Page 37 of Nathan

I frown. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Sure you do. I’ve been working with you for three years, Nate. You’ve never brought a woman to set. Not once.”

I shrug. “She’s different. Fun. I like her.”

“Then, try not to fuck it up.”

“I’ll do my best,” I say, my voice dripping sarcasm as I seek out where I left Dex. Except she isn’t there. I scan around, but I can’t see her.

“Where the hell is she?” I say, more to myself than Sharla. I poke my head behind the fake wall she’d been sitting in front of, but there’s no sign.

“Relax,” Sharla says. “Maybe she’s gone to the restroom.”

“How long do we have before shooting the next scene?”

“Five seconds,” Mike, our director says, appearing at my shoulder.

“Fuck,” I mutter.

The second Mike shouts “Cut!”, I shoot over to where I left Dex and question a couple of the crew who are hanging about, but they haven’t seen her, either.

I scour the set, but she’s nowhere to be found. What the hell is going on? She’d been fine when I left her. Maybe she’d gotten bored and gone home, but I doubt it. Rudeness isn’t Dex’s thing. She’d have waited for a break and then told me she was leaving.

What if something has happened with her mom, maybe, or her sister?

I call her cell, but it goes straight to voicemail. Damn it. I’m stuck here until we finish tonight’s schedule. My mood darkens, and I snap at a couple of extras who fuck up the next scene by stepping off their markers.

Finally, at five to two in the morning, Mike calls a wrap. I don’t say goodnight to a single soul. After jogging to my car, I jump in and call Dex’s cell again. Still no answer.

Forty minutes later, I park outside her apartment. On my way upstairs, I try calling once more with no luck.

As concern settles in my belly, and with my heartbeat thundering in my ears, I bang on her door. Silence. I knock again. Nothing.

“Dex, are you in there? It’s Nate. Open up. I’m worried.” When I don’t hear anything from inside, I try one final time. “Dex? Is everything okay?”

Finally, I hear a sound—a shuffling. Maybe she felt unwell and hadn’t found the right break in filming to let me know. But the door doesn’t open. Instead, she decides to hold a conversation through the damn thing. Well, conversation is a bit of an overstatement, because all I get is, “Fuck off, Nate.”

My eyebrows shoot up. What the hell?

“Open the door.”

“No.”

I clench my jaw. I wouldn’t mind her being pissy at me if I knew what I’m supposed to have done. “Open the goddamn door.”

“Go home.”

I pick up on the slight waver to her voice. Time to press my advantage.

“Not without you, Titch,” I say softly.

Silence greets me. I expect to hear the rattle of a chain, the click of a lock, but I get neither.

“Aww, Sharla turned you down again, has she? So you thought you’d come and take out your frustration and your hard-on with me? Because, of course, I’d be willing. Of course, I’d be grateful. Superstar Nate O’Reilly noticing little old me. A nobody. A tool for you to use to make Sharla jealous. Am I right?”

Shock slams into me, and I actually take a step back as if an invisible force physically shoved me in the chest. What. The actual. Fuck?

“No,” I bite back. “You’re wrong. So fucking wrong, Titch. Where the hell did you get such a crazy idea?”

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