Page 12 of Steamy on Set

This plagues my mind alongside constant thoughts of Christian at every turn. I’m so focused on these two things, it takes a minute for me to notice someone is watching me. Looking up, my brown eyes lock on to the black of his. As if still warm from whoever he was talking to before this, he doesn’t look as off-putting as he usually does.

“I’m looking for Mira,” he says.

Putting down the pants I’m hemming, I look around the room, throwing my hands out.

“Well, she isn’t hiding, so obviously she’s not here.”

Folding his arms and leaning against the door frame, he says the next words slowly, like he’s unsure if I’ll be able to understand them if spoken at a normal pace.

“Do you know where she is?”

I push up the sleeves of my blazer, readying for what is obviously going to be another fight.

“No,” I lie.

Mira told me she was going to check with the camera crew if a shirt reads as black or blue on film, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“What are you working on?” Pushing away from the frame, he walks into the room and reaches for the pants I put down.

Snatching them up, I hold them to my chest, not letting him see.

“What do you want? Mira’s not here.”

“I want to see what you’re doing.” Leaning forward, he tries to pull the pants from my grip.

A slight game of tug of war happens between us, which is embarrassing as we’re both grown adults. He pulls and I yank, as we keep trying to bring it closer to our bodies. Like children, we both refuse to let go, yelling at each other as it stretches in-between us.

“Stop this,” I say, rolling my wrists as I move my arms towards my chest.

“Just let me see it,” he says through clenched teeth.

The sound of fabric tearing echoes throughout the room.

“Now look what you’ve done,” I say.

“Me?” He releases the pants and throws his hands up. “I literally just wanted to see what they were. You’re the one who went allmy preciousand snatched them like you were Gollum.”

Not liking the comparison, I stand, holding my work closer to the light to inspect the damage. All the stitching I just spent the last twenty minutes doing is undone.

“Great. Just great.” I plop back into the chair. Throwing the pants on to the sewing machine, I leave them to be future Farrah’s problem.

Not missing the opportunity to do what he originally set out to do, he lifts them up, looking them over.

“What scene is this for?” He flips them back and forth, checking out every angle. Contemplating whether or not to answer, I let us sit in silence while I cross my arms.

“Well?” He prompts, looking down at me, irritation clear in his eyes.

“It’s for Dante when he finds his father and has a heart to heart.”

“They’re a little flashy for such an emotional scene. We don’t need anything distracting from the words.” He stares them down, his mouth twisted and eyebrows raised like they have personally offended him.

I feel like he is holding my talent and looking at it like it disgusts him. The thought burrows into the deepest part of my nerves, setting them on edge.

“They’re fine.” My words lash out at his fresh face, trying to leave marks.

He steps back like he can dodge the tone of my voice.

“Dante has a personal style, and these are reflective of how he would dress, especially for a momentous occasion like seeing his father for the first time in ten years.” Standing up, I walk over to the rack and grab the top that’s going with it, feeling like I need to prove my point.

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