Artie
My cell rang just as I stepped out of my car.
I’d taken a red-eye to Iceland right after the awards ceremony in order to approve a few shooting locations my field producer had scouted out.
Already, I was in love, even while understanding that filming here was going to be difficult with our schedule. The project was slotted to begin shooting in October, which meant we had a narrow window in which to get the necessary shots in the right light and weather conditions.
Still, the pictures I’d received from the field producer and director had almost convinced me, despite the risks to schedule.
The drive from the airport and my current stopover had done the rest.
We’d film here and figure the rest out later.
Sighing in satisfaction, I lifted my cell to my ear and said, “Hello?” Besides, the weather in October was supposed to be some of the best and—
“Does this mean you’ll finally work with me?”
My lips pulled into a smile. “Pierce.”
“I didn’t get any sleep last night, thanks to you,” he murmured, and I tried, quite desperately, though I would take that admission to my grave, to hold back a shiver at his voice. I’d heard it with alarming frequency over the last years, the slight bedroom rasp that he never used in public.
Just to me.
Just in my bed.
“Does that mean you like it?” I asked, trying to focus.
“It’s fucking everything.”
I laughed. “I never understand why people say that. It’s just a book. Yes, it’s a story I thought you might like, and”—I smiled at the driver and walked a few feet further from the car, lifting my DSLR to snap a few shots of the landscape—“it can’t put food on the table or cure cancer or whatever everything encompasses.”
“It’s everything when it makes my heart sing with joy,” he murmured. “Or my fingers itch for my camera or for my laptop to frantically type up ideas. It’s everything when I close my eyes and see nothing but the shots I’ll use to tell this story.”
My breath caught, words failing me for several heartbeats. “I’m glad you like it.”
His voice slid down my spine. “I more than like it, I love it.”
He loved it. I smiled, repositioning the camera and taking a few shots that weren’t the pretty landscape, but instead encompassed the logistics area. Where we’d house the crew, where the actors might stay between takes. Places to park and store equipment—
All of it needed to be planned for in advance.
“I’m glad,” I murmured, finger working furiously on the button.
“What’s that clicking?” Pierce said into the silence.
I froze. “I’m in Iceland.”
A beat then, “And that involves clicking, how?”
“I’m scouting,” I said. “Or rather, I’m scouting my scouted locations so that I can make sure they’re up to snuff.”
Pierce chuckled. “You know, most executive producers of your stature sit at home and just lend their names to projects. They don’t take fourteen-hour plane rides halfway around the globe to scout locations.”
“I’m not most producers,” I said, striding back over to the car and telling my driver to proceed to the next location. “It’s my money,” I told Pierce, “which means that if I want to keep it, then I’d better know where it’s going.”
“No,” he said as I buckled in, “it’s because you love it.”
A tingle shot down to my stomach.
In the five years since we’d slept together, I’d gotten to know Pierce quite well. You couldn’t move in the same circles for extended periods of time and not get to know someone. Well, I couldn’t, especially when that someone was a person I liked.
“Don’t try to deny it,” he said lightly. “You’re an excellent producer because you love what you do . . . and also because you’re crazy enough to fly halfway around the world on no sleep just to scout out locations that have already been scouted.”
“I slept on the plane.”
Pierce chuckled. “You’re also excellent at avoiding any kind of conversation that might bring up anything personal about you.”
Smart man.
Part of why I liked him so much. In fact, my appreciation for all things Pierce Daniels was almost enough to warrant breaking my rule of keeping all personal relationships temporary. Light. Easy. No drama.
Except, one night hadn’t been nearly enough for my body . . . or my mind.
Not that it changed anything.
I was forty-two years old. I lived and breathed my work.
There wasn’t room for anything else.
“I’m glad you liked it,” I said.
There was a sigh. “Really good at deflecting,” he murmured then louder, “Yes, I liked it. I’m also hoping the fact that you sent it with a terrified intern to my front door at midnight means that you both want me to sign on and also that the rights have been optioned already.”
His tone was so serious I couldn’t tell if that would be a good or bad thing. So, I told him the truth. “Yes. To both.” A beat before I made an offer I’d never ever done before, not on a project I really wanted. “But . . . I’ll also step back from it if you want me to.”
Silence.
Then, “Why in the hell would I want you to step back when you’re the best damned producer I’ve ever met?” he asked, almost angry. “Is it because you don’t like my work? You don’t want to be associated with—”
“Pierce.”
“—me because of my past films. If so—”
“Pierce.”
He stopped.
“I love the book, love the idea of making the film, and I love you as director for it, but also, I don’t want to step on your toes. You’re looking for something,” I reminded him. “And I’m not sure that something is with me pulling my normal control freak production skills with you. Maybe you want—”
“I want this. I want you.”
Oh.
Well, that was . . .
Not interesting exactly. Hell, who was I kidding? It was exceptionally interesting. At least until he went on because then, and another thing I would never admit this side of alive, but I was mildly disappointed.
“I want the most talented producer in film working on this project, and I want her to allow me to direct it,” he said. “This isn’t about me having some sort of ego trip and having to bring a project to fruition by myself. I like working with a team. I like the process.”
I pushed the disappointment away. This was why I worked and lived in temporaries.
Anything deeper got in the way.
“Good,” I said. “It’s settled then. I’ll reach out to my assistant, have her schedule some time so we can get the ball rolling.”
He blew out a breath, one that I would have said sounded frustrated if not for his enthusiastic tone that followed it. “Sounds good, Artie,” he said. “Thanks for thinking of me. I can’t wait to get started.”
“Me neither,” I murmured, saying goodbye and hanging up.
I couldn’t wait.
Not a lie.
But also dangerously close to not temporary.
Shit.