Page 11 of The Singapore Stunt

I brush the chip off my shoulder and respond with honesty. “For the first time since I stepped on the mat, it felt like I belong.”

He snaps his mouth shut, grinding on his molars for a moment as if contemplating his next words. “You have a lot of work ahead of you,” he begins, and my confidence deflates. “But if you listen and execute like you just did, maybe… just maybe… we might be able to salvage this film.”

“Muscle memory,” he starts, and I feel like I’m at the foot of a master and should take notes. “We don’t have much time, but we have to build muscle memory. The moves will need to be practiced endlessly so that they become second nature.” He’s in teacher mode, another side of him revealed. “A stunt person may have to crash through a window twenty times while filming a scene. Flop onto a mat after a punch two dozen times. They have to make sure every one of them looks exactly the same.” Mattias looks me in the eye. The first time he’s done this since I’ve arrived.

He’s not hanging his head low or hiding. “Actors will fluff lines; some idiot will drop a bottle in the middle of a scene. A bird may fly across the field of vision of a camera at the wrong time. There are a dozen distractions on a movie set. Actors can stop on a dime and reset. Stunt people don’t have that grace. Every stunt has a point of no return. No matter what has happened, you must continue forward. We are part of a system. Others are relying on us to be where we need to be, when we are supposed to be. If they stop without communicating, someone could be injured. Practice, repetition. Build muscle memory. It may save you.”

He rolls his legs up, swinging them forward into a kick out, his feet flying up past my face as he lands on his feet. A practiced move that reveals his muscle memory. Message received. Lesson over.

He pivots and lowers his hand in my direction. I slip my hand into his and prepare to rise. He jerks me with an unexpected force. I fly as if I’m weightless, lifting a hand at the last second to prevent myself from crashing into him.

I hold his hand with my right hand while my left one lands on his rock-hard chest. A soft giggle escapes from my lips as I look up at him.

He stares down at me intensely and without a smidgen of regret. “I guess I must’ve eaten my Wheaties.”

“If that’s all it takes to get a body like yours, I’m crashing your breakfast table.” I wait for a beat, expecting him to release my hand. Expecting him to take a step back. He does neither.

“The people at my breakfast table are the ones that sleep over.” His gaze never wavers an inch. This is an experienced man who is not thrown by a flirtatious line tossed his way. Even from someone like me. “Are you looking for an invitation?”

He tosses down the gauntlet, calling my bluff. Two years ago, the choice would have been simple. I was in a fake relationship with another actor, a mutually beneficial arrangement that propelled my career forward. We were a couple in public, but privately never were intimate. I fulfilled my physical needs with discreet rendezvouses. Two years ago, there wouldn’t be a second of hesitation.

But a lot has changed. My fake romance blew up in the most public way possible. Tabloid scandal, internet memes, and a loss of trust with my fans. I’ve been slowly rebuilding it. Step by step. Appearance by appearance.

I’ve avoided all relationships. I made a promise to myself. An implied promise to the followers. The next man they see me with will not only be for real but, fingers crossed, will be my forever. It’s what they demand, and it’s what I deserve.

My eyelids flutter, and I lower my chin, avoiding his gaze. My hand slowly slips from his grasp. “I’m going to need to shower before we head out to dinner. Can you give me twenty?”

My nervous hands untie the band holding my ponytail in place. I feel the sweat on my scalp and know it’s going to take a lot longer than twenty minutes to make myself presentable.

His eyes flicker to my wild hair, and for a second, I half expect him to run his hands through my mess. “I’ll give you thirty and a baseball cap.”

Relief spreads through my body, and I give him a half smile. “That bad, huh?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. The hat is for me.”

I tilt my head and feel my brows lifting, attempting to decipher his words.

He takes a half step back. “If I have to look across a dinner table at your hair out like that all night… let’s just say I’ll be making you breakfast in the morning.”

My breath hitches as I process his words. This mountain of a man is flirting with me.

“See you in thirty.”

He nods, pivots, and performs three somersaults, landing on the other side of the mat. I stand in place, half in shock, half in swoon.

I am so screwed.

Chapter Eight

Mattias

“Pull yourself together,” I order myself as I take the steps one at a time. What the hell am I doing? I’m headed to Kimberly’s door for dinner. The last half hour I’ve played on repeat in my head this entire afternoon.

I’m here to work. She’s here to save a movie. This is Kimberly freaking Conrad. America’s sweetheart, not some C-list actress, bored on set looking for some extracurricular activities. She’s dated People magazine’s number one bachelor two years in a row, Trace box-office gold Edwards. Okay, it turned out to be fake dating, but that’s who she’s interested in being with in public. Millionaire, internationally known movie stars. Not a lowly stunt coordinator with a face that makes babies cry.

I reach the second floor and force myself to take a deep inhale. Every time I touch her, I feel it. Every time she stares into my eyes, my stupid chest tightens. But when she undid that ponytail and her blonde tresses came to life in front of me, I could no longer control my mouth. It was like a dream playing out in real time in front of my eyes.

She’s nothing like I expected. She’s sweet, caring, kind, and funny. She cares about the craft and is willing to tolerate working in ninety-degree heat for as long as it takes until she gets it right.

---