Page 13 of The Singapore Stunt

I turn away, not wanting to see that final wave of blonde hair swinging free before she stuffs it under a cap. “Better?” Her voice is soft, filled with kindness. A kindness I don’t deserve. What type of man dictates to a woman how to dress? What type of man places the responsibility of his actions on her shoulders?

My shoulders clinch, and I witness the wonder of Kimberly yet again. My heart kicks up to another level. I bite my lip so hard I’m shocked when it doesn’t draw blood. She’s looking at me like a four-year-old giving their parent a birthday gift and waiting to see if they like it.

This woman has me thinking and saying things I thought I was incapable of doing. I want to tell her no. It’s not better. It doesn’t change a thing. If anything, it makes her even more desirable. I want to tell her it’s not the hat. That she could wrap a blanket around her entire body, and it wouldn’t change a thing.

But I don’t say these words. I revert to my default and grunt. “I’m starving.” I turn before I whisper in my head—for you.

Chapter Nine

Kimberly

I return to our table, holding a Hainanese chicken and rice plate in one hand and a bowl of coconut curry soup with rice noodles and shrimp called laksa in the other. Mattias continues to stare at me as if I’m a zoo animal in the wild, a look of disbelief on his face as I slide the plates next to the eight others that already rest on the table.

“You think you have enough?” He gives me the sass that I’ve earned.

The hawker market is an open-air market comprising nearly three dozen food stalls. Each one specializes in a dish that the owners have perfected. Most stalls only have three or four menu selections.

Singapore is such a wonderful blend of cultures—Chinese, Malaysian, Indian, and South Asian—and the food reflects all this blend. My nostrils enjoy the flavors that my eyes don’t reach. The scent of curry and soy from flaming woks. The balance of turmeric, red chili, and cardamom from long-simmering broths. The sounds of serving spoons clattering and four different languages shouted in the small kitchen stalls. The market is beyond fascinating.

“Can you believe this steamed chicken and rice dish is only three Singaporean dollars?” I giggle at how much joy this simple discovery brings. “The same dish in LA would cost ten times that.”

On our first walk around the market, Mattias shared some of the history behind the markets. They date back to the 1800s, makeshift stalls set up by migrants for workers to get quick, affordable meals on the street. With the ever-expanding global economy, the markets have caught on and become commercialized and high end. Mattias informed me that a large one recently opened in New York City.

“And here I pictured you eating bean sprouts and grass.” Mattias takes a dig at my diet. I don’t know him well enough to know if he’s impressed or disappointed. I’ll have to work on that.

“At these prices, how do you not sample everything?”

“I did the same,” Mattias says and uses the chopsticks to pick at the nasi lemak, an omelet with anchovies and vegetables served on a banana leaf. This is the most relaxed I’ve seen him. Of course, what’s the saying about food and men? The best way to a man’s… heart.

I pivot away from that thought. I’m here to save a movie.

Mattias closes his eyes and moans with the pleasure of a man enjoying one of life’s greatest joys. I nearly drop the tray, recovering in time to slide it onto the crowded table. With his eyes closed, I use the moment to steal a close-up inspection. The scar across the left eye is an angry thin black strip that does not detract from his handsome face.

His eyes flick open, and he catches me staring. My gaze flicks down to the table too late. I ignore the ten forks I’ve collected. The nice workers, upon hearing my American accent, reached past the chopsticks and placed a fork on my tray. I scoop up the chopsticks. When my gaze returns to Mattias, he remains in the same position I left him when I went on my distracting tour. His lips remain motionless, and his gaze challenges me.

It’s silly to avoid the obvious, not if I want to build up his trust. I tip my chin up. “Occupational hazard?” I whisper and immediately dig into a noodle dish that smells like heaven.

“Nope. At least not this occupation,” he answers curtly. The subject is obviously steeped in history and something that sounds like anger.

“I scraped my knee when I was in high school.” The embarrassing response is out of my mouth before I can stop it.

“Yeah, that’s the same, kitten.” He winks at me from his scarred eye with a glimmer of humor and a momentary smile on his face. Duly noted—there is a sense of humor buried beneath his gruff exterior.

“Kitten, huh?”

He reaches across the table and pinches a few noodles from my bowl. His unexpected move feels intimate and relaxes me further. “Yeah.” He takes his time chewing the noodle as I wait for his assessment. Men give me all types of nicknames, most of the labels said in hushed corners on set, where they suspect I don’t hear them, or posted online where they can hide behind a screen name. Very few men call my name out of turn to my face. “Your movements impressed me. You’re light on your feet.”

It takes a second for the compliment to penetrate the walls I hold high around me. The name is not associated with a sexualized version of me that most of the overly stimulated male population possesses. I feel the heat of a blush forming on my face and can’t recall the last time one appeared unscripted. I hide in the bottom of my noodle bowl. “That almost sounds like an endorsement, Mattias. And here I thought I wouldn’t get that from you until after the filming.”

“You do know there isn’t a pearl in the bottom of that bowl?” His question freezes me. “You can look at me.”

I place the chopsticks on the side of the bowl and lift my chin. He’s staring at me with an intensity that causes the air between us to smolder. “There you are.” He doesn’t rush, and I wonder if he feels the electric charge between us. “I don’t give out empty platitudes. It’s important that my team hear the truth. The good and the bad. It’s the only way any of us become the people we need to be.”

The longer he speaks, the wider the goofy grin on my face grows. It’s like he’s reading the script from one of my romance movies. Words every heroine wants to hear. “And I’m sure your Hollywood life is filled with empty platitudes every day.” A chill races through me, the constant internal battle between me and my public persona. “Yet I could tell by your reaction that you understand the difference. That look on your face a second ago told me more about you than a hundred articles ever would.”

My hand rises to my forehead to hide the blush and the pounding in my chest. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Honesty in this business is tough to find.” I step on a land mine placed in front of me some time ago, the comfort of this conversation blinding me to the obvious.

I spent nearly two years in a very public fake romance. I’m the most dishonest person in Singapore. I shake my head and pray Mattias doesn’t call me out for my deceit. It’s a cross I have to bear for the rest of my career. It’s the reason I can’t follow my feelings. It’s the reason I can’t continue this conversation. It’s the reason I don’t reach my hand across the table and start something that can only end in disaster.

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