Page 2 of Out of the Gold

“Any leading ladies interested yet?”

His agent replies, “I’ve heard various names. Julia. Emily. Ashley. Gwen. Marlo. No one in particular, but you’d look good against all of them. Want me to submit your name for the role? Pay is great, with the same perks as usual.”

Beneath my hand, Chase’s leg tenses again. I drag the needle away and flex my fingers. His tenor voice continues, “Who else is up for the lead?”

“The usuals. Plus”—Chase’s body stills as he taps his left thigh while waiting for his agent to continue—“a few younger guys. But you’re the one with the star power.”

Chase releases an exhale, which sounds more like a sigh to me. “Sure. Should be interesting. Send me what you have so I can take a look.” He disconnects and tosses his phone back to Thomas.

After a few moments, his leg relaxes and I return to my stitching, trying to puzzle out his body’s reaction to the new movie. Discarding such a useless endeavor, I do my best to ignore the rest of his conversation with Thomas, which consists of the upcoming red carpet for his last movie. From the corner of my eye, I catch his PA taking lots of notes. Must be challenging being the right-hand to one of Hollywood’s leading men.

Ha! Leadingboy, more like it. When not on a set, Chase is well-documented as being off partying with some starlet or another. Or out with his posse of other actors, all of whom probably are up for this movie his agent pitched.

Of course, there’s the obligatory gym sessions he has to make in order to maintain his physique. Which is pretty damn good. Not an ounce of fat on him, that’s for sure. Matches what’s on the inside, from what I can see. Nothing under the hood.

A lifetime of living with my dad has taught me all the smoke and mirrors Hollywood employs. Even though he’s a rock star and my mom’s his accountant, I’ve met too many actors to count. Some of them are nice, but the vast majority have been either empty-headed, insecure, or too full of themselves. No matter what, they’ve all wanted to get to know me as an access point to my family—and what the last name “Hunte” can do for them.

Like Grant.

Slamming my eyes shut, I silence the voices in my head. I’mnotthinking about my ex-boyfriend ever again. Except to reiterate my vow. Never, ever get involved with anyone in the business. Period.

Chase continues barking orders to Thomas. Now he’s directing him to get more special fizzy water only available at some high-end boutique here in Amalfi. The PA exits the trailer five minutes later, presumably in search of the specialty water.

Using both of my hands, I turn Chase’s body a little bit to the side for better access.

The door to the trailer opens again, footsteps announcing someone’s walked up the steps. Geez, Grand Central much?

“Looking like Doctor Manipul8, man.” Mark Ivan walks up the aisle, his very distinctive baritone with slight Russian accent caressing the words.

No such thing as privacy on a movie set. I glance at the newcomer, noticing he’s already in his villain costume. Giving him a dispassionate appraisal, I nod—Helene did a good job. He looks camera ready.

I pull back when Chase bends his knees. “More like a One.”

The two fist-bump. I concentrate on sewing the tricky area around Chase’s knee. They discuss the scene they’re about to film and laugh at Mark’s role as the villain. Mark makes fun of the superhero costume Chase is wearing. Like the two kids they are. Pretty boys. Actors. No, worse—movie stars.

When Chase’s legs move again, I grab them to still the movement. I’m now at his mid-calf and the end is in sight. I tune out their conversation and focus, switching to the running stitch below the boot line. Finally, I’m done. Raking my eyes over both of his legs, I admit they look damn good and allow the exultation of the moment to wash over me.

Blowing air out of my mouth, I rise to my feet. At five-foot-seven, I’m still seven inches shorter than Chase, but standing upright again is revitalizing. Not to mention it’s demeaning to be on my knees in front of him.

I clap twice, catching the attention of both of the men in the trailer. “I think I’m done with your pants. Take a walk around and tell me how they feel.”

Chase’s hand slashes through his hair. “About time.” His audience gives a hoot of laughter. Jerks.

I stifle the urge to seize one of the knitting needles holding up my bun and lodge it at Chase’s throat. I can see the headline from here—“Crazed Costumer Kills Doctor Manipul8 over Leggings.”

Dropping my hands to my sides, I grit out, “Just do it.” Obviously unused to being challenged, the spoiled actor quirks his eyebrow, and I mumble, “Please.” I force my hands to remain open at my sides. And my breakfast to remain in my stomach.

Mark shoves Chase, causing the desired effect, if not the manner. Chase takes a few tentative barefoot steps, bends down from his knees, and jumps. I watch his every movement for any signs of the stitches not holding, but everything looks good. “How do they feel?”

“Weird. But the leggings aren’t pulling or anything.”

“Good. You’ll get used to how the suit feels in no time.” And I’ll get used to sewing him into it.

Mark adds, “Yeah, Doc. Gotta wear the getup or you’re not a superhero.”

“Douche.”

Mark punches his shoulder.

---