Four
Pierce, Five Years Later
I spotted her on the red carpet.
Blonde hair cascading down her spine—and I said spine because her dress was completely backless, giving me glimpses of bare skin and a backbone I’d kissed my way down five years before.
One incredible night half a decade ago.
And I could still recall every touch, every moan, every moment.
I sucked in a breath, shifted from foot to foot, trying to force those memories down. Most of the time I was fine. My work kept me busy and it wasn’t like I’d gone full-monk after we’d had our fun.
But Artemis Miller had left her mark on me.
Now every time I saw her, I could remember how she felt as she wrapped her thighs around my hips, how she kissed, how—
“Pierce!” She waved an arm and hurried over, somehow navigating the carpet and long train of her dress in five-inch heels without issue.
I caught her arm when she came close enough, bending to press a kiss to each of her cheeks in turn. “How are you?”
“Great. Great,” she said. “But what about you?” She cupped my jaw. “You look incredible! I heard you were filming in Hawaii. Is this”—she dropped her hand from my face and gestured at my body from toe to forehead—“tan from work or play?” A wink. “I’m guessing play.”
“It’s—”
“Pierce, Artie, give us a look!” a photographer shouted.
Obediently, we both spun to face the crowd of lenses. I definitely didn’t love the sea of black circles staring down at me—hence the reason I spent most of my time behind the camera—while Artie never seemed to be fazed by anything.
She allowed the paparazzi a few shots in a couple of different poses then linked her arm with mine and led us off the marks.
Her raised eyebrow had me answering her previously interrupted question. “It’s mostly work, though I did get in three days of surfing after we wrapped.”
“You’re going to get eaten by a shark one day, you know that, right?”
“Meh,” I teased back in what had become a familiar conversation over the last years of running into each other at events like this. “I’m more likely to die in my car on the way home from surfing than from a shark.”
“With the way you drive?” She sniffed. “That’s probably true.”
“Hey! I’ve been in a car with you driving,” I teased. “I seemed to remember very desperately clinging to the Oh Shit handle.”
“Lies!”
We both laughed and I felt the same pang I always experienced when I ran into Artie at industry affairs. Longing. Bittersweet. Same as I’d felt when I’d woken the next morning in her bed to find her gone, a note on the nightstand thanking me for a great night and telling me to take my time in her shower and fill my stomach from her fridge because she’d flown halfway around the world for her latest project.
One night.
Hadn’t been enough.
And for all my plans of dealing with it later, I could hardly be congratulated for my skills. Artie had handled me, effortlessly and wonderfully, while at the same time insinuating an impenetrable barrier between us.
Distance and aplomb.
She had it in spades.
“How’s your latest?” I asked, keeping our arms linked as we started to stroll through the open doors that would lead into the theater where the award show would be held.
Her lips curved, excitement filling her pretty blue eyes. “It’s going great. We’re actually ahead of schedule and our lead”—she named an up-and-coming Asian comedian—“is just exceeding every expectation. We’d hoped she would be able to pull off the dramatic role, but I can’t lie and say I wasn’t the teeniest bit worried.”
“Teeniest bit?”
She blew out a breath, pale pink lips forming a very distracting O that had my cock remembering that mouth very intimately and forcing me to lock down the memories of our night together. “Technical terms, I know.” A laugh. “What’s happening after Hawaii?”
I’d just finished filming the remake of a famous comic book big budget movie. “Not much,” I admitted. “I’m going to be bogged down in post-production for a while, but I don’t actually have my next project lined up.”
Her brows raised. “I can’t believe you haven’t had offers.”
I shook my head. “I’ve had offers.” Loads of them, but none of them were mine either. Not like when I’d first been on the scene and passionate project ideas were burning holes in my back pockets.
Now, I was being offered someone else’s ideas. Which was great.
Those ideas were the reason I had a big bank balance and two houses. But they weren’t mine and while I enjoyed working on them, felt a connection to the work and process—I wouldn’t have worked on them if I didn’t—those ideas still . . . well, they fell a little flat.
I wanted something that was mine.
Like the old days.
I smiled and patted Artie’s hand. She’d probably get a kick out of me lamenting the good old days that were all of a whole five or six years ago.
But I also knew she’d get it.
“I’m fine. Just haven’t found that Cinderella yet.”
It was a credit to the connection we had that she didn’t miss what I was getting at, or question my decision to randomly bring the famed princess into our conversation.
“No glass slipper projects,” she murmured with a nod. “Hmm. I actually have something I think—”
“Pierce!”
We turned to see Bill, one of my executive producers on the remake project, waving us down. I glanced down at Artie, but she was already releasing my arm. “Go,” she murmured. “I bet that entertainment show wants to get an interview.”
“I’ll see you late—”
Bill clapped his hand down on my shoulder, nodding at Artie briefly. “I was just talking with Andre over at the network and . . .”
And socializing time was over.
I stopped by Andre to discuss some quick marketing issues then gave a soundbite to the entertainment show that Artie had mentioned. Then I was pulled aside by my lead actor in the film I was promoting that day and asked my opinion on acceptance speeches he’d had written for him.
Probably presumptive, but I supposed being prepared was better than “umming” and “uhhing” on stage.
Then I gave a few more interviews, took a few more pictures, and finally, finally made it into the theater. Initially, I’d loved all the hoopla that came with having been part of a film that was popular enough to warrant award nods. Now, I understood it was part of the process and did what I needed to do. But realistically, all I wanted to do was get the night over with so I could go home and have pizza delivered.
Because anyone who was anyone didn’t come to the carpet early.
Which meant that anyone who was anyone also didn’t get a chance to eat.
Plenty of booze though.
Sometimes that worked out for those on the receiving end of awards with spectacular results and sometimes . . . with spectacular failures.
Snorting to myself, I walked over to the bar and ordered a club soda, not planning on being one of those award receivers who went viral for all the wrong reasons. Not that I realistically thought I’d be on stage that evening. The other directors’ films were much better and had critical acclaim. Mine was popular and had made a shit-ton of money, but it was a black sheep among typical Hollywood nominees.