Page 40 of Play Dirty

“We’ll finish early today. Not a lot of shots here. Tomorrow night we shoot at a club, so that will be longer and later.” He turns to the director and they start talking about placement and who he wants where.

Mostly, I’m bored.

’Cuda is nicer and a lot more polite than I was anticipating, so that’s a relief.

I wasn’t lying when I told Marty Barracuda was handsome, but the truth is—I don’t want to make out with him. Especially not after kissing Marty. It’s been two days and I’m still breathless from that damn kiss.

No one has ever kissed me like that.

It’s not the skill level, or the intensity, or anything specific I can put my finger on—it’s the man. Marty is the whole package. Looks, body, career, finances, personality, even the way he looks at me. I keep trying to find fault with him, and other than the fact that he’s not legally divorced, I can’t.

And now I don’t want to kiss some random musician in front of fifty members of the crew and his entourage. Hell, I don’t want to kiss him at all.

But I have to.

I’ve done it dozens of times before for other videos, movies I’ve had roles in, and commercials. I just don’t want to now.

It makes no sense.

Well, maybe it does.

I’ve changed since the incident, and while I plan to do my job, I’m beginning to realize that I’m different in more ways than I originally thought.

It’s not just that I feel physically stronger and more in control of my life, part of me feels like I’m starting over. I’m still Stevie Marchand, one of the top models in the world, but I’m also a woman who’s never going to be a mom—something I thought was a given. I’m a woman who no longer envisions her future; it’s a blank slate that I’m still trying to design. I have absolutely no plans, no preconceived notions, no idea what’s next.

The best thing about that is that I can become anyone I want now. She won’t be the woman I once thought I’d be, but she could potentially be better. I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure that happens. Between the supportive group of friends I’ve surrounded myself with, ongoing sessions with my therapist, and finally returning to work, I’m starting to find myself again.

And one damn kiss is suddenly making me question…everything.

“You ready?” ’Cuda approaches me with another friendly smile. He has long-lashed light brown eyes and his dreadlocks give him an edgy, bad-boy look—everything I used to love in a man.

Except now I’m thinking about soulful dark eyes, a few days’ worth of scruff, and a strong torso.

Dammit.

“Let’s do it.” I move into position. ’Cuda has his arm around me, and if I’m honest it’s not a big deal. He’s respectful and polite, keeping his hand just above my hip as he pulls me close, whispering nonsense to me since the words won’t be heard in the video over the music.

“I never know how I’m supposed to make this look romantic,” he whispers, nuzzling my ear. “I can do the facial expressions, but when I have to talk—it feels weird.”

“It does,” I agree, letting my head fall back as if I like what he’s doing.

“So don’t laugh if I just start singing the ABC’s or something.”

I can’t help it—I burst out laughing.

The director calls “cut!”

And ’Cuda loses it too.

“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head, “but that was totally your fault.”

“Absolutely.”

He grins, and the ice is broken.

Maybe this won’t be so bad.

* * *

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