Page 33 of The Producer: Aaron

Tracy reaches out and closes the laptop I’ve been staring at since she arrived. I look at her and find her with her arms crossed and exasperation on her face.

“You didn’t hear a single word of what I said, did you?”

I can’t lie to her. My thoughts have distracted me so much that denying it like a kid caught in the act is ridiculous.

“I’m a little distracted today,” I admit with a bit of embarrassment.

Tracy’s face softens, and she looks at me for a few moments as if she were studying an animal at the zoo.

“You’ve been for a while. Not just today. What’s been distracting you? Maybe a blond walking around your house with tiny bikinis that makes the blood go to your head?” She raises an eyebrow challenging me to deny it.

I have no argument. Since Dakota came into my house, I have even changed my habits. I haven’t been to the club for almost two months, when before they saw me at least two nights a week. The truth is that I often can’t wait to get home so I can spend some time with her. At first, it was an unpremeditated gesture, dictated by my concern that she would get into trouble. Now, it is an obsession.

“Trust me. My blood doesn’t follow that path. It remains much, much lower than my head,” I admit with a sigh as I look up at the ceiling, unwilling to see the sly smile that appears on her face.

“I didn’t take you as someone who likes young women who are all about shopping and selfies.” She laughs, amused, and her comment annoys me a bit.

“The problem is that Dakota is the exact opposite of frivolity.” My serious tone dampens the smile on her face, and she watches me, focused. “When she came to live with me, I was convinced she was one of the many actresses who think more about their celebrity status than everything else. I couldn’t be further from reality.”

“Are you surprised that she’s not vapid?”

“I was hoping she would be. It would have been easier. Instead, I talk to her about politics and economics, and I love how she gets angry about certain topics that fascinate her. Even just talking about romance novels becomes the best experience I’ve ever had. She’s intelligent, and I can’t resist a beautiful brain.”

Tracy tilts her head and studies me. I’ve always had very open conversations with her, even about my private life, but we never got to talk about women. Not because there was no will, but because there wasn’t anyone worth spending more than five minutes thinking about.

“Is it vital for her to stay and live with you? She doesn’t get into trouble anymore. Maybe she understands that she has to calm down.”

I inhale deeply and hold my breath. A single conversation was enough for Dakota to understand the situation and stop behaving like a rebellious teenager, but the mere thought of her leaving my home annoys me. To go home in the evening and not find her sitting by the pool reading is inconceivable.

“No, but I don’t want her to leave,” I admit sincerely. Tracy is the only one who can understand the battle I am carrying to not give in to the temptation to fulfill my fantasies.

“Did you sleep with her?”

“No, but it’s becoming increasingly difficult to hide my clear attraction for her. The other night we were reading on the couch, and I pulled her on my lap, you know? It’s not normal behavior.” I rub a hand across my face trying to drive away the frustration I feel inside.

“And you didn’t do anything about it? I mean, no kiss, no fondling, nothing?” She furrows her eyebrow in a puzzled expression.

“No, that’s the point.”

“And her? Did she react in some way to that?”

I shrug and shake my head. “I had the impression that she expected a move from me, but when she saw that I wasn’t going down that road, she snuggled up on my chest and kept reading.”

It was the most intimate moment I’ve ever had with a woman—more than sex, more than a kiss.

Tracy shakes her head and seems to think about it. The best part of talking to her is that she doesn’t get carried away by the feelings or judgments she carries inside. She analyzes the situation and tries to come up with a sensible suggestion.

“Why don’t you make a move on her? I mean, she is young, but she is of age and, from how you talk about her, she isn’t influenced by the producer’s charm. It is not something forced or seedy if she sleeps with you. She is more than consenting.” Her question is not a reproach. She almost seems to want to understand the motivations that make me stay away from her.

“It’s complicated.”

“Because you live together? The accommodation is temporary. Six months then everyone goes their own way.”

“It’s not that.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

“I don’t know.”

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