sure they do. That wasn’t what I was saying or what I meant. It’s just me. Just old stuff popping out, God knows why.”
“What old stuff?”
He acted honestly curious and he’d no doubt drag it out of her anyway, so she just told him. “I was overweight—a fat girl all through college, actually. So guys were my friends, not my boyfriends, okay? I wasn’t any guy’s type.”
“You’re thin now,” he said simply.
“That happened by accident. I was working days at a news station in Fresno and making films at night—too busy to eat and jogging to boost my energy and all of a sudden, guys started looking at me instead of through me.”
“You sure that was it?”
“Oh, yeah. I was the same lively, interesting person I’d always been, but no guy noticed until I got skinny.”
“That must have pissed you off.”
“Royally. I got over it, though.”
“Not entirely, right? Hence, the comment?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“The past colors the present, JJ.”
“Ah, so this is why they call you doctor,” she said, deflecting his analysis with a joke. “You’re analyzing me.”
“I charge $150 an hour and accept most insurance.”
“Please. What kind of therapist practices in his underwear?”
He laughed. “My more traditional clients sometimes insist I wear pants.” He sighed.
“I see,” she said.
He smiled, moving close to her. “If it makes you feel better, JJ, I don’t sleep with my crew. Even moral reprobates have some standards.”
“Good to know,” she said, startled by his frankness.
“So now can you drop your shoulders? They’re up around your ears.” He squeezed her muscles there with such perfect pressure that tension peeled away like the skin of an apple under the sharpest of knives.
“Oooh,” she said.
“Turn around,” he whispered.
She did and he began to rub in earnest.
“Wow. Oh, wow,” she said. “That feels great.” Not suggestive at all. It was pure physical relief. She let it go on entirely too long, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a massage and it was just soooo nice.
“That working for you?”
“Oh, yeah.” She tried to collect her thoughts, say something funny or sensible. “You give shoulder rubs to all your crew?”
“Only the cute ones.”
“Kirk? Never mind. Too hairy, right?”
“You’re catching on.” He patted her shoulders, signifying he was finished. “Now what was I doing? Oh, yeah, putting on my pants.” He went to the side of the bed, whistling softly.
There was a knock at the door. Figuring it was room service, Jillian answered, but instead she found a short woman holding a stack of multicolored file folders in the hall. Eve Gallen, Brody’s producer, no doubt.
Her eyes widened when she saw Jillian, but when she looked past her to where Brody was pulling up his pants, they narrowed, along with her lips, and her face took on an ah-ha expression. She thought that Jillian and Brody had been…oh, damn.
Jillian reached out a hand. “I’m JJ. Filling in for Kirk on this shoot?” She hoped her tone cleared up the false impression.
“I know who you are,” Eve said, with a businesslike handshake and a brief smile.
“I got here early. I thought noon meant noon.”
“Then you don’t know Brody.”
“She’s learning,” Brody said. “I answered the door in my shorts and shocked the shit out of her.” He was clearly trying to show that nothing sexual was going on.
Eve paused, seemed to accept that, then strode to the window to fling open the curtains. “You live like a vampire, Brody,” she said, dusting off her hands. She had bird-bright eyes and a restless energy, and she took over the room, putting a third chair at the table, shifting Brody’s laptop to one side, taking legal pads and stapled pages from her messenger bag and laying items at each place.
Jillian raised her gaze to Brody, who shrugged. “Eve’s the boss. I’m just the hired help.”
When the food arrived, Eve signed the check, too, then lifted off the cover plates and stacked them. She looked over the omelets, sausage, granola, yogurt and pastry Brody had ordered, then grabbed a bear claw and bit into it. She made a face. “This isn’t blackberry, Brode.”
“They were out. It’s fig. Sorry.” Brody poured orange juice into a glass of cranberry juice and handed it to her.
“Thanks,” she said.
Jillian was impressed. Brody had ordered his producer’s favorite foods, including a juice combo he’d prepared for her.
Eve sipped the juice, nibbled on the pastry, then nodded slowly. “Goes good with the juice.” She scooped ice from the water glass into Brody’s coffee, taking care of him, too.
“The tea yours?” she asked Jillian, sounding almost offended by the presence of an alien beverage at the table.
“Yes,” she said, preparing her cup.
“Brody guess what you liked to drink and eat?” Eve asked.
“He did, as a matter of fact.”
“That’s the Brody Treatment. You’ll get used to it.” Her words felt like a subtle jab. He does this for everyone. You’re not special.
Brody circled the food cart, moving with an athlete’s grace in bare feet, loading his plate with an omelet and sausage and fruit. He looked like a Calvin Klein ad, his chest still bare, his jeans low on his hips, his boxers peeking out.
A sigh escaped Jillian.
“You okay?” Eve shot her a look.
“Fine.” Stop staring at the man. Her cup rattled in its saucer as she took her place at the table with Eve.
“Top sheet is the itinerary,” Eve said, then flipped to the next page. “The second is a shot list for tonight and tomorrow.”
“Looks good,” Jillian said. Eve was clearly organized. Her folders were color-coded by city, Jillian noticed, reading the tabs. They would be on the road for nearly a week—spending two days in L.A., two in San Francisco and two in San Diego, before returning to L.A. for postproduction work.
