“Won’t you join me for a turn around the room…?”
I marvel as the cast—despite their modern hair and yoga pants—transforms into their characters: Regal and witty, and full of subtext as they move through the scene, pacing out their positions in the room.
“Excuse me,” the Lizzy actress says, flagging me down after they finish a run-through. Her name is Sophia Briscoe, and she’s one of the hottest British actresses around right now, all cheekbones and effortless elegance, even in a baggy sweater and ugly-fashionable jeans. “JJ, right?”
Reeve introduced me at the top of rehearsals, but I’m still surprised to be addressed. “Yes! Hello! That’s me.”
“I’m wondering about my body language in this scene,” she says, brandishing the script pages. “I know I’m bantering back and forth with Darcy, but would I be holding eye contact while we spar? Looking directly at him? In this period, wasn’t it rather scandalous?”
“That’s such a good question,” I enthuse, sitting up eagerly. “The standards for greetings and politeness really differed by class. In a scene like this, Lizzy is actually breaking the rules by being so direct with Darcy, she should really be much more submissive, since he’s above her in society. She would be expected to be seen but not heard.”
“So it’s part of her character to be breaking the rules like this…” Sophia nods.
“Not breaking, so much as pushing the limits on polite behavior,” I explain. “That’s part of her wit, she’s baiting Darcy in this scene, but doing it very properly, so nobody can take offense. She’s technically talking to Caroline, not directing much at him.”
“That’s why I’m so intrigued, right?” Our dashing Darcy, Hugo Chambers, jumps in. He’s wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants, but he still has that aristocratic air; the noble jaw that launched a thousand fan-pages. “Because he’s never had anyone talk back to him like this before.”
“And definitely not any woman,” I agree, smiling.
They both make notes, nodding, and I settle back in my chair, pleased to be useful. The good feeling lasts all of ten minutes… Until Fraser walks in. Our eyes meet across the room, but I snatch my gaze away, and stare at my script instead.
Like I couldn’t care less about his presence. Like he’s not suddenly the only thing I can focus on.
Like my traitorous body isn’t suddenly a few degrees hotter, remembering the way his ink-stained hands would slide over my bare skin; his Scottish burr murmuring wicked things in my ear, making me moan…
“OK, let’s run that again,” Reeve announces, as they move back into position again. “This time, Hugo, try keeping more still. Radiating your tension, rather than pacing.”
“Got it.”
Tension? That isn’t a problem for me right now. The actors launch into the scene again, and I finally let myself steal a glance over at Fraser. He’s posted on a folding chair in the corner of the room now, ignoring the actors as he briskly taps away at his laptop.
Who is this man? The Fraser I knew was creative, playful, and spontaneously sexy. This man before me? He looks boring, joyless, and… Unfortunately for me, still sexy.
I feel a wave of lustful resentment. It’s Day One of my amazing opportunity, the most exciting thing to happen in my life since—well, ever, and he has to come strolling back in and ruin everything!
What happened in the past ten years? I can’t help studying him, looking for some clues in his inscrutable expression. How did Fraser, my Fraser, become a stuffed suit from the finance department? He was an artist—an incredible one—full of inspiration and passion for his work.
And not just his work, either. God, when we were together, I lost whole hours to his touch; weekends passing in a naked, ravenous blur, discovering every inch of each other’s bodies, breathlessly gasping for more. Sex with him was intoxicating, like a craving, a spiritual experience; intimate and wild in turn. It had never been like that before for me.
If I’m honest, it’s never been like that since.
Dammit.
Fraser glances up, catching my gaze. I look away instantly, feeling a riot of unwelcome emotions storming in my chest.
I loved him so hard.
He hurt me so much.
“JJ?” Fortunately, one of the actresses interrupts my thoughts with a question about historical authenticity on a purse she’ll need as a prop. I dive into the wild world of reticules, angling my chair away from Fraser—and keeping it that way until rehearsal finally wraps.
“Great work, everyone.” Reeve claps his hands, dismissing up. “Sophia and Hugo, you’re in wardrobe next. “Everyone else, take a break.”
The cast disperses, and I get up, stretching with a yawn. Have I only been in England for a few hours? It feels like a lifetime already.
“Jolene.”
Fraser’s voice cuts through the crowd. Shit. I quickly turn on my heel, and bolt in the opposite direction, down the hallway and out a side door. I’m still way too off-balance and emotional to face the man for a real conversation, so if it’s fight or flight, I’m choosing flight.
Luckily, this place is a madhouse. I weave through some stacks of equipment and break away. There, lost him!
“Wait up!”
Hazel catches up with me, panting. “Where’s the fire?” she asks. “You bolted out of there so fast, you left tracks!”
“Sorry. I just needed… some air!” I exclaim, glancing around. I loop my arm through hers and drag her over towards base camp before Fraser can spot us. “I’m so jet-lagged, I can’t see straight.”
“I think that’s a wrap for your day, if you want to go get some sleep,” she offers.
Sleep? I’m too wired right now to close my eyes for a second—or risk more memories of Jolene and Fraser: I Glory Years. “I’m fine,” I blurt instead. “Just hungry.”
“Well, if there’s one thing Reeve does right, it’s craft services,” Hazel grins, naming the on-set catering. “Come on, this way.”
She steers us across the lawn, shooting me a side glance as we go. “So… I noticed you were distracted during rehearsal.”
“What? No!” I protest, flushing.
She laughs. “There’s no shame in looking. Mr. Moneybags is hot, even if he is the bane of all our existences with his stupid budget cuts.”
I blush deeper. “Really, it’s not like that. We, um, go way back.”
Hazel stops. “How far back?”
“All the way back,” I admit, and give her the edited version of events—minus a whole lot of weeping and cursing his name.
“Well. Well…” Hazel blinks.
“Yep,” I sigh. “So you can imagine how I feel now he’s going to be hanging around set for the rest of the shoot.”
“I’m sorry,” she squeezes my shoulder. “That sucks. But, I have to ask, is he…?” she begins, lifting her eyebrows.
“As hot as you think under the suit? Incredibly good in bed? Capable of making a grown woman lose ten pounds in grief weight weeping for the whole summer? Yes.”
“Damn.” Hazel sighs. “Well, in that case, you two need at least one round of hate sex.”