Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 46223 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 231(@200wpm)___ 185(@250wpm)___ 154(@300wpm)
“Want to flip them something?” I ask Riggs between takes, chin tilting toward the fence. “Give them what they came for so we can work?”
He glances at the crowd, his eyes narrowing and I’m sure he’s probably calculating angles, risk, optics. The little curve he gives me is the opposite of a no.
Before he can grab me, sweeping me into his arms and planting a big, passionate kiss on my lips (because I’m sure he was planning on doing that) we’re cut off by Mateo.
“Ready?”
I try to hide my disappointment. “Yep.”
The next setup is the pass. An open kitchen with the heat shimmering, and Mateo tosses something in the pan that smokes in a way chefs consider foreplay. I lean into the counter, laugh at his joke, and feel Riggs arrive like a shift in weather. He’s behind me, hand at my waist, and the crowd’s volume nudging up a notch just from the shape of him.
A teenage boy at the fence yells, “Kiss her, Beard-Mountain!”
I choke on a laugh. So does Mateo. Riggs doesn’t.
Two beats pass, and then his palm curves fully at my hip, and he steps close enough that my shoulder blades press to his chest. “You good?” he asks, voice low.
“Very,” I say, and I am. And it’s the safest kind of very I’ve ever felt.
He tips my chin, an invitation and a question, not a command. The crowd hushes—phones poised, mouths open—and I answer by rising on my toes. He meets me there, mouth warm and sure, not a peck for strangers but not the kind of kiss we give away either. It’s…perfect. Long enough for the phones to get it, short enough that only we feel the aftershock. The fence explodes in a cheer that hits absurdly sweet. Mateo whoops. Brice makes a strangled noise like metric gold fell out of the sky.
Riggs steps back half an inch, eyes on mine, crowd already a blur. “Wow,” he says.
“Yeah. Wow,” I echo, breathless, and the way the word sits in my chest makes me stupid-happy. The bystanders begin to chant something mildly obscene and delighted. Lina fans her face with the shot list. Brice clutches his headset like it’s a rosary.
We work. Riggs holds the line. The chemistry becomes part of the light instead of a distraction, and the whole shoot hums because of it. He intercepts a delivery guy before the man crosses the threshold, checks the bag, hands it to Mateo with a warning about chain-of-custody that somehow doesn’t kill the vibe. He moves me a foot left when a reflection in the metal sculpture threatens to catch too much. He leans in between takes to murmur, “Water,” and I drink without making a face because he’s right and I like being alive.
During a reset, the beanie girls call out, “We love you, Vanessa! Is he good to you?”
I don’t look at them. I look at him, at the steady profile, the watchful eyes, the mouth that just kissed me in a crowd and felt like privacy anyway. “Yeah,” I say, smiling so hard my cheeks ache. “He is.”
Next, I change looks. I’m in a silver skirt that sparkles just right, a white tee knotted at the waist, and a denim jacket we all pretend is casual and not curated within an inch of its life. The bystanders go feral for the spin. I play to them, to the camera, to the man who stands behind both like a promise.
“Confessional?” Brice suggests, and I nod, sliding onto a stool by a mural of a chili pepper with fangs. I talk into Lina’s handheld. I talk about food and pop-ups and community and how public attention can be fuel or a match depending on who’s holding it. I don’t mention Kellan. I don’t mention glue sticks pretending to be ransom notes. I don’t have to. The shot is stronger when the threat is implied and the answer—we’re still here—is the point.
We’re wrapping when a folded paper flutters out from under a stack of branded coasters by the POS. My stomach dips. Riggs sees it at the same time I do. It doesn’t belong, the way it’s been placed where my hand would slide if I weren’t me. His palm is on my wrist before I can reach, and he lifts the coaster with his multitool and reveals the note like a magician revealing a trick with contempt.
Block letters again. No signature this time. YOU MAKE IT TOO EASY.
Cold tries to climb my spine. Riggs’s heat blocks it. He bags the paper, gives me one look—breathe—and nods to Mateo. “Sorry about the coaster,” he says, so polite it’s hilarious.
Mateo’s jaw hardens. “Get him,” he says. “Then come back hungry.”
“Plan,” Riggs says.
We exit through the side gate while Lucas runs blocker at the front, Rae freezes frames and Jaxson peels MAC addresses off the pop-up’s dusty router like stickers. I keep my chin up, shoulders loose, fingers brushing Riggs’s. The crowd’s cheers turn to a wave of blessings—you two are so cute, kiss again, OMG goals—and I want to laugh and cry at the same time, because the paradox of my life has never felt this sharp.