard it was for someone with her body shape to lose ten pounds. Oh God . . . Why had she listened to him? “I can’t gain anymore, Tyson,” she said, knowing she sounded ridiculous, but unable to stop the words or the panicked feeling from creeping across her chest.

“Just five or six more and you should be good.”

“No!”

Her yell caught his attention and just about everyone else’s in the gym. He stood in front of her and stooped lower to look into her eyes. “What is it?”

“I haven’t weighed this much in years. You have no idea what I’ve gone through in the past to lose weight . . .” Breathing became difficult again.

He took her shoulders and led her to the full-length mirror across the room in front of the free weights. Standing behind her, he lifted the edge of her shirt, revealing her stomach, which had gone from flat to the definite appearance of abdominals, giving her a new shape. “Look at those,” he said, gently running his finger along the new ridges in and around her belly button.

Her breath caught again, but this time it was from his touch—so intimate, so soft, so unlike any other touch from him. So unlike him.

She stared at his hand on her stomach and swallowed hard. Her stomach did look better—different, but better.

He moved his hands down the length of her arms, taking her wrists, lifting them, and bending them at the elbows. “Biceps . . .” Next he turned her arms to the side and a V-shape appeared in her shoulders above a muscle she hadn’t known existed. “Triceps.” He leaned closer and whispered, “Much sexier than noodle arms.”

She shivered as his breath blew the tendrils of hair at her neck, tickling her skin.

When he turned her back to the mirror, she tensed. His hands came around her body and cupped her tight ass. “Look behind you in the mirror. Better . . . hotter . . . more distracting than before, if that’s possible,” he whispered against her cheek.

Her breath hitched. His body so close to hers, his words echoing in her mind, and his hands touching her—gently, but with purpose. God, she was mesmerized. But it was his intent to show her how beautiful she was—how strong, how sexy—that was really the most intoxicating part. “Is this part of your coaching?” she asked, her breath steadying as she turned to look at him.

His hands released her, but he didn’t go anywhere, his gaze burning into hers. “I may be going a little above and beyond the job description.”

She could tell his actions had affected him as well. Weeks of no physical contact outside of the cage, it was a miracle they both still had clothes on right now. “So, this is just for me?”

“This is just for you.”

*   *   *

“Damn!” he muttered, pacing his office moments later. “Why did I touch her like that?”

He’d been doing so well the last couple weeks keeping things professional between them, keeping the focus on her training and his own, even if it was driving him completely insane. He hadn’t given in to a single temptation to kiss her or hold her or back her up against the cage . . .

Shit.

But moments ago, she’d been freaking out—on the verge of an anxiety attack over ten pounds. What choice did he have?

Lots of choices, actually. None of which involved giving in to the intense urge to touch her new body—her strong, sexy, lean body that still held the feminine curves that could make a man temporarily lose his mind.

That’s all it was. Temporary insanity caused by the hotness of one woman.

He’d experienced this before. All the time. He got hard just walking into a strip club. He liked sex. He was a man. Feeling attracted to a sexy as all hell woman was a perfectly acceptable reaction.

Feeling this insatiable attraction to a woman he’d already nailed before was a different story.

He sat in the chair and caught sight of her leaving the locker room in a pair of jeans and white tank top, her blonde hair, still wet from her shower, piled on top of her head. God, she was beautiful. Only now, it wasn’t her ass or her breasts he was staring at, it was her face and that amazing smile of hers he suddenly looked forward to seeing every morning. The one that made even the shittiest day seem bearable . . .

Damn. He suspected this feeling in his chest would be harder to explain away than the one in his gym shorts moments before.

*   *   *

“Grandma, where are you?” Parker called, carrying their chai tea lattes, which of course she would tell her grandmother were fat-free and sugar-free, and something she wouldn’t be telling Tyson about at all, into her grandmother’s house. Though knowing the man, he could probably smell it on her three days from now. The guy was intense. Especially the way he looked at her, watched her train, touched her earlier that day . . .

Her cheeks flushed at the memory. They were doing this protracted dance around each other again and it was driving her crazy. They’d agreed to cool things but he was obviously still attracted to her and she was . . . She paused. She was what? To say attracted to him would be an understatement, yet she wasn’t sure it went beyond a lust-filled intrigue with her bad-ass coach. At least she hoped it didn’t. Since ending things with Brantley, she wasn’t in any rush to get involved with yet another Mr. Wrong, and Tyson had been brutally honest when he’d told her where he stood regarding relationships. A commitment-phobe who was dedicated to one thing—his fighting career—wasn’t exactly Mr. Right either. Still, she wasn’t sure she cared.

“I’m out by the pool,” she heard her grandmother call as she entered the open-concept, white marble kitchen her grandmother had spent more than $100,000 remodeling the year before. She squinted as she walked through, the glaring sun against the white nearly blinding her. She’d never tell Abigail, but the older woman had gone way overboard with the white—floors, cupboards, appliances, and backsplashes. She felt sorry for her grandmother’s housecleaner. No amount of obsessive scrubbing could keep the kitchen sparkling.

The rest of the five-bedroom, four-bath bungalow-style home looked similar to the kitchen. Every room was professionally designed and decorated, with the furnishings and décor swapped out every couple of years as styles changed. Her grandmother’s home was always camera-ready for a spread in Modern Homes Magazine. But it was never comfortable and inviting. As a child, she’d felt as though she were living in a museum—not allowed to touch anything or make a mess.

She stepped through the patio door and saw Abigail lounging in the sun, wearing a large brimmed sunhat that covered the top half of her body, a towel around her lower half, and an oversized umbrella covering it all. Okay, so lounging in the sun wasn’t the best description. “Hi, I brought you your favorite nonfat, no-sugar latte.” She set the cup down and her grandmother reached for it instantly.

She took a sip and said, “I can’t believe these are healthy. They don’t taste healthy.”

“Starbucks—a modern miracle,” Parker said, kicking off her flip-flops and reclining in a chair beside her grandmother. This was one little white lie she had no trouble telling. The weekly latte was probably the only thing her grandmother had ever consumed that she enjoyed in her entire life. She still had the same thin shape she’d had at thirty, and Parker thought it was kind of sad that even after her acting career ended, her grandmother hadn’t relaxed enough to start enjoying things like sugar.

“You should be covered up,” Abigail said, forming as much of a frown as she could with the Botox filler in her forehead.

“I like the heat on my skin.”

“You won’t like the wrinkles.”

“That’s what Botox is for, isn’t it?” she said, though she was still opposed to the treatment. Injecting a disease into her face seemed counterproductive somehow. Though she’d never admit as much to her grandmother, who’d invested in a dermatological company the year before. Beauty for Life MD was making her grandmother almost as much money as her career in movies had and the additional perk—probably the biggest one for Abigail—was the free cosmetic procedures. Parker knew she could get the family discount if she wanted, but she hoped to hold onto her natural look as long as possible.

“You’ve gained weight,” Abigail said, setting her latte aside.

It wasn’t a question, so Parker didn’t answer.

“I can see it in your face and neck . . .” She removed her sunglasses to study her. “I thought you were working out all day, every day, for this new role.” The look of disappointment and judgment was one Parker should be used to by now.

“I am working out, but I needed to put on some muscle,” she said, knowing this was one conversation her grandmother just wouldn’t understand. A low number on the scale was her number-one priority. How many times had she heard that growing up? And despite Hollywood’s changing landscape and its increasing acceptance of plus-size models in the fashion industry, her grandmother was old school. Gain weight, your career was over. End of story.

“Have you cleared it with the director?”

Oh God—how many times over the years had she heard that? As a child actress, she couldn’t cut her hair without her current director or agent’s approval. If she got a bruise anywhere visible, they had to be notified immediately in case a job came up . . . which meant she wasn’t allowed to get a bruise or cut or scratch . . . which meant she wasn’t allowed to play anything where she could get hurt. Basically anything fun.

The year she lost her front tooth was like Armageddon at home. She’d had to keep her mouth closed during all of her casting calls and the inevitable speech impediment that accompanied missing teeth had cost her so many jobs that year her grandmother had exclaimed dramatically, “Career over at nine.”

At the time she’d cried her eyes out, but now she laughed at the memory whenever she recalled it. Her grandmother still didn’t think it was funny.

“Trust me, Grandma, the weight gain is fine.”

Abigail didn’t look convinced. “You know I don’t understand it when actresses gain weight or purposely try to look hideous for a role. I’m not sure they can ever recover from that.” She rolled onto her stomach.

Parker bit her lip, fighting the urge to remind her grandmother of the many actresses who’d taken such a gamble and it paid off with an Oscar. She reached for her drink, but then thought better of it and set it aside.

The gamble had paid off for other actresses, but would it for her? What if she was gaining weight and putting her future prospects at risk for no pay off in the end. Her gut feeling that this movie was going to be a hit could be wrong after all. “Grandma, are you sure taking this role was a good idea?” she asked quietly, watching the glistening reflecting off of the pool.

The sound of her grandmother snoring was the only response she received.

Sighing, she stood, and, bending to kiss the sleeping woman’s cheek, she whispered a good-bye and let herself out. This was one internal battle she was going to have to fight alone.

*   *   *

Reluctantly, Parker stepped onto the scale a few days later. After a ten-minute battle, of course. He’d never seen anyone so freaked out by a scale before. Tyson frowned as he slid the slider to the left instead of the right. What the hell? “What happened?”

Parker didn’t look at him as she stepped down. “I don’t know. Maybe your meal plan isn’t as solid as you thought.”

No, that wasn’t it. “You’re not eating everything on the daily menu.”

“Yes, I am.”

“There’s no way you would lose weight if you were.” He placed his hands on his hips and studied her.

“What do you want me to say, Tyson? I’m eating.” She threw up her hands. “I don’t know what to tell you. Besides, it’s only four pounds. I think I’m good enough where I am anyway.”

Good enough where she was? Their goal had been twenty pounds; they’d agreed on it. Something was going on with her. He checked his watch. “Okay. Well, it’s after twelve. Let’s go eat.”

“Now? I didn’t bring much . . .”

“I have enough to feed an army.” He’d stepped up his own training as well in recent weeks to be ready for the fight, which was drawing nearer faster than he liked. “Let’s go.”

She let out a deep breath, glancing around to make sure they were alone in the cardio area before speaking. “It’s too much, Tyson . . . all the food, getting up at two a.m. to drink that awful shake. It’s bullshit and I can’t gain any more weight.”

“What you’re gaining is muscle, Parker, not fat. What are you stressing about?” Man, he’d never get women and their weight issues. Beautiful was beautiful, sexy was sexy, no matter what number the scale read. “Believe it or not, you look smaller now than you did when you walked in here four weeks ago—tighter, toned . . .” His dick perked up as his eyes danced over her, and he sighed.

Really not the time.

Taking her hand, he led her away from the scale. He sat on the bench and she sat next to him. He waited for her to talk, sensing there was plenty she wasn’t saying.

Finally she cleared her throat. “My grandmother is Abigail Hamilton . . .”

He nodded. He’d Googled Parker weeks ago, so he knew she’d been raised by her Hollywood actress grandmother after her parents died in a fire when she was seven. He’d also seen pictures of her walking the red carpet as a kid and then, as she got older, accompanied by movie producers and other male actors who he couldn’t name if his life depended on it. All he knew was that it had annoyed him.

“My grandmother is all Hollywood—she’s glamour and glitz, she’s elegant, and she’s an icon in the industry . . . It’s a lot to live up to.”

He waited for her to continue. They were more alike than she knew. Living in the shadow of Alan “The Steel Fist” Reed hadn’t exactly been easy either. His father had set standards no one could live up to.

“My parents were the complete opposite—so down to earth. My mom was a literary agent and my father was a lawyer. When I was born, my parents moved away from California to keep me as far away from the acting world as possible but as I got older and spent time with my grandmother during the summer and watched her old films . . . I just fell in love with it all. My parents hoped it was just a phase, but I knew from early on I wanted to be just like her.” She paused. “After my parents died and I moved in with her, she started sending me to casting calls, which I loved, but the feedback for an eight-year-old who’d never been exposed to this world before was devastating. They would say I was too fat, or too thin, or my nose was too big.” She shook her head.

“Idiots,” he mumbled.

She smiled softly. “Unfortunately, I didn’t think so—I thought they knew what they were talking about and by the time I was sixteen, I’d been on too many diets to count, I’d had plastic surgery”—she motioned her chest—“and I’d had a slight nose realignment.”

“At sixteen?” He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Her grandmother should have been charged with child abuse. Then an image of his father waking him up at three a.m. at the age of twelve to run eight miles before school flashed in his mind . . . followed by the intense weight training he’d insisted on before his body had had time to develop. Okay, maybe parents fucked up often in their attempts to give their children the futures they wanted . . . or the ones they wanted for them.

But he wouldn’t fault his father for anything, the same way he suspected Parker would never hold any of this against her grandmother. Ultimately, they’d both succeeded because of the intensity of the guidance they’d received—depending on the definition of success.

“Anyway, as you can tell, image is important to me and a lot of my self-worth is tied to that. My career, my passion for making movies relies on it.”

He understood. He also knew changing her body was the easy part; changing her mind-set about nutrition and body image was the challenge. Standing, he took her hands. “Come on . . . let’s go train. Do you still want to look the part?”

She nodded. “Yes, I do . . . I’m just freaking out a little.”

“Well, stop. I’ll make a deal with you,” he said, “Keep training and eating the way I’ve told you to for now and then after you’re done filming, I’ll help you get your old body back. If you want it back.”

A momentary look of surprise and something else in her expression made him a little uncomfortable, before she grinned. “Did you hear what you just said?”

“Yes.”

“So, you realize you just offered to train me again . . . beyond our original agreement.”

He nodded, his mouth too dry to speak.

“I mean, in a few weeks you could be done with me, never have to see me again, yet you’re offering . . .”

“Okay! Stop, don’t make me retract the offer,” he said with a grin.

She laughed as she walked away and headed downstairs. “I won’t let you, and you can count on me taking you up on it, Coach.”

Alone, he ran a hand over his head. She was right—he had just extended his time with her, which was counterproductive to his vow of never being with her again. In a few weeks, the temptation would have been gone, but he’d opened his big mouth and invited it to stay.

Now it was his turn to freak out a little.

Chapter 9

As Parker collected her training gear later that day, she noticed Tyson’s brother, Connor, wiping down the cardio equipment upstairs. She’d seen him around the gym a lot lately—mainly keeping to himself as he collected used towels or mopped the floor or Windexed the mirrors near the free weights. The guy didn’t stop. Tyson hadn’t said anything about him being there, and she was curious. Not that she thought for a second she was going to actually get an answer from him.

Regardless, clearing her throat, she asked, “What’s the story on your brother?” She nodded toward Connor.

Tyson didn’t turn to look as he continued unwrapping his hands. “No story.”

Bullshit. “The guy doesn’t have laces in his shoes and he has track marks on both forearms. I could probably guess . . .”

He sighed. “And you’d be right. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. He’s just here helping out for extra cash.” He paused before adding. “Just stay away from him though, okay?”

She nodded. “He’s younger than you?” She couldn’t determine his age. He was so thin and pale—he could be sixteen or sixty. She was just guessing based on Tyson’s protective attitude he’d displayed toward him.

“Older.”

“Does he fight too?”

“Funny thing. The MFL doesn’t really have a crackhead weight division,” he said harshly.

“Sorry,” she mumbled, stashing her gear inside the bag. Clearly this conversation was over.

He sighed, grabbing her arm as she turned to leave. “That was rude,” he said tightly. “I’m sorry. Connor is just a hot topic for me, okay?”

“Yeah, I get it. I was just curious.” She shrugged as she studied his conflicted expression. She wanted to know more about him . . . wanted to spend more time with him outside of the gym . . . was desperate to somehow get back to being in his arms, even if there was no future and only heartache in them.

“He’s harmless though, so you don’t have to worry. If you feel uncomfortable at all, just say the word and he’s out of here.”

She suspected Connor was already struggling with having his brother there in the first place.

“Can I just ask one more thing?” She bit her lip.

He sighed. “Sure.”

“That tattoo on his neck . . . is that a prison tattoo?” she whispered, as the man in question descended the stairs, carrying disinfection spray and an armful of towels.

Tyson laughed. “No.” He leaned against the wall and slid his back along the length to the floor, patting the mat next to him.

She sat and waited, hoping she was finally about to get another glimpse into his world and eager for it.

“It’s a homemade tattoo of our family crest.”

“Wait—homemade as in he did it himself?” she asked in disbelief.

“Yep.”

“And it’s your family crest? What is it?”

“Have you ever noticed the symbol on the Punisher Athletics sign out front?”

She nodded. “The suit of armor helmet and some kind of bird?”

He smiled. “It’s a dragon bird. It’s cool,” he reassured.

She laughed, holding her hands up. “I wasn’t judging. There’s also words—Pax . . . something?”

“Pax Copia—it’s our family motto. It means Peace, plenty.”

“Ironic for an MMA gym, don’t you think?”

“Maybe . . .”

“Anyway, I have to say that thing on his neck looks nothing like the picture on the sign.” It didn’t look like much of anything, the ink faded and missing in sections. Made sense now that she knew it hadn’t been done professionally.

Tyson stood and extended a hand to help her up. “I know, and the worst of it is, I’m branded with one as well.”

Her eyes widened. “Noooo.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” he said, turning and lowering his gym shorts down over one butt cheek.

One sexy, tight butt cheek . . . branded with the same weird design. Parker stared at it in disbelief. She hadn’t noticed it the few times she’d gotten him naked. Of course there had been plenty of other things to focus on then—like his sculpted pecs and abs, the large biceps, and thick thighs . . . She shook the thoughts away. “You let your brother do this to you?”

“Hardly. I was drunk and passed out. It was the first and last time I ever drank that much,” he said, raising his shorts. “It was the first tattoo I ever received, and the only one I wish I didn’t have. When Connor had come home that night with a tattoo gun claiming he wanted to become a tattoo artist, I refused to be his practice canvas.”

“Then you started drinking,” Parker said.

“And the next morning woke up with a sore ass and a permanent warning never to drink so much again.”

Parker laughed. “Well, at least you learned your lesson.”

He shot her a look. “Oh, come on, I see the way you try to hide that tiny Japanese symbol on your hip—you have ink regret too. At least I had no choice in mine.”

She sighed, lowering her shorts to look at the blurry, faded tat. She’d hoped he hadn’t noticed it. He was right—she did go to great lengths to keep it covered. “I hate it,” she admitted. “I got it to piss off my grandmother when I was seventeen. Biggest mistake ever. I lost modeling jobs because of it and the makeup crews on set have to constantly keep it covered while filming. I’ve thought of getting it removed . . .”

“But . . .”

“I hear it hurts a lot, like a million times worse than getting the tattoo in the first place.” She’d researched it a million times, but always chickened out when it came down to placing the call for the appointment.

“I’m sure it can’t be that bad,” Tyson said.

“Oh, really? Then why haven’t you removed yours?”

“It’s on my ass, I never see it.” He shrugged. “And most women only get that one chance to possibly see it and usually they are a little too preoccupied.” He smirked.

Her eyes narrowed and she punched his shoulder. “Yes, I’ve heard.” She paused. She really must be desperate to spend time with him outside the gym, she thought, as she said, “I’ll remove mine if you remove yours.”

He hesitated. “I don’t know. I’ve heard it often takes several sessions for it to disappear completely.”

“Fine. If you’re afraid . . .”

Before she could utter another syllable, he charged toward her and scooped her up, tossing her over his shoulder and spanking her ass before carrying her into the change-room, where he set her down and backed her up against the lockers. Taking her hands, he pinned them above her head before kissing her hard.

Her breath caught in her throat and her knees buckled under her as she returned the kiss, releasing all of the pent-up attraction and sexual frustration she’d been battling for weeks. Thank God, he hadn’t been able to stick to his word about keeping it professional. When he broke away, she smiled. “So, is that a yes?”

“Make the appointments,” he grumbled against her lips before kissing her again.

*   *   *

As Tyson pulled his motorcycle into the parking lot of Serenity Laser Tattoo removal clinic, he still couldn’t believe she’d been successful in her bullying technique to get him to agree to this. Sure, he couldn’t stand the ugly, unreadable tattoo on his ass, but he’d lived with it this long.

A part of him was also reluctant to part with it—a good memory of times with his brother.

Cutting the engine of the bike, he removed his helmet and glanced back at Parker. “You’re sure about this?” Give her time to chicken out now that he’d called her bluff and they were there.

Unfortunately, she nodded eagerly as she removed her helmet and shook her blonde waves free. “Definitely. Look at this place. It looks more like a day spa than a medical clinic,” she said, climbing off of the bike.

He glanced at the building. The pink concrete exterior with the inviting, peaceful palm trees around it didn’t fool him. Awaiting them inside were lasers. Lasers. Did Parker fully understand the word? “I wouldn’t get my hopes up for a nice relaxing time,” he mumbled, fastening their helmets to the back of the bike. “You do know how this works, right?” He did. A little too well. He’d spent the day before watching YouTube videos of the procedure. Since watching his opponents previous fights always helped to prepare him for the battle ahead, he’d hoped the same concept would apply . . . it hadn’t. It had only terrified him. While the whole thing was relatively quick, the people in those videos looked like they were in serious pain.

“Don’t be such a baby. The website said the procedure is virtually painless. They use some sort of skin chiller.” She shrugged as she led the way up the stone pathway toward the front door.

Following her inside, he shook his head. “I’m just saying. They can claim whatever they want on their website. This shit’s going to hurt.”

Several other people waiting for their appointments glanced up at him with worried expressions and Parker hit his arm. “Shhh, you’re bad for business,” she said, as they approached the reception desk to check in. “Hi. Parker Hamilton and Tyson Reed—we have appointments with Dr. McNally at eleven.”

The young receptionist’s eyes lit up as she stood. “Oh my God. I saw the name on the appointment schedule, but I thought no way could it be you.”

Parker smiled. “Yes, I . . .”

But the girl was looking straight at Tyson. Parker stopped speaking and shot him a look.

He laughed as he shrugged. “What? Vegas is my city . . . go back to Hollywood,” he said with a teasing grin.

“Would you sign something for me?” the receptionist, whose name tag read Amber, asked. “Here. We also need these filled out,” she said distractedly, handing Parker a clipboard with a new patient registration form attached while she continued to stare at Tyson, waiting for an answer.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” Tyson said.

Coming around the desk, she handed him a marker, then lowered the edge of her white uniform blouse, revealing the tanned, shapely swell of her breast.

Parker’s eyes shot daggers.

He hesitated. It wasn’t the first breast he’d ever signed, but they were in the middle of the clinic reception area. And Parker looked ready to punch the girl. “Are you sure you don’t want me to sign something a little more . . . permanent?”

Amber shook her head. “Nah, it’s fine. I’ll take a selfie before I take a shower.”

“Of course she will,” he heard Parker mumble as she carried the clipboard to an open seat in the waiting room.

He signed his name, then hurried to sit next to her. “You know, this place doesn’t seem so bad after all.”

“Shut up and fill this out,” she said, handing him the clipboard.

He took it. “Are you jealous?”

“Why? Because you’re a fan favorite? Not at all.”

He set the clipboard aside, and turned to face her. “I meant because I saw her breast in record time.”

She scoffed. “I’m an actress. Are you going to be jealous when I’m kissing other men on set?” Her gaze was locked on his in challenge.

His smile faded. Shit. He hadn’t even thought of that until now.

“Good to know,” she said, her own smile returning.

*   *   *

“All right. Let’s see what we’re dealing with here,” Dr. McNally, a man in his late forties, early fifties said, putting on his glasses as they entered the treatment room.