Sunday dawns sunny and mild after several days of the same. Yesterday Sally stayed in, but I’ve got a hunch about today. I’ve been awake for an hour by the time I hear Sally in the bathroom. Not sure what she’ll choose to do today, so I opt for dark jeans and a slim fitting polo shirt, casual attire that fits multiple environments. I head down for breakfast without her after a few minutes. Don’t want her to slip out without me, but I’m not eager for an awkward hallway meeting either. Cast and crew filter in and out of the room, some opting for food and others for portable breakfast from the table set up in the corner.

After fifteen minutes, I’m on my second cup of coffee when Sally breezes into the room wearing a red and white halter sundress and strappy flat-heeled sandals. She goes to the craft service table on the far wall, grabs a banana and pours black coffee, and then scans the room as she sips. Her eyes stop on me, and I raise my paper cup in salute. She pauses. Then she flips her hair off one shoulder and walks around the table to pull out the chair beside me. She peels the banana.

“So I’m headed into town for a bit, just some errands to run. Completely mundane, so there’s no need for you to come. I’ll be back in like a couple of hours.” Her face is mostly clean of makeup, giving her a fresh, relaxed look. She leans back in the seat and peels the banana.

“Nice try, but that’s pretty much the definition of my job. I thought you weren’t going to fight this?”

“But it’s Sunday. We don’t have to work, so why should you? Take at least part of the day off.”

“Sorry, not the way it works. I’m going to need to go with you.”

Her lips tighten as she chews, and her shoulders tense subtly. She widens her eyes, the expression in them at odds with the defensive posture. “I’ve really been looking forward to a little time for myself.” She laughs. “Just let me breathe a little bit. Besides, evil deeds are done at night, not ten AM on Sunday morning.”

“I won’t get in your way, promise. Being inconspicuous is also part of the job description. You’ll barely know I’m there most of the time.”

“Yeah, right. You’re the biggest distraction around.” She bites off another mouthful of banana. “In more ways than one,” she mumbles in a low voice.

I want to replay that, see if I heard what I thought, but she’s up, the dress twitching over her ass as she sashays toward the door. What other ways does Sally relax on the weekends? Maybe she had something planned that didn’t involve a watchdog.

On the ride to town, Sally plays the Alabama Shakes and turns the volume up. We don’t speak, and I watch the road so I know where I am. At the grocery store and pharmacy, I wait a full ten seconds after we exit the car before following, to give her as much space as possible. She bustles down the aisles without loitering, picking up items as if checking off a list. The final stop is a bookstore housed in an old Victorian-style house. Two floors of cramped rooms, twisty hallways, and breathless readers there for a signing with some obviously well-known author. It’s a nightmare.

Sally lingers at a display of books with dark covers featuring spunky heroines, usually carrying a weapon and backlit by a colorful mist. It’s easier to pretend to browse here, but the crowd has me on edge. I hover by the mystery section as she threads through the bodies to another room. Even though she’s relatively unknown and the Tahoe area gets plenty of famous visitors, people still watch her pass. Looks like I’m not the only one who sees something compelling in her. A bald guy with a gray goatee stares after her, then squeezes between a trio of teenage girls as if in Sally’s thrall. Fucker.

Through two more rooms, I tail her red dress. She finally stops long enough for me to catch up at a shelf of historical romances, the kind my mum would call “bodice-rippers.” Gray Goatee disappeared, but I’m still fuming. I tap Sally on the shoulder, and she winces. Shit, her bruises.

She whirls, The Problem with Princes held in front of her defensively.

“Can you give me a break here?” I cross my arms. “Sally, I am not your enemy. You don’t have to make it hard for me to do my job.”

She lowers the book and sighs. “I’m actually really sorry. I didn’t mean to skip out, I just got excited. It’s been intense on set—I don't know if Ronette told you, but everyone seems to think I’m make or break for the film, and the film’s make or break for me. I’ve been looking forward to downtime away from that creepy house all week.”

“It’s not a problem mostly. I just can’t keep tabs on you very well here. Please go ahead and finish picking out a book. Just maybe browse a little slower.”

“You know, I think I can do better than that.” She sets the book back on the table. “Let me buy you a drink.”

Empty handed, she shoulders through the browsing readers and heads off like she knows where we’re going once outside. At the end of the block, we stop in front of a nondescript building with curtained front windows and a sign over the door that reads “Billy’s.” The place almost appears to be carved from a single giant tree. The ceiling, walls, and floor are all the same reddish-hued wood as the booths. A lone drunk slumps at a front table, staring at his drink. Sally heads straight for a stool at the far end of the L-shaped bar. This side ends against the back wall, which is papered with flyers promoting years-past music festivals. She hops onto the seat, and I settle on the one on her left so my bulk is between her and the entrance. In front of us, a wide mirror spans the length of the bar.

The lanky bartender sets out two napkins and two tumblers of amber-colored liquid on the rocks.

“First one’s on me,” he says.

“Thanks, Billy,” she says, “but you don’t have to.”

He looks at me. “This one found my dog at the park, called the number on her tag, and drove her to us. My wife nearly cried. We’d been looking for that dog for two days. I promised her anytime you came in, you get a drink on the house.”

She smiles and raises her glass. “Well if you promised your wife, who am I to argue?.”

“All right, then. Bottoms up, kids.” He slaps the bar and winks.

Sally flashes a pure, joyful smile I haven’t even seen yet. That smile isn’t even directed at me, but its reflected glory is enough to steal my breath. She was beautiful before, but when she smiles like that—a word won’t do it justice. I fancifully think it’s a reflection of her somehow, a little gleam of a pure soul seeping through the carefully crafted mask of an actress. I make a note to put Yeats away for the rest of this job. His influence will wreck me on romantic notions I can’t afford.

She touches her glass to mine, and we dutifully upend them until the last drops slide off the ice. It’s sweet going down, but as I set the glass on the bar, I give a little shudder.

“What’s in that thing?” I ask. “It tastes like candy and hits like Mike Tyson.”

Billy, who was watching us expectantly, grins like the Cheshire cat. “My own concoction. Little of this, little of that. I haven’t named it yet, but was thinking of calling it a Tahoe Tickler.”

Sally cuts loose with a chuckle-snort that she covers with a palm.

“I don’t know, mate. Might keep working on the name, but the drink’s a beauty.”

Billy grumbles a bit and gives us another Tahoe Tickler at my request before leaving us to go poke at a cell phone by the register.

Sally takes a sip and licks her lips, and just like that all my hilarity evaporates. She dips her head to the side and says, “Tell me a story, Quinn. You wet blanketed my book trip, so you owe me a story.”

The drink warms me from the inside, and I feel reckless. “Here’s a laugh. My last gig was a footballer—soccer player—in England. He’s at the top of his game and needed protection.” I stop myself short of telling her his name. I can hold my liquor, but I’ve been sober as a parson on the job lately. The second drink is fizzing under my skin, and I know I need to be careful to stay professional.

“So—is this a story about gambling? Fixed matches and collection goons?” The corners of her lips quiver with mirth.

“Better yet, it’s a story of unrequited love gone sour.” She makes a soft pffff noise. “See, now that Beckham’s older and a family man, this bloke’s the one ladies are mad about. The whole team got freaked out by a lady who kept showing up where she shouldn’t, writing letters making claims about the paternity of her children.”

“What happened? Did she hurt anyone? Did they arrest her?”

“Nah, I caught her trying to sneak into practice with a bag full of unwashed knickers, planning to chuck them at my client. I said I’d tell her husband and mum about it, and we didn’t hear from her again.”

She lights up with laughter, and I appreciate the way the heady drinks have brought out a faint flush on her cheeks. Her gestures are bigger and her smiles more frequent.

“So this film is a big deal, I hear. What’s the gist of it?”

She tucks her hair behind her ear and spins her glass. “It’s an action thriller, obviously. I’m a street-smart grifter type who’s recruited by the government and put through some high- level brainwashing and badass training school and sent out to engage in global intrigue. Kind of a Jason Bourne or La Femme Nikita vibe. You think these bruises are bad, I had weeks of full-time training before the shoot even started. Advanced parkour techniques, street fighting, whatever. I was purple all over for a month.” She downs the rest of the absurdly delicious drink and signals Billy for another. “Anyway, they see this as at least a trilogy, and it hinges on audiences liking me. So no pressure. But if it takes off, then I get the chance to make the films I really want to down the road.”

She stops as Billy brings the next round. Then she stares at the mirror as if talking to herself. “I want that kind of respect. It’s almost as hard to be taken seriously as it is to break in at all, but I want it. So you know, I work twice as hard as everyone else and keep my head down. Bankability is important, but a solid reputation as a professional is worth more than a pretty face.”

Our eyes meet in the mirror over a row of bottles. “You and Bradley seem to work well together.”

“Yeah, we do.” Her voice lifts at the end in surprise.

“A lot of chemistry.”

“Quinn, are you asking if I’m banging my coworker? Please. The closest thing to romance I’ve had in a while was the other night in the bathroom.” She stills and the flush on her cheeks deepens. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate. These Tahoe Ticklers are crazy strong, right?”

I’m thirsty as hell in a heartbeat and gulp a mouthful of my drink. “I’m here to help,” I joke with a shrug. We both examine the wood grain of the bar for a few seconds, and I tip a sip my third Tickler.

“What about you, Quinn?” she asks softly. “Where’s home for you? Is there a girl there, or are you a honey in every city kind of guy?”

In the mirror, her eyes are soft. Her fingers restlessly spin her glass on the bar top.

“Home is Ireland.” That will never change. “I haven’t been back in more than a year, though, so no. No girl there. It’s ah—it’s hard to have a relationship when you don’t stay in one place for long. I’ve a friend in New York who lets me stay there if I’ve got down time.” Sally is still toying with her third drink, but mine’s nearly gone. The buzzy heat of it warms me, pushes me to say more than I intend. “In fact, I was more than happy to help you out the other night. It was more contact than I’ve had with any woman in some time, even if it wasn’t exactly romantic.”

“Wasn’t exactly? What was it then, exactly?”

Her face in the mirror is a wonder of subtle challenge and sexy smolder.

“According to you, I was helping you out. But if there’s something else you wanted…”

She flips her hair over her bare shoulder. Not for the first time, I wonder if I’m talking to the real Sally or actress Sally. Under the bar, our knees touch, and she doesn’t move hers. My pulse thrums in my ears. The low-cut halter top of her dress shows the rapid rise and fall of her chest with each shallow breath.

“Wanting things I shouldn’t is a habit with me. Or so I’ve been told.”

Her thigh presses against mine, a hint of pressure that reminds me her legs are open. I slip a hand under the bar, dry it on my jeans, and rest it just above her knee. I turn my head to gauge her reaction up close. Her eyes stay on the mirror, but in the dim golden light, the corner of her mouth curves up. Jesus. The alcohol hits me in another wave as blood rushes downward. My hand inches higher, and I curl my fingers around her inner thigh. I jerk my eyes front, cast down to the bar.

Quinn Buckley, you’d better think about this. Through the lust fogging my thoughts, I try to snap back to reason. I’ve been through every reason getting personal with a principal is a bad idea. Bad for me. Bad for her. No one I know has made this work. But that’s only as far as I know, the devil in me argues.

Despite my brain’s distant warnings, my hand keeps moving under her dress. It inches up her leg until my little finger brushes against lace. Her hips shift to a more accessible angle. There’s no doubting her intention, but I hesitate.

I say her name, low and hoarse.

She angles her head toward me and meets the question on my face with a smile.

“Quinn.”

Her lips, pursing and parting around the syllable of my name, shred the remnant of my professionalism. This woman has made a pact with the devil. Nothing else explains the hold she has over my body. I press my fingertips into the skin, under the lace wall, and slide one finger over her mound and into her cleft. She’s slick and hot. Ready. Her eyes go to the mirror again. Calmly, she lifts her drink.

I drag my fingertip out to circle her clit with a feather light touch. My cock throbs insistently, and I wish I could stroke it while I touch her. She’s so soft and wet. My own gaze lifts to the mirror, watching her face for any sign of what’s going on below this bar. Her nostrils flare, and her chest pulses upward with a quick breath when I press firmer on the smooth button of sensitive flesh. She doesn’t meet my eyes, making me feel almost like a voyeur, even though I’m here in this moment.

The way the alcohol slows things down, I lose myself in the simple touch. I press two fingers in a vee and slide them on either side of her clit, dipping down to bring up more of her wetness. The little nub feels engorged. I caress it on one side and then the other with long strokes.

I’d give anything to rip aside those panties and pull her onto my dick right here on this barstool. Her face shows almost nothing, unless, like me, you’re staring hard enough to see the strain in her neck, the way she almost trembles keeping her face from spilling the secret.

The front door creaks open, and my hand stills. She huffs a near-silent protest. My balls are tight and my cock straining against my jeans.

A couple of douchey looking guys in expensive haircuts sit on the short side of the bar, around the corner. They can’t see my hand, but they can see her face. My fingertip starts another slow circle of her clit.

“You want another round?” Billy steps in front of us.

“No, I think we’re good,” Sally says smoothly. She holds up her half-full drink. “I’ve got to drive after.”

My mouth is so dry I couldn’t have replied without giving everything away. She’s a fucking miracle. Billy nods and heads back to chat with the two guys sipping pint glasses of something on tap.

“I do appreciate your help last night,” she says.

I have to respond, or someone might notice. With a steady hand, I tilt my glass to let a trickle of liquor-flavored ice melt into my mouth.

“Any time your bruises need attention, just let me know.” Rocks fill my throat, but my face doesn’t give anything away. I focus on keeping it as stony as hers.

“Right now I think you’ve got it covered.”

I should pull my hand out of this woman’s panties, but I don’t. My finger glides over a spot that makes her gasp, which she covers with a cough. So I come back to that spot and work it relentlessly. Because we’re sitting so close, I can feel the tension in her body as it winds up tighter. Her forearms lie across the bar, almost casually except for the play of muscle and tendon in her shoulders as she presses down. My heart pounds in my cock, and it’s unbearably good. I want to tell her my filthy thoughts, but I clench the cold surface of my glass instead.

In the mirror, her eyes finally meet mine. I rub faster. Her back arches slightly, her lids lower halfway, and her chest thrusts upward with a sharp breath. Under my fingers, the muscles of her inner thigh spasm and quiver as the tendons in her neck strain. A hint of her sex scents the air. I grit my teeth, wishing I could spin her around on the chair, fall on my knees, and bury my face between her thighs. When her muscles relax, she allows herself a long, quiet sigh. I pull my slick fingers out of her pussy. I rest my hand on my thigh as I wonder what the hell I’ve just done.

Sally sips her drink again, her shoulders curved in almost defensively. Her eyes close as a stray, lingering shudder passes through her frame. I finally bring my deviant hand above the bar to signal Billy and prop my elbow on the bar. It’s an excuse, really, to let my fingers hover near my face so I can inhale the smell of her on my skin. As intoxicating one of Billy’s Ticklers.

Before I’m ready to move, she spins away from the bar so her face is thrown into dramatic shadows. “Ready to get out of here?” The breathy quiver in her voice is likely all the satisfaction I’ll get, at least until I get back to my room.

“Sure.”

We settle up and walk to the car, me a half step behind her. It’s late afternoon now, and the sidewalks seem noisy after the intimacy of the bar. At Sally’s car, she slides into the driver’s seat. I shouldn’t let her, but my credibility’s shot. She starts driving without a word. Now I’m worried—did I misread her signals? She’d have stopped me, yeah? She’s probably regretting it, especially after that talk about professionalism and respect. I need to apologize and see if I can salvage this on any level. Another five minutes of silence, and I crack.

So does she, and our words tumble over each other. She wants to “talk,” but I head her off with an apology.

“I know.” I shake my head. “I shouldn’t have had those drinks on the clock and definitely shouldn’t have crossed that line. I can give you some referrals to other guys I know who’ll do a good job.”

She jerks the wheel, and we swerve into an empty gravel lot at one end of the park where we first met. She throws the car in park, turns the key, and twists in her seat. The sheltering trees dim the afternoon’s golden light. I’ve got no idea what to expect.

“I shouldn’t be driving. Neither of us should after those drinks. I’m going to call a cab, but you owe me something first.”

I’ve already apologized, but I’ll do it again if it makes this situation any less terrible.

Instead of pausing for a reply, she reaches over me, her breasts brushing my chest, and presses the button to recline my seat. One hand grips the waistband of my jeans.

“Sally—”

“Quinn.”

And then she thumbs open the button, unzips me, and tugs the jeans down a couple inches. I lift my hips. Without her help, my cock springs to freedom through the front of my boxers, jutting up between us.

“Ah,” she says appreciatively. “I had a feeling you’d be hung.”

Holy shit.

She grips me in both hands, one firm at the base while the other loosely circles the head.

A groan slips out. Her soft hands apply pressure and friction up and down the shaft, handling me like she’s sculpting me out of wet clay. It’s been so long since other hands than mine touched me.

One hand goes down to cup my balls over the silk of my boxes, and her mouth lowers to my dick. I watch greedily. Her tongue darts out to catch the pearly drop on the tip. Then her parted lips ease over my cock, and she fucking moans.

I snatch at the bow on her nape, and the red sundress falls open. I fill my palm with the swaying globe of her breast. The areolas are small and pale pink, with a deep rose nipple that hardens under my palm. I can’t keep quiet. Don’t want to.

“Ah, these are fucking perfect, Sally. I love the way your nipples respond like this.” I appreciate their bounce as Sally bobs over my dick, swirling her tongue around the head before flattening it against me on the down stroke.

“Like that, with your tongue. That feels so good. Almost as good as watching you come. Your pussy was so wet for me, wasn’t it?”

Her eyes flick to me. They hold nothing but heat. She pulls her mouth slowly off me and holds my eyes as both hands wrap around my shaft.

Still holding my gaze, she pumps gently over the wet skin. “Yeah, I was, Quinn. I was so wet, I would have come if you never even touched my clit. If we’d been alone, I would have fucked you on the bar.” I roll her nipple between my fingers, and she moans.

My dick surges in her hands, and I thrust my hips upward involuntarily. Her talking back to me is the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. My control is nonexistent between the alcohol and the long wait for a woman’s touch.

“Ah, I bet your tight pussy is still wet. Picture my dick sliding into you, Sally, all the way. Every hard inch of me in that sweet pussy of yours.” Her mouth encases me again in hot, wet pressure. She sucks me in and moves in sync with the hand still holding me at the base. I’m close. “Like that, Sally. Yes, let me feel your tongue. Fuck, that’s good.”

She increases her speed. My balls draw up as tight as a drum. Her left hand plays under them, slipping down to rub the ridge of skin underneath. Her tongue circles my head again. My hips rise off the seat. Her lips and hand pump in a syncopated rhythm. Blood hums in my ears. My hand gropes toward her. She’s hovering just off her seat to get over me, so I push her dress up and slip under her panties to grab a handful of her tight ass. Further down, and my fingertips find wetness. I dip into her arousal and bring my fingers to my face. The smell brings me closer, and then I stick the finger in my mouth for a taste. I close my mouth over the guttural groan as my hips buck. I come in hot waves of pleasure.

She stays with me through the last spasm and then rises off me to slump in her seat. I can’t move, can’t speak for several seconds, and then I tuck myself in and zip up. Her hands fall in her lap as she finishes tying up her dress.

I barely have time to adjust the rest of my clothing before there’s a knock at the window. It’s one of the crewmembers, a grip, I think. When Sally rolls down the window, he explains that he’s out here jogging and wanted to make sure she was okay. Sally shifts into her deadpan on-set demeanor and calmly tells the guy we’ve both had a couple strong drinks. Would he please drive us back, just to be on the safe side? He runs over to flip his keys to a friend, and Sally climbs into the back seat for the drive back to the set.