Page 8 of The Singapore Stunt

“It’s only a few days. I’ll try to manage.” He fails to hear the sarcasm in my voice, and I let him walk away with an assumed victory.

“It’s a glorified Airbnb. So don’t expect room service, and you won’t find any chocolates left on your pillow.”

“Not even by you?” I tease him.

He avoids my question and steps out of the car. His palms land on the front hood, his eyes rising to stare up at a second-floor balcony. “Your room is up that way. The rest of the squad, when they arrive, will be on the same floor. I hope you got some rest on the flight because we have a lot of work to do and not that much time. I can give you twenty minutes to refresh, hydrate, and change. Meet me in the courtyard.”

His gaze takes a slow perusal of me. It’s not aggressive or overtly sexual, but it’s the most direct he’s been since we’ve met. Most men can barely contain their need to examine me up close. Regardless of the number of times they’ve seen me on screen or in a magazine, they have an overriding need to compare the IRL version of me to the fantasy they carry in their head. I’m not being egotistical about this. More than half a dozen men have admitted this directly to my face.

I spin on the tips of my toes, my hands raised to the sky. It’s blazing hot, and I’ve stripped off the heavy hoodie, only wearing a thin T-shirt and my favorite pair of jeans. “Take a good look and get it out of your system. Then we can get to work.”

The corner of his lip curls up into a half sneer, half chuckle.

“It’s okay to use your outside voice. I’ve heard it all.” I give him permission to clear his conscience. We’re going to be attached at the hip for the next couple of days, and the sooner he realizes I’m not some gentle wallflower, the quicker the honest conversations can start. I am taking a tremendous risk, and this will only work if he sees me as a member of his team.

“I wasn’t creeping on you, Miss Conrad. I was just seeing what I have to work with. Your muscle tone, the grace of your movements. Xavier believes there’s something there. I need to see it. It’s nothing I don’t do for any member of my team.” His chuckle is the warning flare that there is more. “But thanks for the attitude. For a moment there, I almost forgot I was dealing with Hollywood royalty. I’ll knock on your door in twenty minutes. Don’t keep me waiting.”

He grunts the instructions like he’s a drill sergeant and I’m the new recruit. In many ways, I am. I’ve entered his world. His rules.

He turns and walks in the opposite direction, and I’m left holding my luggage and a key ring to the car and what I assume is the apartment.

If I was smart, I’d hop back into the car and head back to the airport. Mattias has made it clear he doesn’t want me here. Another hurdle in this impossible challenge. But I won’t walk away. I never would have gotten this far in my career if I walked away from the difficult trials thrown my way.

I’ve overcome an incompetent agent, bad television roles, and the grabby hands of directors looking for their latest casting cast victim. As a woman in Hollywood, it takes twice the effort and three times the gumption to achieve the heights of my male colleagues. I’ve been in this business long enough to realize it takes more than whining about it to force a change. I must continue to fight to secure my seat at the table in the back room where the deals are negotiated. And then invite the women into the room so that we can make the necessary changes from within.

Besides, Xavier had his reservations when he first met me. Mattias is just another man in a long line of men that has initial doubts about me. In the end, they all fall for me.

I’m Kimberly Conrad, America’s former sweetheart.

What’s not to love?

Chapter Six

Mattias

She’s going to be a distraction. Of course she is.

I sprint up the steps two at a time, hoping the exertion will occupy my mind. The one that has been filled for the last nineteen minutes with the scent of honeysuckle and wild roses. Her scent that now permanently lives in my rental car and in my memory.

She is stunning. Full stop. I had prepared myself for that. I’ve worked with some of the world’s most beautiful actresses. Top twenty this, top fifty most beautiful that. She is a cut above all of that, but it’s not the beauty that’s wormed its way to me. It’s her comfort. Most actors and actresses I’ve worked with are full of themselves or are some of the most insecure people on the planet. Their need for validation is endless.

Kimberly is not like that. She’s comfortable in her skin. I get the sense that this is who she is all the time, regardless of who is in the room. That’s an impossible trait to find in this business.

When our hands touched in the airport and I felt that jolt, my entire world shifted. I backed away because I knew I wasn’t that special. Of course I felt it. Every person who comes across her must feel it. Not just me. She operates in a different stratosphere, high above where I live.

She’s America’s sweetheart. A year ago, she was the most admired celebrity in the world. Every woman wanted to be her, and every man wanted to be with her. The epic fiasco on the set of the Forever and Ever set may have dulled the shine for many people, but you’d never know by looking at her. She got knocked down, brushed off the nonsense, and climbed back on that pedestal. It’s the same approach we teach to our stunt people.

This tells me she’s a fighter. Hollywood is risk averse, much more comfortable green-lighting the twentieth superhero for the summer than letting a woman lead an action franchise. Let alone a woman with a history that she carries.

Her winning this role is not happenstance. She didn’t manifest it. She stared across long mahogany tables filled with people who doubted her ability. And she convinced them she was their best shot at succeeding. That takes more than charm. That takes hard work, skills, and determination.

I reach her doorway twenty minutes to the second from our dismissal. I lift my hand to knock and pray she’s ready.

The door whips open before my knuckles strike the wood. “You’re two seconds late.” Her Mother Earth eyes sparkle with a joy no person who has completed a seventeen-hour flight should possess. She’s pulled her blonde hair back into a ponytail, her face clear of any makeup. She flashes me an adorable smile as her gaze lowers. “Twinsies!” she shouts. We’re both wearing all black. But I look nothing like her.

She’s wearing a tight short-sleeve leotard top that clings to every curve of her body and yoga pants that look as if they’ve been spray-painted onto her.

“Remind me to keep you away from the caffeine,” I mutter and turn for her to follow.

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