Page 9 of The Producer: Aaron

The bewilderment painted on her face before turning into anger is so evident that it surprises me.

“Who do you think I am? We were just talking. I wasn’t getting fucked by the pool,” she shouts.

“Really? Because if I didn’t stop him, his hand on your knee would soon be elsewhere.” I cross my arms, challenging her.

I was a teenager, and I know how excited males can be in these situations. Within five minutes, she would have found herself with her legs apart, without a bikini, and with the filthy hands of that boy inside her to make her come. He certainly wouldn’t have had time to get to her room.

“Are you serious? Do you really think I would have allowed him to put his hands in my panties just because he has two fawn eyes and muscles?”

“Considering how you were looking at those muscles, I’m pretty sure the answer is yes.”

She snorts, stunned, as if I really hadn’t caught her drooling over the pool guy not even five minutes ago.

“I bet this rule doesn’t apply to you. You can bring as many women as you want into the house, right?” Her crusade to try to have the last word is almost sweet.

Surely Tracy was wrong when she said she is afraid of me. She’s certainly a young woman who can speak for herself, even if I’m the big boss. And that’s precisely why I stay here to argue with her because she has a fire inside that I didn’t expect, and I’ve found myself having one of the most passionate conversations of the whole day.

“It’s exactly how it works since it’s my home. And now go and put something on. I’m cooking dinner.” I don’t want to point out that no woman has ever come here, whether to fuck or sleep. None of them ever caught my attention enough to decide to show them how I live, much less have to prepare breakfast forthem in the morning.

She looks at me for a few moments, parts her lips perhaps to tell me something but then thinks again, shakes her head, and starts at a brisk pace upstairs. I lean on the counter and inhale deeply, closing my eyes. I didn’t want to make a scene, but when I saw her lying on that deck chair with that guy’s hand on her knee, all the anger I tried to suppress during the day rose to the surface, exploding into an argument that, on my side, is immature. I could have just told her not to fuck around the house but to do it in her room.

When she returns to the kitchen, she has changed. She wears a blue summer dress that makes her eye color stand out. She seems a bit uncomfortable, unsure whether or not to sit at the counter where I am cooking for both of us, and I can understand. I wasn’t sure she would come down again after what I told her.

I fix my eyes on the chicken breasts in front of me, avoiding crossing her gaze when she finally decides to sit on one of the stools. I can instill fear in a room full of adults with just a couple of sentences, but I don’t know where to start a conversation with her. I have no idea what we have in common, and my outburst doesn’t help create a pleasant atmosphere.

“You know how to cook.” Hers is an observation, but I find surprise in her eyes when I look at her face.

“I’m thirty-six years old. This is one of the basic skills to survive as an adult.” I raise an eyebrow, unable to understand where all this novelty is from.

She rolls her eyes, and I’m more and more convinced that if Tracy thinks I can intimidate her with my job position, she’s very wrong.

“I thought you rich people had someone to help you with every little thing.” The wayyou rich peopleslips from her tongue makes me think she doesn’t come from a wealthy family. She hasn’t been in this place for long and, perhaps, has not yet letherself be led astray by the Hollywood luxury. After all, many would consider her paycheck a “rich man’s” salary.

“We rich people work too much to have a routine to make it easy to find dinner ready when we get home, and I don’t like to have staff walking around.” I go back to look at the stir-fry vegetables in the pan next to the chicken breasts.

“That was more than clear,” she mumbles quietly, and I can’t hide a smile.

Dinner is a very long embarrassing silence where you can only hear the sound of cutlery on the plates. It’s so frustrating that I take a deep breath and turn to her at the umpteenth clink of the knife on the plate.

“Okay, listen, we have to live in this house for six months. Can we behave like civilized people?”

She watches me, squinting and studying me for a few seconds as she chews and swallows.

“I’m not the one who came in ranting and firing her employees. I was having acivilconversation.” She raises an eyebrow as if to challenge me to contradict her.

A corner of my mouth lifts up in a half-smile. She is not entirely wrong.

“Okay, let’s start over with a decent conversation,” I say, trying to build a minimum relationship to survive these months without going crazy.

“Okay.”

“What do you like to do when you’re not on set, or you’re not out getting drunk with your friends?” I can’t resist the temptation to taunt her, maybe because I like to see her roll her eyes as she’s doing right now.

I have always admired those who don’t let my position stop them. I am used to people bowing down to please me every day or who are so intimidated by my presence that they disappear into the corridors blending with the wallpaper. The fact that shehas no problem telling me what she thinks is a breath of fresh air.

“Read. If I don’t have to be on set the next day, I often stay up all night to finish a book.”

“Really?”

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