Hook, Line, and Sinker: A Novel (Bellinger Sisters Book 2)

There was no formal plan in regard to how she would be observing Brinley. That meant it was up to Hannah to create her own opportunities, in between wrangling actors, instructing the extras, and making sure lunch deliveries were going to arrive exactly right. Pickles on this one, no pickles on the other. Why was it always pickles? It was right there in the name—they can be picked off.

Christian was extra grouchy this morning thanks to his boyfriend’s visit to Westport getting delayed, and the mood appeared to be contagious. It was clear from the dark circles under everyone’s eyes that most of the crew had overindulged on Saturday night, and of course, a seagull shat on Maxine’s head, delaying production by an hour while it was cleaned out, the actress restyled.

Hannah decided to use the lost hour to her advantage.

The moment there was a lull in her responsibilities, Hannah approached the music coordinator where she sat in a chair beside Sergei’s vacant one.

“Morning, Brinley,” she said, smiling.

A cool once-over. “Oh, hey.” She scanned the notes in her lap. “Hannah, right?”

“Yes.”

For no other reason than the boat was visible right over Brinley’s shoulder, Hannah’s gaze strayed to the Della Ray, where it sat docked in the harbor. It was not the first time she’d looked since arriving on set. In fact, everyone and their mother was staring at Fox and his godlike body glistening in the sunshine. His physique was the only thing saving the cranky cast and crew from turning to cannibalism this fine Sunday morning. Moreover, he didn’t seem aware of the distraction he created, just casually sucking up everyone’s already limited concentration.

Even Brinley lowered her sunglasses and threw a glance or two toward the boat before refocusing on Hannah . . . who was definitely not thinking about the fact that she’d been in the same apartment while Fox cleared his pipes.

First time I’ve had a chance since our last fishing trip.

Had to blow off some steam.

What did that mean exactly? Obviously that he was . . . jonesing for release. Was it a hardship for Fox to last four or five days without pleasure? Did he, like, light candles, get completely naked, and stroke himself really slowly, adding more oil as he went along? Biting his lip? Teasing himself? Just making a meal out of the whole affair?

Now, that was a disruptive piece of imagery.

Hannah could go months before it dawned on her that, hey! She had a vagina with a whole bunch of complicated nerve endings and she really ought to explore it more often.

Well, she could really go for exploring it right about now.

She’d worn a loose tunic dress and cardigan, though the latter had been discarded thanks to the heat. Sensibly dressed, yet at the moment, she felt almost naked. Fire tickled the back of her neck, her nipples chafing uncomfortably in her bra. Her thoughts refused to stay organized.

And her roommate parading around in all his tattooed seducer-of-women glory wasn’t helping. That orange bottle of massage oil was calling her name. At this point, she might rip off the cap with her teeth to get it open.

But first. Work.

This chance with Brinley was months, if not years, in the making, and Hannah couldn’t just blow an opportunity this huge because her body was misbehaving—and it was. So misbehaving. She wasn’t supposed to lust after her friend. The only thing keeping Hannah from all-out guilt was the strange intuition that he’d done this to her on purpose.

Realizing she’d allowed the silence to stretch too long, Hannah cleared her throat and determinedly tore her attention off the muscle-strapped fisherman. “Um . . .” She angled her body toward the set where Christian and Maxine would have their big kiss, the water stretching out behind them, a couple of anchored vessels outlined in the horizon. “I was wondering if you could share your plans for the scene?”

“Sure,” Brinley said without looking up. “I’m not straying from the original vision. I know the setting has changed drastically from LA to Westport. But I think the industrial sound is even edgier, given the small-town vibe. It’s an interesting contrast.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Hannah nodded enthusiastically.

Did she agree, though? Contrast was interesting. There was definitely something to be said for bringing a modern spin to period dramas with the music. Putting hip-hop to ballet. Playing opera during a murder scene. An oddity like that could make a moment stand out. Could ramp up the drama. Familiar music could help an audience relate to something unfamiliar. And in this case, Sergei’s art house viewership would appreciate a kiss set to industrial, because God forbid it was too romantic.

What music would she use in this scene, instead?

Her mind drew a big old blank.

As if sensing a moment of weakness, Brinley turned to her with an expectant smile. “What do you think?”

Mentally, Hannah browsed her album collection back home in Bel-Air, but she couldn’t see a single cover, couldn’t read any of the names. What was wrong with her? “Well . . .” she started, searching her mind for something useful to say. Anything that would make her worthy of this chance. “I’ve been reading about this technique. Giving the actors small earpieces and playing the music while rolling so they can emote at the appropriate times. Essentially act in tandem with the music—”

“Do you really think Christian would go for that?” Brinley cut in, going back to sorting through her notes. “He complains when we mic him. He stopped a take this morning because the tag in his T-shirt was too itchy.”

“I could talk to him—”

“Thanks, but I think we’ll leave that idea for another day.”

After a moment, Hannah nodded, pretending to be absorbed by her clipboard so no one would see her red face. Why would she suggest a new technique with her first breath? Before they’d even built a rapport? She should have just agreed with Brinley’s choice and waited for a better chance to give input. Once she’d proven herself as helpful. Instead, she’d established herself as an upstart who thought she knew better than the veteran.

Sergei trundled down from one of the trailers, smiling broadly at Hannah. “Hey there.” Reaching their twosome, he put a brief hand on Hannah’s shoulder, squeezing, before letting it drop away. And whoa. What? He’d definitely never done anything like that before. Not unless she was bleeding from a head wound. Actually, if she wasn’t mistaken, he was giving her sidelong glances while conferring with Brinley about the scene structure.

Hannah really should have been listening. Observing. As she’d asked to do.

But that was a difficult feat when something very important was occurring to her. The director’s hand on her shoulder had elicited not a single tingle. There was far less gravitational pull in Sergei’s direction than there had been on Friday. Normally, standing this close to him would have made her pulse tick along a little faster. At the very least she would be hoping she didn’t have coffee breath.

Right now, all she wanted to do was be alone.

With that stupid orange bottle. Why couldn’t she stop thinking about it?

Against her will, Hannah’s attention strayed to the Della Ray where Fox was lifting a metal trap with very little effort, his trapezius muscles flexing, along with a lot of other ones she couldn’t name. Once it had been secured, he scrubbed a forearm over his dark-blond hair, leaving it haphazard and sweaty. Suddenly it was becoming difficult to swallow. Very difficult.

She hated herself a little bit in that moment. Was she this easy to distract? The man standing not a foot away was a visionary director. A genius. He treated her with respect, and he was exceptionally good-looking, in a tortured artist kind of way. Sergei was her type. She’d never been one to get distracted by the hot guy passing through. Ever.

Yet she’d never been more turned on in her life, and it had everything to do with the man who was lending her his guest room. She just needed to handle it. Purge the desire. She hadn’t appreciated herself in a really long time, and she’d been overstimulated this morning. Once she got control of her hormones, appeased them, she could focus on this potential new facet of her job. Maybe even decide if she truly wanted to make it a career. She could also go back to having an appropriate interest in Sergei. This long-standing crush who was finally starting to show interest in her.

Yes. That was the plan.

“Lunch is here,” one of the interns called from the other side of the trailers.

Thank God.

“I think I’ll grab mine to go,” Hannah murmured to no one, turning to leave. Stealthily. Looking right and left, whistling under her breath. No one is going to know you’re on a masturbation break. Relax.

Hannah made it a few steps before Sergei caught up with her. “Hey. Hannah.”

Oh no. Her body was already doing that hot-anticipation thing it did when she decided the mood was right. Wheels were in motion. Could Sergei tell just by looking at her? That she had plans that included gingery massage oil?

“Yes?” she croaked.

He traced the path of his goatee where it ran around his mouth, frankly looking kind of . . . shy? “Where are you running off to?”

Oh, nowhere. Just have a quick errand to run in Orgasm Village.

“I left something . . . at the apartment.” She pointed to her face. “Sunscreen. I’m going to end up looking like Rudolph without it.”

“Oh. No, you could never.”

Why wasn’t she exploding over that compliment?

A few weeks ago, at the mere suggestion from Sergei that he found her attractive, she would have found a private place to blast “For Once in My Life” by Stevie Wonder and dance (terribly) in place. Now all she could do was search for an excuse to get away. This was when she needed to reach out and brush her fingers against his arm. Locate his bicep and test for firmness, like an avocado at the farmer’s market. Or remind him of their physical differences, as Fox had suggested. You man, me woman. Science says we should do it! But she didn’t have the slightest desire to flirt or try to snag his interest.

What is happening to me?

“I could walk with you,” he suggested.

Again, nothing. Not a spark of joy to be had.

No, she did like Sergei. The sparks would return. She just needed to eradicate this . . . temporary physical spell she was under. “No, that’s okay.” She waved him off. “Go eat your sprouts and hummus on wheat. I’ll be back before you know it.”

He nodded, looking disappointed, and she didn’t even have the room to feel bad. There was only the selfish hunger that raked invisible hands down the front of her body, teasing erogenous zones wherever they touched.

Orange bottle. Orange bottle.

Hannah already had the key out by the time she got to Fox’s building, and she slid it into the lock now, entering the dark, empty apartment and closing the door behind her. She was panting. Panting. It was ridiculous! But she beelined for the bathroom anyway, snatching the almighty bottle off the bathroom shelf and carrying it to the guest room like a running back protecting a football.

“Oh my God,” she muttered, closing the bedroom door and leaning her forehead up against it. “Calm down.”

Easier said than done, though.

Her hands were almost too unsteady to remove the bottle cap. Especially when she thought of the way Fox uncapped beer with his teeth. Why was that so stupidly hot? His dentist must be appalled.

Finally, Hannah got the top off the bottle, and the aroma filled the air, sensual and rich and heavy with sex. No wonder she’d been so determined to figure out the source. She wedged the container between her knees and stripped the dress off over her head, letting it drift to the ground—

The apartment door opened and closed.

What the . . . ? she mouthed.

“Hannah,” came Fox’s voice from the other side of the bedroom door. Like the immediate other side. It sounded like he was speaking right against the wood. Don’t think of wood. “Are you okay in there? Looked like something was wrong.”

“I’m fine,” she lied—not very successfully, since her voice sounded like it had been sanded raw. “I just needed a minute.”

Too much silence passed.

Then: “I can smell the oil, Hannah.”

Fire blazed up her neck and cheeks. “Oh my God,” she said, dropping her forehead to the door again. “This is so embarrassing.”

“Stop that, Hannah.” His voice had fallen another octave. “I wasn’t embarrassed this morning when I admitted to doing the same thing.”

“You didn’t do it during business hours.”

His low laugh made the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck stand up. “If you’re done berating yourself for having natural impulses, you can open the door.”

“What?” she breathed, staring at the barrier in shock. “Why?”

A slow exhale. “Hannah.”

That was all he said.

What did he mean by that?

Hannah.

Narrowing her eyes, she tried to read between the lines, and meanwhile, none of the heat tickling her belly had dissipated. In fact, God help her, standing in her bra and thong with Fox right on the other side of the door was exciting her more.

And it shouldn’t be.

For a lot of reasons.

One, he was unavailable. I’m not in the relationship race and I never will be. After he’d made that statement, he’d backed it up by trying to help her win another man. Never mind that she’d kissed him at that party because she couldn’t seem to help it. She’d wanted to. Nothing to do with Sergei at all. But he’d made it clear he’d just been helping her out.

Right?

Another reason she shouldn’t be considering throwing open the guest-room door? They were friends. She liked him. A lot. If she let him in and something happened, things would get awkward. Fox would probably regret hooking up with a houseguest immediately, because there would be no easy exit.

That brought her to the third reason she absolutely should not open the door.

The gut feeling that Fox had intentionally tried to put her off-balance this morning with his innate sexuality. That he’d wielded it like a weapon for some purpose she wasn’t fully grasping.

So there she was, armed with her three reasons and gingery lube, when the knob of the bedroom turned, an inch of space appearing between the door and the jamb. And then another. Another. Until she was stepping back to allow it to swing open completely, her tummy muscles seizing at the sight of Fox outlined in the entrance to her room. Shirtless, filthy, rugged, and sweaty.

Uh-oh.

His gaze traveled down to the black triangle of her thong, a muscle popping in his jaw. “Don’t move.”

Frozen in place, she watched through the doorway as Fox crossed to the kitchen sink and washed his hands, drying them on a rag and tossing it away. And then he was prowling back in her direction through the unlit apartment, entering the room once more, and closing the door behind him. “Get over here, Hannah.”

The rasped order almost made her moan. Did Fox washing his hands mean what she thought it did? That he was planning on . . . touching her? It was such a practical action. Like he was getting down to business. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“It’s a great idea if you need to come.” She took a step forward, and he caught her wrist, pulling her close, closer, until they were about to collide, then he moved at the last second and let her come up softly against the door, facing away from him. His fingers sunk into Hannah’s hair, angling her head to the left, his breath fanning her neck, her vision doubling when he settled his hands on her waist and squeezed, his palms scraping slowly to the center of her belly, waking up a bunch of Jane Doe hormones, never before encountered and therefore never named. “Goddamn, Hannah. You are such a sexy little thing.”

“Fox . . .”

“Uh-huh. Let’s talk this out for a second,” he said thickly against her neck, just grazing her skin with his teeth, his knuckles scrubbing side to side over her belly button. “You left the set like it was on fire to come over here and touch yourself.”

She made an unintelligible noise that might have passed for a yes. Were they really discussing this out loud? Was this actually happening?

“I know it wasn’t the director that made you need this.” Ever so slightly, his fingertips brushed the waistband of her panties, the tip of his middle digit sneaking under, teasing right and left. “Maybe you’ll go to him for stimulating conversation, but I’m where you come for the down and dirty.”

What?

With an effort, Hannah tried to make sense of that. Not just the words coming out of his mouth, but the rebellion they provoked inside her. Think. Not so easy when slowly, so slowly, he crowded her closer to the door, and there . . . his erection met her bottom, his hips rolling as if he was doling out a treat. “Do you want my fingers between your legs?”

Yes.

Honestly, she almost screamed it.

There was something wrong with this picture, though. If her libido would stop wailing like a baby for a second, she’d be able to piece it together. “Fox . . .”

“This is what I do, Hannah. Let me do it.” His tongue journeyed up the side of her neck with such blatant, animal sexuality, her eyes crossed. “It can just be a secret between friends in the dark.”

Friends.

That word got through to her.

And then: This is what I do. A brag . . . but not. Because there was an edge just under the surface of his tone that didn’t belong in a scenario like this. All day long, there had been a nettle under her skin regarding his behavior that morning, and now she understood what was happening. The why was still a mystery, but at least she had a starting point. “Fox, no.”

His hands stilled immediately, lifted, and laid flat on the door. “No?”

It was painfully obvious he’d never heard that word before. Not from a woman. Hannah couldn’t blame a single one of them, either. There was something about the way he spoke so frankly, touched with an aim toward arousing, moved so fluidly, that made inhibitions and insecurities seem irrelevant. They were only two people scratching an itch, and there was nothing wrong with that, right? He was a walking invitation to let loose.

But she wasn’t falling for it.

Hannah didn’t have a game plan. Couldn’t formulate one when her brain and her vagina were at total odds. So she spoke honestly, without second-guessing herself.

“Okay . . .” She licked her lips, whispering into the dark. “Fine. You made me this way. You made me need to . . . do this. Talking about blowing off steam and . . . and the shirtlessness. Is that what you want to hear?”

“Yes,” he growled beside her ear. “Let me finish you.”

“No.”

His hands curled into fists on the door, a humorless laugh pushing the hair at her temple around. “What are you worried about, Hannah? Making things weird between us? It won’t. You know what is weird? The fact that I haven’t fucked you. It’s as easy as breathing for me.”

“No, it’s not.”

As soon as she said it, the belief turned solid as concrete.

That was the edge she heard in his voice. That was why he’d seemed to almost be performing this morning. Acting. Overcompensating.

A pause ensued. “What?”

“It’s not easy for you. Is it?” She turned between Fox and the door, looking up into his guarded expression, a heavy object tumbling end over end in her stomach. “Sex is what you do? Maybe. But it’s not all you do. Stop trying to push that garbage on me. You did it this morning and you’re doing it now.”

His straight line of white teeth flashed in the darkness as he puffed a laugh. “Jesus, Hannah. Here we go with the psychology bullshit.”

“Call it whatever you want.”

All at once, his demeanor turned casually seductive. He dropped his mouth down, leaving it a millimeter away from hers. “You know,” he rasped, his lips ghosting over hers. “I could talk you into it.”

“You’re welcome to try.”

Okay, she really shouldn’t have said that.

His ensuing smirk spelled disaster.

“Drop the oil, wet girl,” he said. “We both know you don’t need it.”

God, that was such a cocky—and annoyingly true—statement. The line should have irked her. Not pushed her back toward that pinnacle of need, right where she’d been before she’d glimpsed the potential demons inside this man.

Her breath accelerated, heat licking at her buzzing nerve endings. She’d already admitted to Fox that he’d been the one to turn her on. But she needed to check the boxes of her own desire here. It couldn’t be him that did it for her.

There was no denying that she wanted to share something with him, however. She’d called him out on using sex as a weapon, called his bluff on intimacy being so easy for him. His wall had come down briefly, unnerving him, and now Hannah wanted to be vulnerable in front of him. To give Fox a piece of herself in return.

An apology, maybe. Or an invitation to watch her be defenseless, as she’d seen him a few moments ago.

Exposure for exposure.

Hannah dropped the oil.

And he chuckled knowingly.

The sound cut off quickly when she slipped her fingers down the front of her panties, slowly parting her wet folds with her middle finger. Fox’s innate sexuality allowed Hannah to keep eye contact while doing something so intimate. Something so out of character. Touching herself in front of a man, being the star of the show. She was stepping way outside her comfort zone to try to let him in.

The pad of her finger rode over her clit, nearly buckling her knees.

She made a sound, half moan, half stuttered breath.

“Hannah,” he hissed between gritted teeth, those hands planted high above her head on the door, flexing thick laborer’s muscles. Oh Lord. Having this man standing so close, exuding bucketloads of masculinity, smelling of sweat and massage oil, was going to end this pretty fast. “Let me take over.”

All she could do was shake her head, a tightening sensation already beginning to occur deep in her core, some unreached place that she must only be tapping now. She would have remembered feeling this way before. This out of control and focused at the same time. Stroking herself to climax in front of this man was the ultimate rush, and yet, there was so much more happening. Communication passing between them that was way more important than physical relief.

Fox, obviously not giving up on throwing her off course, ran his nose up the slope of her neck, humming in her ear. “I was trying to keep this innocent, but maybe you’re holding out for a better offer from me?” His breath filled her ear. “You want me to spread you out on the bed and use my tongue on that pussy, Hannah? Say the word and I’ll do the rest. All you have to do is slide your fingers into my hair and hold on.”

With that, Hannah lost the ability to breathe, her fingers moving faster on the sensitive pearl of flesh. It swelled along with the pressure inside her, and Fox’s body heat, his scent, the way he watched her with salacious intention, his own breath turning shallow, made every inch of her more sensitive. Her hair follicles seemed to reach out to him, receiving an electrical charge in response, and she trembled, thighs squeezing tight around her hand. “You’re enough when you’re not touching me,” she whispered, not even sure she said it out loud until Fox’s expression went from lusting to dumbstruck, his chest starting to heave. “You’re enough on your own.”

She watched his face, watched the confusion give way to hunger and swing back again. “Hannah,” he said raggedly, dropping his hands to rake them up and down her hips, twisting his fingers in the sides of her panties. “All right, I give in.” The growl he let loose into her neck shook Hannah down to her toes. “You want to fuck, babe? Hop up here and let’s get it done.”

It was like he couldn’t fathom a woman wanting nothing but his presence.

As if her turning him down only meant she wanted a different act.

A different favor from him.

Hannah didn’t think there was a single thing under the sun that could turn her from hot to cold in that moment, but that glimpse past his exterior did it. The vulnerability shining through despite Fox’s best efforts was like a desk fan blowing across her sweaty skin, turning it clammy. Something akin to indignation scaled the walls of her chest. Something was wrong here. Something was inside of Fox that shouldn’t be, and she wanted to put a name to it.

Attempting to slow her breathing, Hannah removed her fingers from her underwear, letting them fall to her side. “Fox . . .”

He stepped back like he’d been shocked, nostrils flaring.

Opened his mouth to say something and snapped it shut again.

They stared at each other for long seconds. And then he reached for the doorknob, moving her gently but firmly out of the way so he could stride out, not stopping until he’d left the apartment.

Hannah stared at nothing, the opening riff of “Dazed and Confused” by Zeppelin playing in her head. What the heck just happened?

It wasn’t totally clear, but suddenly she didn’t feel so good about calling him Peacock—and in that moment, Hannah vowed she never would again.