Chapter 8

Eliza signed the contract to star in Walking Dogs, and all Joaquin got for his trouble was a pat on the back from the director and a demand from Julie that he confess how he’d done it.

He just laughed and mimed zipping his lips, like it was an industry secret or something, when in reality, he had no clue. One second, he’d been staring at the wood barrier between them, and the next, Eliza had swung open the door, looking slightly disheveled and completely kissable. It had taken an enormous amount of will to stop himself from sweeping her into his arms for a repeat of the kiss he couldn’t stop recalling with fervent clarity.

But he didn’t. Because she hated him, and that was best.

And then something had shifted between them as he sat on her couch and spilled his stupid heart all over the place with that lame story about meeting his first fan.

He’d never told anyone about that. It didn’t fit his Joaquin Cortez character. Only Eliza’s big, beautiful eyes had dragged it out of him scarcely before he’d realized it. She affected him in ways he’d only begun to recognize, and probably in ways he’d never understand.

No repeats of that lay on the horizon. He couldn’t fall prey to the chemistry that swirled around them. Yet at the same time, it was what made them sizzle on the screen. He had a vested interest in keeping it hot. Except every time he thought about kissing her again, guilt sliced through his gut. He should be thinking about kissing Curlgurl. Hard to envision when he didn’t know what she looked like.

He needed to move forward with meeting her as soon as possible.

Joaquin endured a session with the new stylist, one they’d flown out from L.A. He’d never worked with her before, but she seemed passable enough and faded into the background, which earned her a gold star. It wouldn’t hurt to go over his lines, so he did that while enduring the endless rounds of makeup and wardrobe.

When the very fabric of the atmosphere around him shifted, he didn’t have to look up from his script to know Eliza had just stepped into the trailer. He threw the bound pages to the side in favor of focusing his attention on his new co-star.

And was immediately sorry. They’d poured her into a tailored suit with a skirt that ended just above the knee. There was nothing scandalous about the length, but she had pretty legs that the bright lime color of the outfit set off. He couldn’t take his gaze off her, and of course she noticed.

“Cat got your tongue?” she asked him with an arched brow. “Or just your eyes?”

“Who are you again?”

That made her laugh, a sound that filled the entire trailer. “I know. This outfit is ridiculous. Who wears this color? I feel a need to hide behind something before a rogue margarita finds me.”

Her smile floated through the air and kept right on going, taking up residence inside him before he could even think to stop it, and he couldn’t begin to list all the ways he was in trouble with his new co-star.

First and foremost because she made him forget which role he was playing.

A casual chat in the makeup trailer was not the path to regaining control over his professional performance. In fact, none of this was. Plunking Eliza down in the middle of this production guaranteed he’d be off-kilter, and that was not okay.

“It shows up better on camera if it’s a vivid color,” he told her brusquely, infusing as much condescension into his voice as he could. Which made him cringe, and he didn’t like that either. Joaquin Cortez was difficult to work with and made lots of demands because it pleased him to cultivate a personality that allowed him to get whatever he wanted.

The problem was that he hadn’t gotten what he wanted one single time since stepping foot in Dallas. And he didn’t like Joaquin Cortez right now, at least not this version. The guy he’d been in her condo earlier—that he’d liked. Far too much.

“Well, I’ll consider myself schooled on the matter, then,” Eliza said saucily, as if his tone hadn’t bothered her at all, which was a huge tick mark in the pro column.

It shouldn’t be. But then she’d never been impressed by his fame or accomplishments, nor had she pulled any punches, giving back as good as he gave. It was one of the many things about her that had captured his attention so thoroughly.

“Why are you still single?” he asked, suddenly very interested in the answer.

“Why are you?” she countered instantly with a cool stare. “Of all people, you have ample opportunity to meet women.”

He shrugged, earning a growl from the stylist, so he held still. “I don’t want to be anything other than single.”

A complete and total lie. One he’d told so often that it rolled from his tongue effortlessly. Prior to meeting Curlgurl, he’d even believed it himself. That was one of the reasons he’d been so taken with his online romance. Curlgurl had uncovered something he hadn’t known was there. A need for connection. A yearning for a relationship with longevity.

With her. No one else.

“Maybe that’s me, too,” she said. “Not all women want to get married and have babies.”

“And which camp do you fall into?” He prodded, since cagey seemed to be her middle name.

“The one that thinks a guy from Hollywood is the last person on the planet who would understand the heart of a simple girl from Texas.”

Ouch. He tried not to grin at that, but he couldn’t help it. She gave no quarter and he never knew what she’d call him on next. It was invigorating. “You think people from Hollywood can’t fall in love?”

“Evidence in the media would suggest otherwise.”

“The media has never reported one single negative thing about my love life.” That he knew of anyway, which was by design. If he showed up at events with a different woman every time, no one ever speculated about any of them sticking around. Plus, he never googled himself. That was the quickest path to madness.

“Maybe we could skip the personal chitchat and get through today’s scene as quickly as possible,” she suggested with a thread through her tone that caught his notice, and that’s when he realized she must be nervous.

“Don’t worry. I’ll help you through the filming.”

“Like you did at the wedding scene?” Her face slipped back into that cool mask that said she had his number, and it was zero. “When you didn’t tell me I needed to keep my face covered? Thanks pal. I’ll navigate my own way.”

And then the stylist kicked him out of the trailer so she could work on Eliza in peace, leaving Joaquin both amused and feeling like he’d been kicked in the gut by a very large horse.

What was wrong with him that he enjoyed her particular brand of sarcasm and irreverence? This movie was turning him into a masochist. He needed to find his balance with her, like yesterday. Some guys started romances with their co-stars so the sparks on screen would be more believable, but not him. Never once had he felt the need, because it was all an act, even off camera.

This was the first time he had no clue which way was up, what was real, and why in the world Eliza lay at the core of all of it.

By ten o’clock, everyone had hit their marks, and the director yelled action. Joaquin strolled through the grassy area in the courtyard of Vivo holding Gizmo’s leash the same way he’d done the first time when he’d filmed this scene with Alita, except they’d shot it on a set in L.A. This was real grass, and Gizmo seemed a little more interested in the surroundings, pulling Joaquin along as he investigated the pathway.

The script called for Susanna to enter the scene and tell Mark off for littering after he accidentally drops a business card. His character would use the excuse to give it to Susanna in hopes she’ll call him. It was an easy scene that he and Alita had nailed on their third take.

Eliza took her cue from one of the production assistants and strolled down the path toward Joaquin, her pretty legs distracting him. So he wasn’t watching Gizmo closely. The dog found something he wanted to smell on Joaquin’s opposite side and darted across his path. The leash cut across his knees, knocking him off balance.

He went down in a pile of limbs right at Eliza’s feet.

She stared down at him with that signature combination of cool amusement and sparkly eyes and something shifted inside him. His hip throbbed where he’d hit the sidewalk, he’d dropped Gizmo’s leash instead of the business card, and all he could think about was how much he wanted to kiss her again.

“I think you lost your dog,” she said, her lips curving into a smile that might as well have serrated teeth given how deeply he felt it. “Want me to round him up for you?”

“No, thanks,” he muttered and wiped what was probably a goofy return smile from his face. “Maybe you could give a guy a hand up though?”

Eliza held out her palm without hesitation, but when he grasped her hand, Gizmo picked that moment to investigate Eliza, nosing the back of her leg.

She squealed and half turned to glance behind her. The dog must have considered that an invitation to play and head butted her. That led to the only inevitable outcome—Joaquin ended up with an armful of woman as she sprawled on top of him.

Instantly, he rolled so none of her would hit the ground. Instinct borne from years of doing extensive blocking for fights and escaping burning buildings. Her curves settled into his so nicely that he nearly groaned.

This was not going to work. But then she shoved a wad of hair out of her face and blinked up at him, and he was a goner. His arms tightened around her, turned the whole debacle into an embrace, and he never wanted to move again for the rest of his life.

“Are you okay?” he asked her gruffly, hoping like mad that talking might break up the thick awareness that had draped over them both.

Except Gizmo took care of that for him, sticking his nose in the crevice of Eliza’s neck, still in play mode. She squealed again as he shooed away the dog.

“My hero,” she said with laugh and winced when she tested out rotating her neck. “I might need a massage, but I’m okay. You have great reflexes.”

“I couldn’t stand the thought of you messing up that pretty outfit. We want you looking your best for the next rogue margarita that passes by.”

“Definitely my top priority,” she said wryly.

But there was a secret glint in her eye that only he could see, one that said she appreciated his appropriation of her joke, and this was literally the most fun he’d ever had filming a movie.

“Let’s see if we can untangle ourselves.” Joaquin rolled gently to set her on the ground and climbed to his feet so he could lift her up.

Once they were both steady, he glanced over at the ring of people watching with avid interest, and that’s when he realized they’d never stopped filming. The director circled his finger in a clear indication that he should keep going.

Improv was his best skill, since he did it pretty much every waking hour as he played the part of Joaquin Cortez. But this was a little different than going off script during the wedding scene when he’d kissed Eliza after being given express instructions to ensure she was interchangeable with Alita.

“I think my dog likes you,” he told her as Gizmo plunked his rump down right near Eliza’s shoes, his tongue lolling as if he hadn’t done a thing wrong.

“I’d hate to see how he treats people he doesn’t like,” she said smoothly and stuck out her hand. “I’m Susanna. And you owe me dinner.”

Agog, Joaquin stuck out his hand. “Mark. And Gizmo is the dog, but he won’t be joining us.”

“That’s a shame. I was looking forward to seeing how he navigated a restaurant. It’s not a party until a waiter dumps an entire serving platter full of food onto the head of an eighty-year-old woman, right?”

“Um, right.”

Joaquin was pretty sure the goofy smile was back on his face, but he couldn’t find an ounce of will to transform it into something a little more fitting for the suave character Mark was supposed to be. Of course, the way this scene had played out fit in with the wedding they’d already shot pretty perfectly, so apparently, they were going in a whole new direction.

Eliza leaned in, motioning him toward her as if she had something super-secret to tell him. A whiff of femininity invaded his senses, sharpening his awareness of her, and he couldn’t do a thing but roll with it.

“This is the part where you give me your phone number,” she stage-whispered and he had to laugh at her smirk.

“Maybe I want to call you. Is that not done anymore?”

She shrugged. “I’d rather keep you guessing about whether I’m actually going to call instead of the other way around. Call it a personality quirk.”

Entranced by the way the scene had unfolded, he pulled the business card from his pocket and held it out with two fingers, then tipped it back out of her reach as she extended her hand. “In exchange for a kiss.”

Strictly in the name of improv. Why not go for broke?

Her brows arched over her expressive eyes, which had started dancing. “You already owe me dinner. Now you want quid pro quo for your phone number?”

But before he could react, she leaned in and pressed her lips to his, snatched the business card in the same motion, and whirled away. All he could do was shake his head as he watched her saunter away.

Definitely the grin was goofy.

“Cut!” the director yelled, and when Joaquin glanced at him, the man was nearly weeping with joy. “Brilliant. Absolutely the best scene I’ve ever filmed in my life.”

Sure. Because all the credit went to the production staff. Eliza had nothing to do with it. But Joaquin tucked his tongue in his cheek and pretended his lips weren’t still tingling over that chaste kiss that had lasted a millisecond.

But they were, just like the rest of him. Eliza enlivened him, honed his performance, made him better—ironically while tossing all the scripted stuff out the window. The scenes were so good because they were real. All of a sudden, he’d found the one place he could be himself outside of his chats with Curlgurl. It was wherever Eliza was.

And he wanted to explore it. This was his craft, his art, what he’d yearned to create for most of his life. The experience—he wanted it all. The questions—he had many. Why did she affect him so much? Who was she underneath all the sarcasm and quick wit? He had to know.

Yet the more time he spent with her, the less he felt drawn to Curlgurl, whom he would have said understood him at his base level, who inspired him. She fed his soul and he should be burning with need to find her. And yet, he was dragging his feet with the investigator, refusing to let the man do his job because it was technically against the rules. In all honesty, he didn’t want to ruin what he had with either woman. The paradox was killing him.