Diva VIII

A round of applause broke along with the kiss. Too mortified to acknowledge it, Ellie opened her eyes on Dane. “That wasn’t in the script,” she said, trying not to sound as breathless as she felt.

He smiled. “I was improvising.”

She was about to inform him that one didn’t improvise in the movies when Hamilton called for a lunch break. “Take it offset,” he suggested as he passed.

Dane’s smiled widened. “Shall we?”

Ellie didn’t know what to say or how to act. That she was attracted must have been obvious, and it would have been fine had he chosen to test her in a less public forum. She normally spaced her romances a few months apart—a sobering truth, now that she thought of it. She had dumped Tony the night before starting this film, less than a fortnight ago.

Was she building a reputation?

Whatever Dane saw in her eyes, it rattled his confidence. The smile vanished, replaced by a boyish uncertainty beneath the overdone-for-the-camera makeup. He dropped his lashes and stepped back to clear her path.

Ellie braved a glance around the set. The cast and most of the crew had taken Hamilton’s direction and departed for lunch. The remaining few were focused on their equipment—lights and cameras—trying to ignore the awkward moment in their midst.

Why the hell had the director chosen to shoot this scene first?

“The fact is,” Dane said, solemnly, “I’ve wanted to kiss you from the day we first met.”

Ellie’s heart thumped clumsily in her chest. She said nothing, and after a few beats, Dane continued.

“I thought—hoped—you might have felt the same way.”

She was completely unprepared for him to lift her hand to his lips in a Shakespearean plea for forgiveness, and she was so befuddled by the whole incident that honesty seemed the only sure way out of it.

She heard herself say, as if at a distance. “You were right.”