Chapter Thirty-Three

“I’m going to murder Max for this. He’s getting sliced and diced with a blunt carving knife, and then I’m going to bury his body under this patio— Ouch!”

Another shard of glass slices into the soft pad of my thumb, leaving a trickle of crimson pain in its wake.

“On second thought, that death is too good for him. I’m driving him out into the middle of the Sahara and leaving him for the camels.”

“Hungry ones that haven’t been fed in weeks,” agrees Rachel, jumping down from a stepladder to grab another box of fairy lights. “Even I’d pay good money to see that.”

We wrapped the movie today, and there’s a strange atmosphere hanging over the hotel. It’s like the aftermath of a war—fatigue mixed with triumph and sadness. The wrap party is scheduled for later, but with most of the crew languishing in each other’s beds, the lion’s share of the organizational stuff has fallen to Rachel and me. Max, in a fit of creative liberalism, wants the entire courtyard decorated with fairy lights.

Either that, or he’s unleashing a new seduction technique on the only remaining runner he hasn’t screwed yet.

Eight hundred boxes of lights have been sourced and shipped to Erizo, but many have sustained damage during transit. We’ve been sorting them out all afternoon, and I’m sick to death of it. So is Rachel. Her usual sunny expression settled into a permanent scowl about four hours ago.

“Is this as irritating as it looks?”

Jake strolls into the courtyard looking every damn letter of the word “handsome.” He’s come straight from the hotel gym, and his hair is still damp. He hasn’t had a haircut since we’ve been in Morocco, and it’s curling in tendrils at the nape of his neck. Golden tan. White T-shirt. Black Ray Bans. Body ripped and lean…

All of a sudden, that rabbit hole has never seemed so steep.

“More than you can possibly imagine,” I say, looking away hastily to admire our handiwork. “We still have twenty more boxes to go.”

He swipes off his sunglasses and glares at all the untangled lights on the patio flagstones. I’m amazed he let his brother get away with this. “Want a hand?”

Rachel gasps, and there’s a sickening crunch as another box of lights hits the ground.

“I’m game if you are,” I say, grinning at her stunned expression. “Shall we find out if media billionaires have transferable skills?”

“You’d be surprised by what I excel at,” he murmurs.

Three cheers for the double entendre. We’ve been screwing in secret for weeks now. There’s nothing this man isn’t good at.

Picking up the box closest to him, his fingers get to work on a particularly tricky knot. He’s so dexterous it’s sending my brain into fantasy overload. As if willed by my lust, he glances up and catches me staring. The quirk of his eyebrows tells me he knows exactly what I’m thinking about.

“Later,” he mouths, making my head spin.

I’m all fingers, thumbs, and brooding brain cells now. I keep dropping the gaffer tape, then forgetting the lights when I climb back up the ladder to connect them to the outside socket.

“Let me finish up,” he says, snatching the gaffer tape away from me. “Max won’t have any of his lights left at this rate. Go and get yourself dressed, both of you. The party starts in less than an hour.”

“Are you sure?”

He shoots me his once-in-a-blue-moon devastating half smile and I melt on the spot. “Boss’s orders,” he says more for Rachel’s benefit, before lowering his voice just for me. “Don’t spend all night over it, though. I’m only going to get you naked again later.”

Tearing out of the courtyard, we head straight for Rachel’s room to get ready. It’s the obvious choice. Her makeup game is so much stronger than mine. Before long, there are clothes strewn all over the bed, half-drunk glasses of wine on every surface, and an ever-present waft of hairspray.

“Can I borrow one of your lipsticks?” I shout out to her through the bathroom door.

“Sure, help yourself.”

Seconds later, a rainbow mishmash of lip paraphernalia is tumbling into the sink. I pop the plastic lid off one and set to work, scouring my face for imperfections as I do. Thankfully, the spot on my chin that has been threatening eruption all day has vanished. A bit like my willpower every time Jake unbuckles his belt.

There’s a sharp rap on the door. “Are you nearly done? I wouldn’t mind a drink before the gaffers start raiding the free bar…” Rachel’s words trail off as I emerge from the bathroom. “Whoa. Charlie, you look a-mazing.”

I’m wearing one of Lucy’s dresses. I swiped it from her closet the day I left London, and like most of her clothes, it screams sex—a short, black bodycon that flaunts every curve and makes my legs look super skinny. My hair is hanging in a dark waterfall over my slim shoulders, and, on Rachel’s instructions, I’ve coated each eyelid in black eyeliner and applied at least five layers of mascara.

She can’t stop gazing at me in wonder. “You look incredible! Like Jennifer Connolly and Liv Tyler’s lesbian lovechild. I’d hit on you myself if I was into chicks.”

“You look pretty hot, yourself,” I say, admiring her maxi flora number.

She grins at me in delight. “Good, because this single is ready to mingle. Max clearly isn’t interested, so I might as well have a crack at our lead actor. It’s rumored he swings both ways these days.”

Just then her phone starts chiming.

“That’s weird.” She checks the message and frowns. “Cassie left for the airport as soon as we wrapped, but she’s refusing to board her flight until she speaks to Jake.”

“Well isn’t he the lucky one?” I scoff, downing the dregs of my Sauvignon. My dislike for the actress has continued to stagnate these past few months like an algae-infested swamp.

“I’m not sure Jake’s going to see it that way,” Rachel says, quickly hitting his speed dial number. “She’s threatening to go to the press with a story about him. She’s on her way back to the hotel right now.”