Page 32 of Something Cheeky

He’d put together a talented and visionary team to lay the groundwork for his production, but there were too many factors outside of their control. He had to straddle the thin line between staying true to his story and appealing to producers and audiences.

Zoe’s phone buzzed on her table. She unlocked it then looked back at him.

“That was my manager. She’s locked up for the day.”

“I had no idea it was that late already.” He peeked into the front of the shop. It was dark and a purplish sunset shone through a crack in the curtains.

“Time flies when you’re dancing around in a murder robe.” She picked up her phone. “I should’ve taken photos.”

“You should try it some time.”

“Believe me, everyone who works back here has modeled one. Including me.” She twirled. “How can you not?”

Derek would give anything to see her with the robe on—and nothing underneath. He’d worship her body until she cried for him to stop. And then do it some more.

“You hungry? We can order takeout from my parents’ place,” Zoe suggested.

The mention of her parents was the cold shower he needed to return to reality.

“I’ve been waiting for you to ask. I’ve missed Cô H?ng’s cooking.”

“I know my mom’s food is good, but you have your choice of Vietnamese restaurants in the city,” she said.

“I say the same thing about my mom’s food. It has that childhood nostalgia. But your mom’s bun thit nuong is the best.” He mimed a chef’s kiss.

“Kiss up.”

“It’s not my fault that moms like me.” He wasn’t even gloating. Even Th?o’s mom, who was very prickly, liked him.

“How’s your mom doing?” Zoe had met his mother only a few times when she’d gone with him for a weekend visit, but they’d bonded when Zoe spoke fluent Vietnamese to her.

“Still working. I don’t think she can’t not work,” Derek replied.

“Sounds like my parents. Every year they talk about retiring but nothing happens.”

“I want to help her retire so she can enjoy life more. It’s weird watching her growing older before my eyes.” Every time he called home, he noticed she’d have a few more gray hairs or that she’d complain about more body aches.

“Is she coming down for opening night? I bet she’d get along great with my parents.”

“I offered to buy her a plane ticket, but she said it was too expensive. I’m trying to be a better son.” The more he traveled for jobs, the less he’d been able to make it back home to see her.

“My dad says that about every gift we give him,” she commiserated before picking up her drawing pencils.

His pep talk must have worked. She bit her bottom lip as she sketched quickly. Then she’d rotate her sketchbook or hold it at arm’s length to study it before adding more lines. It was like watching one of those sped-up art videos but in real time.

Derek had to tell her. Th?o was right. He couldn’t drag this out for seven and a half more weeks. It wouldn’t be fair to his cowriter and composer if his head wasn’t completely in the game.

“Z, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“Yeah,” she said absentmindedly. Her forehead was furrowed as she fumbled around her piles for a marker.

“We’ve known each other a long time. And, well...” Derek swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. What if she never wanted to talk to him after he told her?

“This marker is dried out.” Zoe huffed in frustration and flung it across the room toward a trash can. And missed. The marker clanged loudly against the outside of the metal can.

“Sorry,” Zoe said, slightly embarrassed about her outburst. “I hate dead markers.”

“I can see that.”

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