Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Just like that.
It was so easy for Brendan, while Cillian was just left…spinning.
This man hit like a hurricane, and then swept on and left the wreckage in his wake.
Cillian stared after Brendan’s retreating back; the whole world looked strange right now. “Where are you going…?”
“Home,” Brendan called back. “We’ve got the rest of the day off. Go do something for yourself.”
He opened the door, then. Outside, Mr. Anderson sputtered something inarticulate, but Brendan cut him off with, “Everything’s sorted.”
He disappeared through the door. Cillian tumbled to his feet and to the doorway, leaning out, watching as Brendan’s powerful, lazy stride swaggered down the hallway with the devil’s own ease.
Mr. Anderson stood there with his arms spread helplessly. “What?” He stared after Brendan with his mouth hanging open. “What does that mean, everything’s sorted?” Nothing; no answer; Brendan didn’t even stop, and Mr. Anderson fumed. “Brendan? What does that mean?”
The door leading outside opened, closed.
And Brendan was gone.
Mr. Anderson worked his jaw several times. “I’m. I. That. I.” The sound that came out was something like a furious whimper. “I’m going to hire a hit man. I am. And I’m going to have Brendan Lau killed. They will never find his body. I hope his innards are devoured by seagulls, I—” He dragged a hand over his face. “Can he not do anything like a normal person?”
Cillian couldn’t help smiling. He had no idea what the hell he’d just fallen into, but…that was Hurricane Lau.
“I don’t think he can,” he said.
“What does that mean?” Drake stared at him, practically pleading. “What does ‘sorted’ mean?”
“It means it’s sorted.” Cillian ducked his head respectfully, then slipped out into the hall and pulled his dressing room door shut. Might as well take Brendan’s advice, go home, ice his face, regroup, think things over. “Have a good day, Mr. Anderson.”
“Oh, not you too,” Mr. Anderson groaned.
Cillian just grinned.
And wondered why he felt so light, as he turned to strut down the hall, whistling all the way—well, more like two steps when pursing his lips immediately hurt.
Ow.
But maybe when Brendan kissed him again, it would hurt in that same sweet, perfect way, and wash away everything on his mind until Cillian could only feel the pain turning into something delicious and deep.
The pain, and how it felt to completely surrender himself to Brendan Lau.
CHAPTER EIGHT
FOLDING HIS ARMS OVER HIS chest, Brendan watched Cillian trip over a cable, a cardboard box, a tripod, someone’s purse, thin air, and just about anything in his path for what had to be the fifteenth time this morning.
They’d been at the studio for less than an hour.
In that time Cillian had managed to rip a hole in his jeans—another one—and nearly bring down an entire bank of lights on everyone’s head, on top of stumbling into Sophie and sending them both down in a giggling tangle.
He hadn’t made eye contact with Brendan even once.
Not even when they were reading a scene together. The first scene. The one that was meant to build such charged tensions between the hero and the father that it was almost more sexually fraught than the more purely romantic developments between the hero and heroine. The only tension in that reading had been in Cillian’s shoulders, as he’d mumbled his way through his lines…then flinched as if he’d been struck when Brendan cut in on his seemingly rapt staring, entering with his first line:
There is no God here.
No, but there was definitely a purple-faced director.
And Brendan closed his eyes and let out a deep, tired groan as, for what felt like the millionth time this morning, Newcomb snapped, “Tell!”
Cillian went completely stiff, fists clenching. He stared down at his feet. Not cowed, no—even if that had no doubt been what Newcomb intended.
Pride.
That was pride in the stiffness of Cillian’s spine; pride and rage, the latter stretching in an almost visible tether between Cillian and Newcomb.
And that rage was in Cillian’s voice as he spoke softly, emotion rich and dark in each word, more so than the empty readings he’d been given all morning.
“I know,” he said evenly. “I know I’m screwing up. I’m working my way into character. I’ll get there.”
Newcomb sank deeper into his chair, watching Cillian smugly. “And make everyone else wait for you, is that it? Why not go back to your little indie films?”
“Hey,” Sophie cut in, stalking to Cillian’s side. “Cut him some slack. We were all new once.” She fixed a rather pouty glare on Newcomb. “I don’t mind waiting. We’re all getting used to our roles. We’re not even officially shooting yet.”
“I don’t recall asking for your opinion, Miss Ling,” Newcomb spat back coolly.
“You’re getting mine,” Brendan said, and strode to the edge of the crudely blocked out set area that would later become bits and pieces of a ballroom. He stopped just past the artificial flooring, folding his arms, planting himself in front of Newcomb’s chair. He’d had just about enough. “And my opinion is that you can leave the actors alone in the first few days while we figure out our direction and how we play off each other. Maybe we’d get better performances out of everyone if you weren’t interrupting to scream at Tell or talk down to Miss Ling.”