But Paige was an old-fashioned girl. No need to beat around the metaphorical bush.
Ha-ha!
Pussy was fine—after all, it was somewhat hard to find the word offensive because it was used so much these days.
Hoo-ha must have been a brain zap that didn’t lessen the undeniable fact that the heat singeing her panties was a direct result of his nearness communicating directly with her pussy.
Yep. That was what I said. Paige snickered.
Being around the man when he was in one of his watchful moods tested, tempted, and tantalized. Precisely why she’d become adept at shutting off her response to the solid wall of muscle with the know-it-all smirk. She didn't need the chronic horniness that defined her personal life to get the better of her.
Dropping the useless remote control, she heard a mumbled, “Shit,” and turned with a quizzical look, startled to find him staring at her with an expression she’d never seen before. What was that all about?
Carolyn was rambling on, no doubt having something to do with how awesomely fabulous and awesomely awesome Gideon was. She was a broken record on his so-called awesomeness. The word was starting to make Paige grind her teeth whenever she heard it.
Dammit. She was reacting like a bitch, and while she thought of herself as being many things, classic bitch wasn’t one of them. It wasn’t her style. Besides, the woman-as-bitch stereotype was old and stale despite the glut of reality shows celebrating the look-at-me art of female bitchiness. She liked to think she was far more clever than that. Paige’s resting bitch face resembled bored tolerance squared, though most on the receiving end wouldn’t even know what that expression meant.
But right this moment, she wasn’t able to ward off the frosty cattiness darkening her thoughts. Carolyn was pissing her off and, period hormones or not, she didn’t like the way that made her feel.
As far as Paige was concerned, Carolyn and the other countless males and females who jockeyed for a chance to jump on Gideon Shaw were welcome to the superstar. Gideon Shaw didn’t interest her. Not really. But Edward Banning did, and that was becoming a problem.
After finally shooing Caro from the trailer, he was starting to relax and enjoy being alone with Paige when an interruption ruined everything.
“Change pages, Mr. Shaw,” a voice boomed as three loud thuds reverberated off the trailer door. “The AD wants a POV shot that needs blocking, sir. You have about fifteen minutes.”
Edward grimaced as Paige grabbed the new script pages from the faceless arm waving the purple sheets through the trailer door.
“Thanks, Roy,” she called out, passing the pages directly into his hands. “Make sure the chair is empty and I’ll hustle him over to makeup.”
Fuck. He had hoped to be off for the rest of the day. The weighted suit he lugged around on his torso that made him stoop and shuffle like an old man was killing him. Maybe literally. He was used to the makeup and facial prosthetics, but the uncomfortable and physically challenging bodysuit was a new experience. It left him winded and feeling like he’d been working bent over for hours on a chain gang.
And it was his real birthday, goddammit. Not his movie star birthday. Couldn’t a guy catch a break?
With his mouth set in a grim line, he felt nothing but annoyance. Oh fucking well. They didn’t pay him obscene amounts of money to whine like a little girl.
After barely enough time to glance at the script changes, another tap sounded on the door. This time, it was two quick raps and then a pause, followed by three more.
Fucking balls. The last thing he wanted right then was to deal with his co-star, Joann Jones, and her stupid warning knocks.
Paige looked at him, an eyebrow raised and a withering smirk on her face. “Looks like you and your tiger blood are up,” she quipped with a throaty growl. “JoJo’s on the prowl.”
“How much do I pay you to use that smart mouth on me?”
Only her momentarily startled expression, a result of the innuendo in his taunt, offered any indication that she gave a shit what he had to say.
“Dream on, Studmuffin.”
Her words were still hanging in the air when his co-star barged in.
Fuck. Everything about today’s timing certainly blew chunks. It had taken forever to hustle a still gushing Caro from the trailer to be alone with his assistant. He was looking forward to getting in the verbal ring with Paige for a few rounds of pun throwing and sarcastic one-liners, but he was forced instead to make nice with an aging A-list star who had a long list of hits on her IMDB page and was several years past her best days.
Switching to Gideon mode, he cleared his throat and took a deep breath that he wished he could hold until she left. Nothing polluted the air quicker than the cloying clash of scents that surrounded Joann like a putrid shroud. Paige had recently remarked that she smelled like a Beverly Hills elevator. It had taken him a minute to get the reference and then he'd laughed like hell.
“Darling,” she cooed, completely ignoring Paige, who all but blocked the unwanted woman’s visit with her body. The second she’d moved past his assistant, Paige mimicked a comically exaggerated stabbing motion, which pretty much summed up how they both felt about the declining movie star and her ultra-special brand of vicious bullshit.
“Jo,” he gritted out, his jaw clenching involuntarily. “What brings you around?”
Paige snorted and choked at the same time, earning her a caustic glare that even he felt. Joann Jones wasn’t what you would call nice. She was a vindictive bitch with an overactive ego. Having fucked half of Hollywood’s power elite, no one messed with her. The woman got whatever she wanted, a fact that openly pissed people off. And right now, it looked like the crazy cougar who fancied herself at the top of the MILF heap wanted him.
It wasn’t so much him that she wanted as his cock. There was too much of that going around these days. Nothing like a leaked sex tape to make life interesting. Only thing was … the tape everyone was talking about? The one blowing the doors off half of the free porn sites on the web? It wasn’t even him.
With the explosion of the social media phenomenon, dick pics, private photos, and intimate videos quickly became part of the pop culture construct. Nothing was sacred anymore. Or private. Or protected. When it came to the fucking Internet, nobody had any goddamn rights.
Tossing the script pages aside, he crossed the room and yanked open the refrigerator. He didn’t want anything, but he felt the need to move around and do something—make it harder for Jo to get physical with him.
A swift side-glance revealed Paige, arms folded across her chest, one red shoe positioned behind the other and wiggling with an excess of emotional fury. Uh-oh. Shit was about to get real.
“Run along, dear,” the actress rudely demanded of his assistant.
The foot stopped wiggling. He wondered if Joann knew how close she was to having the expensive weave yanked out of her hair.
Paige’s expression turned to stone. This was one catfight he never wanted to witness … because if an explosion went down, it wouldn't be pretty.
Staring blankly into the refrigerator wasn’t going to defuse the tension in the room, so he grabbed a bottle of coconut water and twisted the cap off—tossing it expertly into the recycling bin. After taking a hefty swig, he deliberately let rip with one of his signature glass-shattering belches, a trick his mother taught him, that made his co-star frown with displeasure.
Paige? She scowled—but behind the stern expression? Amusement.