Billionaire With a Twist 2 by Lila Monroe

Author:Lila Monroe [Monroe, Lila]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Romance, Contemporary, Romantic Comedy
Amazon: B015EKU32U
Publisher: Lila Monroe Books
Published: 2015-09-13T18:30:00+00:00

SEVEN

“How’s my favorite ad person?” Hunter asked, strolling onto set.

“Uh, I’m the only ad person you even remotely consider human,” I told him, trying to ignore how delectable he looked in a loose white linen shirt that set off his tan, and jeans that hugged his ass in all the right ways. “And I’m great! I mean, I’m being eaten alive by this schedule and judging by their hungry looks, possibly eventually also by the actors, but I’m great—”

“Excuse me!” Our director bustled up, a feisty woman with horn-rimmed glasses, short spiky blue hair, and the drive of Napoleon. “We still need footage of the distillery, and if we don’t leave now, we’ll lose the light, and of course the lighting people will do their best to fill it in, but artificial is never the same as—”

“Right, right,” I said. “Well, if you’re all ready, I’ll lead you there…”

“One minute!” She bustled off again, shouting for cameramen and personal assistants and lighting directors and sound guys.

Hunter touched my arm. “May I tag along?”

I raised my eyebrow in mock outrage. “On your own plantation? How dare you suggest such a thing!”

He laughed and linked his arm with mine, strolling along with me as the director corralled her minions and began to follow us to the distillery. On the way there I talked almost entirely to the director—scenes we should shoot, shots we should cut, lighting, color, camera angles—and yet I never lost track of the sensation of Hunter’s strong arm through mine, Hunter’s strong presence at my side. The heat coming off his skin, the heat coming through his eyes.

It was a sensation I believed I could get extremely used to.

As we strolled—well, as Hunter and I strolled; I don’t think the director was capable of less than a full-on bustle, and her assistants scurried after her—we passed some of her colleagues conducting interviews with the workers. One fellow, on the older side, self-conscious in his denim overalls, shuffled his feet and said to his interviewer as we passed, “Well, it’s the taste of the South and that’s no mistake.”

“Did you hear that?” I asked Hunter. “I love it; it’s perfect for a tag line!”

“I defer to your expertise,” Hunter said with a formal bow and a teasing smile.

“It’s certainly one possibility,” the director said grumpily. Earlier in the day, I might have taken umbrage at her tone, but by now I knew it was just how she communicated. Compared to some of the things she’d said earlier, this was practically a ringing endorsement.

“There it is, coming right up on your left,” I said.

“Yes, yes,” she said distractedly. “Good…”

As we reached the distillery, the director was frowning thoughtfully up at Hunter, clearly mentally checking off items on a list in her head. “We haven’t got footage of you yet, either,” she said abruptly. “We’ll need that. Bartlett, you got a recommendation for rooms we should use?”

I glowed a little bit inside at this acknowledgment of my understanding of her work.

“The cask room,” I said.

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