Never Been Ready (Ready #2)(15)

It was true. Garrett had always been blessed in the looks department, but after he turned eighteen, he'd really blossomed. He'd filled out more, his slimmer body becoming harder and more defined. His jet black hair and piercing green eyes that mirrored his sister's made him quite the package.

"Right on, Leah. I feel the same way. You're crazy hot, but I'd never in a million years tap that. Gross." He laughed.

"Tell that to your dick. You used to have to sit around with a pillow on your lap whenever I was around. Don't think I didn't notice."

"I was a horny teenager. What do you expect? I popped wood over tampon commercials," he admitted.

Clare covered her ears and groaned.

"Yuck. All right, well, now that we've reestablished how f**king hot we are, how are you doing? Job okay? Seeing anyone? Getting enough protein?" I asked.

"Oh, don't even try to ask him about his love life. You won't get anywhere," Clare chimed in.

Garrett rolled his eyes. "It's because I don't have one. I don't have any time. When I'm not traveling, I'm working eighty-hour weeks. When I do get a day off, I have a side job, babysitting," he said with a grin. "It's a very lucrative career."

"Okay, Goober, just don't work too hard. You know there is a life beyond a paycheck. Try to actually spend it on something enjoyable."

He nodded and smiled, but his smile didn't quite reach his eyes, and I knew he wasn't listening. He was working himself to death, and I wondered why. There were many reasons people lost themselves in their work —to forget or to swap one addiction for another. What was his reason? At twenty-three, what could he possibly be trying to forget?

~Declan~

"Cut!" the director bellowed from his stance behind the cameraman. "What the hell was that, Declan? Your blocking is all over the place, and you look like you're headed out to pick up a f**king carton of milk! This is supposed to be your goddamn wife and children you are leaving behind. Show me some f**king emotion!" he barked.

Damn it. I needed to get my head in the game. The problem was that I was pretty sure I'd left my head among other things in that hotel room with Leah.

I couldn't believe we'd slept together. I knew we'd slept together. That part of the evening had been stuck on repeat like a broken record in my f**king head. Just like the first night, I remembered every single second. What I couldn't get past was when we'd reached the point of exhaustion, we'd both collapsed on the king-sized bed, entangled in each other, and fallen asleep. I'd awoken this morning, and the first thing that had hit me was her flowery vanilla scent. I'd opened my eyes to find her naked form wrapped in my arms, and her soft honey-colored hair fanned out over my chest. Her breathing had been slow and even, still far away and deep in sleep. I hadn't known what to do. I'd never spent the night with anyone I'd f**ked around with...since Heather. I would either make excuses and get the hell out afterward or send the woman packing. Sleeping in the same bed was intimate, and I'd forgotten how much so until I'd had Leah's warm, naked body wrapped in mine.

I'd gently uncurled my body from hers and headed for the shower, knowing my morning call time was quickly approaching. I'd told myself I was being a nice guy, allowing her to sleep in and not disturbing her with my work schedule, but it had been all a lie. I had been running. Waking up with her tempting body flush against mine had brought something out in me —the same feeling I'd had when she asked me last night to be hers only. It had been that innate feeling of want. I had held on to the slim chance that after we had come together again, I would be over her, like I'd originally planned, but with some cruel twist of fate, I only wanted her more. It seemed every time I had her, it fueled my desire that much further.

I took my position again for the opening of the scene I had just botched as I cleared my head and tried to focus. It wasn't working. Leah's writhing body against that door as I'd licked her clean filled my memory, and when I opened my eyes, I saw my costar, Natasha, standing before me, waiting for me to deliver my line.

Damn it, Declan. Concentrate.

Natasha's fake tears trickled down her cheek as she portrayed a broken wife saying good-bye to her husband as he went off to war. It was supposed to be a heartbreaking scene, one that would make the women in the theater weep.

"Sorry, guys, give me a minute," I said.

The set crew groaned. Everyone gave me a look that clearly said, Get your shit together, before they shuffled off to get coffee.

I paced for a second or two, trying to focus on the scene and job ahead of me. I looked up to see Natasha closing the distance between us, swaying her hips in her nineteenth-century gown.

She gave me a sympathetic look and placed her hand on my own. "Everything okay, Dec?"

I hated when people called me Dec. I also hated when phony people tried to act like they cared. It wasn't even two days ago when Natasha —or Tasha Sinclair as she was known most of the time —had barreled into my trailer, offering me a blow job because she had been bored. She was the daughter of a movie producer, and she was spoiled beyond most people's imaginations. After playing around with her father's money for a few years, she had decided she wanted to get into the family business and act. When Daddy wouldn't hire her on as a leading lady, she'd realized she was going to have to work at it like the rest of us peons. She'd been working her way up ever since. The funny thing was, she was actually pretty damn good. Apparently, hanging around all those celebrities her entire life had taught her a thing or two.