Page 75 of The Publicity Stunt
It’s honestly surprising he hasn’t caught on yet. I’m really not being as subtle as I’d like. That’s not to say I’m not trying to be. Because I am. I’m trying really hard.
It starts off with a glance from the corner of my eye, but after a second or two, I’m facing him completely, head perched on my hand, and—for the lack of a better word—gawking.
He’s practicing a fighting drill with the stunt coordinator. A white cloth bandage is draped around his bicep. His sweatpants are low on his hips and the last of the day’s rays are deliciously bouncing off his tanned skin.
I perch my chin on my hand. Screw being subtle. A draft picks up, sweeping a few damp strands of curls over his face. He raises his hand to brush them off, and I’m positively obsessed. Josie says something and Parker starts laughing, the sound trickling over my arms like melted chocolate. God, he’s hot.
“You might want to close your mouth.”
Immediately I spin around and see Tony leaning his weight on the back of my chair. Shit. The resemblance between Tony and Parker always catches me off guard.
“Wh-what?”
“He’s pretty, huh?” he says.
Unable to stop my frown, I revert my focus to Parker. “Yeah, he is.”
I’ve interacted with Tony a couple of times, but only as his publicist. All of our conversations have always been about what time he’ll be getting to an interview or his latest social media debacle and what I can do to clean up the mess. Not once have we bonded over how pretty his stunt double is.
Which he is. So, so pretty.
“Does he know?” Tony asks and I turn around to face him completely. His eyes are still on Parker.
“Know what?” I pretend it doesn’t bother me.
“That you’ve been sitting here and creepin’ on him for the past thirty minutes?”
My elbow slides off the armrest of my chair and I sit back up, straightening my back a bit more than needed. “I’ve not beencreepin’on him. Just, um, admiring. From a distance,” I say, paraphrasing the exact definition of creeping.
Tony chuckles and pats my arm. “Just saying, you’d have more of a shot if he knew.”
“It’s not like that. We’re just old friends.” And he knows. That’s not the problem.
“In a platonic sense, or a ‘friends who’ve seen each other naked’ sense?”
I look at Tony with piping-hot ears and clear my throat.
“Tony! Your shot’s ready!”
He gives a thumbs-up to the crew and I, too, get up from my chair. Just as I’m about to head toward the wardrobe trailer, I feel Tony’s hand on my shoulder.
I turn around, eyebrows arched. “Yes?”
“If it makes you feel any better, I’ve seen him creepin’ on you too,” he says, with another one of those shoulder pats.
“Got it.” I nod my head and walk away, biting my cheek to suppress the incoming smile.
* * *
“Cut!” Markus cries.
There are days when I can’t get enough of my job: the glamorous photo shoots, the red carpets, the after-parties.
But not all days are as exciting.
There are some days, like this one, that last as long as ten hours, shooting and re-shooting the same goddamn scene because the camera angle wasn’t what Markus was going for.
“Was that good?” Parker shouts from the pit for the eighth time now. They’ve been shooting this scene for the past hour and a half and by the look on his face, it’s clear that he does not care if it was good or not.
