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The sharp vibration of my phone jolted me awake.
My heart pounded as my eyes darted around in search of Mitch, but there was no one—just the cold emptiness of my room.
What a nightmare.
The phone was still ringing. Drew—our cameraman.
I groggily answered. “What—”
“Where the hell are you? The actors are already here.”
My stomach dropped. Shit.
I bolted upright, my pulse racing. “Fuck, I’m late!” I yanked my hair before scrambling across the room.
It took me fifteen minutes to jump into Mitch’s Benz, still in last night’s shirt and shorts. So much for professionalism.
By the time I reached the villa, Drew was already rolling the camera. Two women were tangled in the pool, their bodies slick from water and desire. Mitch stood at the edge, giving directions. The sight of him sent an involuntary shudder through me—damn that nightmare.
“Sorry, I overslept,” I whispered, stepping beside him.
He barely acknowledged me with a nod, eyes locked on the scene. I exhaled, trying to blend into the background until a deep, familiar voice hummed behind me.
“Morning, Director.”
I turned, nearly colliding with a broad, bare chest. Paxton.
His shirtless form was sculpted, effortlessly captivating, and entirely too close. I swallowed hard, my gaze dragging over the dips and ridges of his torso before I snapped myself out of it. Not again.
I rolled my eyes. “You—”
Before I could finish, Mitch barked, “And cut!”
He turned to me, looking fresh as ever in a checkered shirt and ripped denim. “Next scene’s the big one. Lesbian lovemaking. Then—” he nodded toward the mansion, “—Paxton enters. Joins them.”
