Page 6 of Ship Wrecked

Now he was avoiding her. Which was quite a trick, given her centrality to the day’s proceedings.

No matter. She could bide her time.

Hours later, her opportunity finally came. After various rounds of congratulations and discussions about their next steps, the two of them were allowed to leave the studio. Peter didn’t hesitate, and he didn’t offer her a single unnecessary moment of his attention before heading toward the parking lot.

He wasn’t an especially chatty soul. That had been evident from almost the first moment she’d spotted him across a steam-hazed sauna.

She hadn’t cared.

The other men in his group she could take or leave. They were tall and tanned and impeccably groomed. Lean. Ripped. Their bodies were hard, top to toe, and good for them, but that wasn’t what she most wanted in her eyes and in her bed.

The big guy in plaid swim trunks at the end of the bench, though...

He was tall—verytall—and tanned too, but rougher around the edges. Maybe midthirties, about a decade older than her, with intriguing little lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes. His wavy near-black hair, slicked back from his face, fell to his broad shoulders. His beard was thick and well maintained, but just a little too long for the cover ofGQ, unless they had an annual Big Hottie Lumberjacks issue she hadn’t yet encountered on newsstands.

And best of all, he was clearly strong, but not lean. Not ripped. He had heft over those muscles, softness over that strength. A belly that told her he liked his food as much as she did. If he held her, he’d envelop her with that broad frame of his. As a woman with her own tall, generous body, that didn’t always happen, but she loved it whenever it did.

If she was built like a Valkyrie, like an opera singer in a horned helmet and molded breastplate belting out her final aria, he was the dark, thick-thighed Viking striding onstage, bent on plundering her, and she would gladly welcome her ravishment.

“Anything happening with you, Peter?” the guy with sandy-blond hair had asked her Viking. “Did you get a callback for that mobster movie?”

In response to his companion’s question, the Viking had given a single, definitive shake of his head. “Nope.”

And that was it. Nothing more.

As she’d discovered, such a laconic response was fully in character for him. He’d sat quietly for fifteen minutes with his back against the side wall, his knees bent, his feet flat on the bench. In that time, he interjected with his rumbly, deliciously deep voice once or twice, but otherwise listened to his companions, his face calm to the point of expressionlessness.

Except when he looked at her. His eyes were as dark as his hair, and they flicked her way frequently. Eventually, she’d caught his gaze and held it. Smiled at him, a slow curve of her lips, and his expression hadn’t been so difficult to read then. He hadn’t looked away until the guy to his right called his name and started yammering about a role in some sitcom pilot.

At that, he’d broken their prolonged eye contact and turned back to his group, his thick brows pinched in irritation.

But he hadn’t spoken another word until the other men had finally departed.

So yes, based on what she’d seen last night and today, Peter Reedton did not enjoy small talk, and his baseline temperament in a group setting could not, in good conscience, be termedjolly. Even in a moment of professional triumph, his sharp-eyed intensity hadn’t softened, and he hadn’t offered more than a fleeting smile in response to praise and good wishes.

As far as she could tell, he was reserved with nearly everyone.

With her, however, he was now—unlike last night—absolutely silent. And unless circumstances forced him to acknowledge her, he didn’t.

She got it. He was pissed at her, and maybe he had reason to be, even though she’d made him no promises and done her best not to mislead him.

Apparently he hadn’t understood, and he was angry. Fair enough.

But very soon, the two of them would be spending nearly every workday in close, unavoidable proximity, and unnecessaryanimosity was a luxury they could no longer afford. Not if they wanted to excel in their performances, because that kind of one-on-one acting required a certain level of trust and teamwork.

He didn’t have to like her. He did need to cooperate with her.

So she followed him to his car, determined to clear the air. With each stride, he covered an absurd amount of ground, but luckily, her legs were almost as long as his, and she was motivated to hustle.

She was also motivated to stare at his fine ass in those dark-wash jeans and the breadth of his shoulders testing the seams of his untucked pale blue button-down. He wouldn’t welcome that kind of attention and admiration from her anymore, though. Which caused a pang of—something—near the vicinity of her heart, but she couldn’t let that bother her.

“Peter!” she called.

He didn’t even glance her way.

His SUV was parked halfway across the expansive lot. By the time she caught up with him, her heart was thumping with exertion and seemingly lodged in her throat. The rapid tap of her footsteps on the pavement must have warned him of her approach, but if so, he chose to pretend otherwise.

“Peter.” As he searched his pockets for his keys, she laid a hand on his lower arm and tried to catch his eye. “We need to talk.”

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