Page 15 of The Great British Bachelor Chase

I pace some more, frustrated. Overhearing the tail end of her conversation didn’t help, now I just know I’m not alone in my inconvenient attraction. But she said it herself: This isn’t rational. It’s just muscle memory talking, nostalgia getting stirred up after all these years.

But I can’t trust myself around her. Not when she’s showing up to set every day in those adorable sundresses, beaming at literally every other crew member, overflowing with happiness to be working on this film—and shooting daggers at me every chance she gets.

I tried to be polite, but since simple professionalism clearly isn’t going to cut it, I’ve been avoiding her instead. But after five days turning in the other direction when she enters a room, my patience is wearing thin.

My patience, and my self-control.

Her laugh filters through the door again, that warm, infectious giggle that takes me back to springtime in London, walking hand-in-hand by the Thames, cozying up together on a bench in the pub.

Peeling her clothes off, one by one, laid out in front of the fireplace in my icy attic rooms, that giggle turning into a breathy moan...

Dammit.

I pace some more, scowling, feeling like a caged animal trapped here in this chintzy hell. Is this really what’s become of me? A grown man, hiding from his university ex?

She’s the one who moved on without pausing for breath, like we never even mattered. Like she’d never loved me at all. A new boy every week, that’s what it had looked like splashed all over her social media that terrible summer. She was partying her way across the East Coast, while I was up in Scotland, out of my mind with missing her and trying to keep my whole world from falling apart.

And now she has the nerve to glare at me like I’m the villain in this story?

You’re better than this.

Fuck it.

I open the door purposefully and stride out. “Morning,” I give her a brief nod, and walk past them, before she can even reply.There. I hit the elevator button hard and keep staring straight ahead until the doors shut behind me.

I need to get a grip. We’ve got another month of this shoot ahead of us, and I refuse to be held hostage by her smile. However tempting it is.

It’s time to act like a bloody adult.

* * *

Over at the location,I weave purposefully through the bustle, heading for my makeshift office and another day spent arguing with Reeve and his producers over line budget items. But despite the daily battle that’s shaping up over my presence here, I like the buzz of activity, how the film production is a complex machine made up of a hundred moving parts. It’s why I took the job, after years working in a more formal, corporate setting. I’m still pushing numbers around, but this way, I’m adjacent to something more creative, even if I’m not the one taking part.

My phone buzzes with a call. It’s Bradley, my new boss at the production studio in L.A. that’s funding the film, a real bastard who just took the reins, and seems determined to ride roughshod over every previous decision.

“Talk to me, MacKenzie,” the man barks. “Tell me The Barber is earning his nickname.”

“The what?” I keep my voice neutral, even though I already loathe the guy. He asked on Day One if I thought Sophia Briscoe was fuckable enough to be the lead actress, and it’s all been downhill from there.

“Barber. Because you’re guaranteed to shave every dime off the budget, geddit?” he chortles a laugh, every inch the corporate fat-cat. “Because these numbers don’t make any sense to me. Fifty-million dollars? It’s a fucking romance movie, not the nextAvatar!”

“A period romance,” I remind him carefully. “And I’m doing my best. The budget had already been approved when I was brought on. It’s late in the day to be scaling things back. We’ve literally started shooting already.”

“Yeah, well slash and burn, baby, you hear me? Not another pence, or whatever the fuck it is. And don’t let those creatives talk you around, this is just content, plug and play. Let’s keep those profits where they belong: in our shareholder’s pockets!”

Christ, what a wanker. I’m tempted to ask if the slashing and burning extends to his twenty-million dollar pay package, but I would hazard that wouldn’t be productive. “Heard,” I say briskly instead. “I’ll keep you updated.”

He hangs up, and I brace myself for another day fighting over the carriage budget. My directive here is clear: I need to curb spending as much as possible, however late we are in the game. It’s no easy task. Every person on this production is approaching their job with meticulous excellence, aiming for quality, not economy. But my bosses in L.A. don’t care about the quality of the film. If anything, Bradley resents inheriting the movie full stop, and he’ll do anything to cut corners. I can tell, he’s just itching to cancel the whole production, and claim the entire thing as a tax write-off.

I won’t let that happen. Not with so many people working around the clock to bring their vision to reality.

Not with Jolene so passionately invested in every scene.

I make my way inside the house and find Reeve reviewing footage from the dawn shoot. “Good morning,” I greet him.

Reeve looks at me warily. “Is it?”

Fair enough.

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