production assistant looked slightly more harassed than Ellie felt at the moment. “Okay. Anything else?”
“Yeah, I— Shit.” Trish slammed her clipboard under one elbow and cupped her hand over the headphone at her ear. “No, Frank, he said—no, Friday, latest. Whatever it takes, man. Fitz is here.”
It took Ellie a second to realize that last bit had been addressed to her. “Fitz?”
“Kelleran? The lead?” Trish headed toward the barn, scrawling another note. “He got here earlier than we expected. He’s asking about his horse.”
Ellie tugged at Tansy’s reins and followed. “His horse? What about it?”
“I don’t know,” said Trish. She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “You’ll have to ask him.”
And there he was, leaning against a nearby van with not a care in his millionaire movie star world, his chambray shirtsleeves rolled back and his hands shoved into his pockets: Fitz Kelleran.
Ellie simply couldn’t prevent the shock to her system, the stagger in her step, the sudden intake of breath. He was taller than she’d expected, and leaner, his face more angular, his features more chiseled. He was much, oh, so much more handsome than the movie-screen Fitz—and that should have been an impossibility. She’d assumed the make-up, or the lighting, or the magic and mystery of film would make reality disappointing.
But the reality of Fitz Kelleran was that no human being should look that good. It was impossible for one head of thick hair to contain so many variations on the theme of blond. It was impossible for two eyes to match the kind of perfect blue that nearly hurt to look at when it blazed overhead.
It was impossible not to stare, not to study each feature, not to commit to memory the fascinating slide of expression over bone and muscle and skin. She tried not to stare, in that first breathless moment. She swore, in the next, that she’d defy his threat to her composure.
But then he smiled, all even white teeth and craggy edges and hollows, all sexy crinkles and teasing eyes, and another thunderbolt streaked through her.
And in that final moment of her first impression, she decided Fitz Kelleran was going to be a pain in the ass.
She knew it wasn’t fair, but the conclusion bubbled up through a stew of resentment and basic animal attraction. And—God help her—there was a dash of infatuation, slapping her upside the head and stinging her private parts with little needle pricks of desire.
Yep, a literal pain in the ass.
“Fitz Kelleran,” Trish said. “Ellie Harrison. Damn it, Jeff, I told you—” She stalked off, waving the clipboard.
Ellie looked up—way up—and hoped the flutter in her middle wouldn’t spread to her lashes. She stuck out her hand, and he took it in one that was big and warm and rough with calluses.
“Welcome to Granite Ridge,” she said. “I’m head wrangler.”
“So I hear.”
His voice was more than it was in the movies, too. Deeper, smoother. It rumbled right through her, from her tingling scalp to her twitching toes.
Damn him for that, too.
“I’ve got a nice gelding picked out for you, Mr. Kelleran.”
“Fitz.”
“He won’t give you any trouble.”
“I don’t expect any.”
“Okay, then.”
“But I’d like to pick out my own mount,” he said with that teasing smile, “if it’s all the same.”
Ellie stiffened and scrambled for patience. “I chose that mount for you. Specifically.”
“I’m sure you did an excellent job.”
“He was approved by the art director.”
His smile widened.
“And he’s already been okayed by the director,” she added.
“I’m sure he has. But Van Gelder wouldn’t know a Morgan from a mule.”
“And you do?”
A shadow flickered over his smile, a tiny hitch of his jaw. “You shouldn’t go making assumptions about people based on appearances, Ellie.”
“Looks like you’re making one of your own,” she said. “About mine.”
His eyes took a leisurely tour of her face. “You got me there.”
She battled back a blush. “Tell me, Mr. Kelleran—”
“Fitz.”
“Just how much do you know about horses?”
“Enough to know what I want to work with in front of the camera.”
She could already see the headlines: Kelleran Killed by Kick to Head. Actor Dragged to Death. “And just what would that be?”
“An animal that’s going to be still when I want it to be still. To respond the way I want it to, to move the way I want it to move.”
He leaned forward a bit, not enough to make her feel like he was crowding her, but enough to make her want to take a step back. She held her ground.
“Something with a little life in it,” he said. “A little fire. A little backbone. I don’t like things to come too easy.”
Suddenly she wasn’t sure they were still talking about horses.
CHAPTER TWO
FITZ THOUGHT ELLIE HARRISON could stare daggers with the best of them. Her eyes were interesting, an earthy mix of brown and green and gold. He could almost feel them gut and fillet him. It was an intriguing sensation, sort of like being carved up by the critics.
She shoved her freckled nose up toward his chin. It was small and sharp and pointy, just like the rest of her. “You seem pretty sure about how you want things, Mr. Kelleran.”
“Now that’s one assumption you’d be safe to make, Ellie. And it’s Fitz,” he added, because he could see it annoyed her.
“All right. Anything you say. You’re the boss. Fitz.”
His name sizzled like a curse across her lips. Lips that looked a little chapped from the sun and a little tight with anger. Lips that still looked plump and spicy enough to nibble. Sort of like those dark red chili peppers that gave him heartburn.
And then she turned on her boot heels, tugged at her pretty little mare and stalked off toward the barn. He stood there for a while and watched her tight butt swivel with every tight, ticked-off step. Hm. Nothing pointy there.
Fitz grinned. He probably wouldn’t be receiving an invitation to rub sunscreen on Ellie Harrison’s compact derriere any time soon.
