Twisted Arrangement 4 (2 page)

She was dressed casually in a loose-knit grey sweater and black linen pants, and her feet were bare. Emma apparently hated to wear shoes around the house. Her toenails were painted lime green today. Josh took in the messy bun on her head, where he could see a pen and two pencils sticking out, and the mug of coffee – or more likely mocha –  in her left hand.

He cleared his throat, sliding his gaze back down to the papers on his desk and away from the tempting visual of his pretend bride. “An open call. We had someone, but she had a scheduling conflict. And Morse likes to work with unknown actors when it comes to portraying actual people, so the actor doesn’t overshadow the roll.”

Emma nodded without looking up, strolling farther into the room. She absently handed him the mug, which was indeed mocha, and completely full. “That makes sense to me. Unless you’re talking about a Daniel Day-Lewis as Lincoln situation, but that’s the exception, I think. He’s like William, disappearing into his roles.”

Josh stared down at the rich brown liquid in the mug. She’d taken to making mocha every morning now, since they both enjoyed drinking it, and she always poured him a cup. But this, bringing it to him while he worked alone in his office, this was new.

And she still hadn’t raised her eyes from whatever she was watching on her tablet.

“Why do you ask?” Emily Dickinson only had a small role in the film, since it focused primarily on Thomas Wentworth Higginson’s abolitionist endeavors and not his relationship with the famous poet. But it was still a fairly important casting. It was Emily Dickinson, after all.

“I think you should take a look at this girl.” Emma finally looked up at him, though her expression was distant and contemplative, brows slightly furrowed as she handed over the iPad. She had a video pulled up, paused.

It was a period drama from the BBC,
Fingersmith
. Josh vaguely remembered seeing it years ago, but couldn’t recall what it was about. “Which girl?” There were several young, dark-haired girls in the paused image.

Emma perched on the edge of the chair opposite him, leaned over, and tapped the iPad’s screen to start the video. “Not the two main girls talking there. Check out the little maid in the background. She only has a small part but... well, watch.” Emma waved her hand.

Josh watched the scene unfold, concentrating hard on ignoring Emma as she leaned back in the chair and propped her naked feet up on his desk. The soles of a woman’s feet, pink and bare, shouldn’t be sexy. But Emma’s were. He could too easily recall the glide of her sole against his shoulder, the feel of her toes curling into his back as he’d run his tongue repeatedly over her clit.

“Do you think she’s good?” Emma bit her thumbnail. Josh shifted on his seat. His cock was hard again. He’d have to take another cold shower. Make that number four – or was it five? – of his pseudo-married life.

“She definitely has a way about her.” He’d barely noticed the actress, to tell the truth. But she looked about right and her slightly round face was very expressive. “Do you know her name?” He handed Emma back the iPad.

Her fingers flew over the computer’s screen. “Her name actually is Emilie. She’s French-Canadian. Most of her credits are from the BBC. She’s been acting on and off since she was a kid, but never done anything really big. Yet.”

“Well, send me her info and I’ll pass it on to Jess.”

Emma tipped her head, looking up at him through her lashes. Josh knew it was because her attention was divided between him and whatever she was doing on her tablet, but the look still hit him like a physical blow to the solar plexus.

“Jess is your casting director?” A soft ping sounded from the iPad. “I emailed you a link to her IMDB Pro page, along with a few YouTube clips.”

“Jess and Riki. I’ll take a look and then send them down the line.” Josh had known Jess since he’d first come to Hollywood as a totally green kid. They’d worked together dozens of times. Riki was her new business partner, an enthusiastic go-getter who had instantly impressed him. “They’ll make sure Emilie gets a call.”

Emma nodded, slapped her hand briefly against her thigh, and popped to her feet. “Okay then. I don’t know anything about casting movies, so she may not work at all, but I was watching
Fingersmith
and there she was. Boom! In my head she
was
Emily Dickinson.”

“Sometimes that’s how it works.” Josh shuffled the papers on his desk for something to do with his hands. What he wanted to do was tuck the errant strand of hair that had slid down along Emma’s cheek back into her bun. But her rules were perfectly clear. No touching unless in the presence of those they were attempting to fool.

As if sensing the direction of his thoughts, Emma tucked the hair back herself. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work. Don’t forget you’ve got the board meeting at EMF tonight.”

Josh’s position on the board of the Eugenie Markham Foundation charity had been orchestrated by Emma, another step on the road to wooing William Ransler to get him signed onto his film. Not that he minded. Josh actually enjoyed working with charities, even if he normally preferred to do so under the radar.

“Right. Is it a dinner thing?” He had a schedule of the board meetings somewhere in his desk, but he knew Emma would remember. She was the one who’d set it all up and her brain was a steel trap for details.

She shook her head. “No. This isn’t a budget meeting, just a brief assessment and a welcome for you. There’ll probably be drinks though. Do you want me to call the car?”

Think of her as an assistant. That’s what he should do. Not a wife, even a fake one. Just a personal assistant.

“I don’t think that will be necessary. I’m not planning on getting sloshed at a charity board meeting. But could you move dinner to 5 so I don’t have to eat and run?” He hated rushing a meal and tried to avoid it all costs. It was a necessary evil of the movie business at times, but he planned to enjoy as many leisurely meals as possible before shooting started.

Emma pursed her lips for a moment, and then her expression relaxed. “As long as you don’t mind something quick and simple.”

“That’s fine. Thanks, Emma.” Calm, cool, professional. No indication at all that he’d spent most of the last 5 days thinking about the how it felt when she wrapped her legs around his waist and the noises she made when he sank into her.

And he was hard again. Damn it.

Emma waved him off and was gone, the office door closing behind her. Josh exhaled, long and slow, slumping back in his chair. He covered his face with his hands, scrubbing at his skin, trying to erase the soft scent of her that still lingered in the room. It was fruity and floral at the same time. Lovely.

Not nearly as delicious as the smell of her warm skin or the spicy musk of her wet pussy.

Josh groaned, pushed aside the papers on his desk, and thumped his forehead against the hard wood. No harder than he was right now, of course. He could probably hammer a nail into an ironwood post with the erection he was sporting.

“She’s just an assistant. A work colleague. That’s all.”

From beneath his desk, Chewie gave a soft snort. Even the dog didn’t believe him.

Emma felt more relaxed than she had in days. Maybe months. Her iPad was propped against the pepper grinder on the kitchen island, blaring 80’s tunes. She bopped around the kitchen in her bare feet, hands dusted with flour.

She’d only intended to make a quick dinner, baked chicken and veggies. When Josh had made the comment about moving dinnertime, she’d realized he’d forgotten that Tina, the chef who usually cooked for them, had the day off. Emma should have corrected him. But the kitchen was stocked to the gills and it’s not as if she’d never cooked before. She liked cooking.

Which is how she ended up here, her sweater discarded as the heat from the oven filled the room, dancing across the cool tile floor to Cyndi Lauper while waiting for the chicken to bake. Josh’s kitchen had probably been designed for a professional chef to use, and Emma was hardly that, but she appreciated the layout and all the counter space.

The chicken smelled delicious, though she really had stuck to simple fare. Well, okay. Maybe the biscuits weren’t simple.

She’d chopped up the veggies and potatoes and thrown them in the big dish with the chicken. Then when she’d checked it and smelled the aroma of the chicken and herbs and garlic and carrots and potatoes all mixed together, she couldn’t help but think how perfect it would be with biscuits.

Why it had seemed necessary at the time to make them from scratch, Emma wasn’t quite sure. But they were just about ready to go in. They didn’t have to bake very long either, and they’d be light and fluffy and so delicious. Aunt Margaret may have not been an all-around warm woman, but she’d had a killer biscuit recipe.

“Thanks, Aunt Margaret.”

Emma slapped flour off of her t-shirt. Surrounding the stenciled white outline of an Impala was ‘~ SAVE A CHEVY ~ RIDE A WINCHESTER ~’. The shirt always made Emma grin.

Satisfied her beloved T was in no danger of a gluey, doughey demise, she rinsed her hands. She’d already set the table with everything they’d need but the food. She was chilling a nice bottle of Riesling, one of her favorites, and she’d even scrounged up a frozen cheesecake and set it out to thaw for dessert.

Why are you doing this?
The voice in her head hissed in exasperation. It had already pointed out that, with no company expected and much of the staff enjoying a day off, tonight was one night that Emma didn’t have to pretend to be Mrs. Joshua Owens.

Yet, here she was. Baking.

She was cooking because she liked to cook. She was good at it, at least reasonably so, and anything that you could eat afterwards was totally worth the effort it took to create. If she was at home and not here dealing with this crazy fake marriage situation, she’d have cooked for herself for the last 5 nights as well. So there was nothing odd about her cooking, per se.

Cooking for
Josh
, on the other hand...

Well, she wasn’t. Not really. She was cooking for herself and he just happened to also be eating. That was all. She wasn’t becoming some sort of stereotypical 50’s domestic homebody. She’d been looking into the kind of permits they’d need to obtain in order to film in public locations before she’d started dinner.

Emma was still getting the hang of what exactly it was that Josh did, as a producer. He wanted her to help, and in order to do that, she needed to understand his role. A lot of producers were merely people who invested money. Some were people who were given the credit for other reasons and had very little to do with the actual making of the film.

Not Josh. Josh was a bit like an event planner, except instead of planning a wine tasting for one day, or even a charity golf tournament weekend, he was planning an event that would go on for months. The sheer amount of work involved was a bit staggering.

So, Emma was treating this business arrangement just like any other job she’d worked for Picture Perfect, by researching everything she needed to know in an attempt to anticipate what problems might arise before they did.

Just like any other contract?
Her inner voice snorted.
You don’t make mocha and cook biscuits for other clients.

That was true. She also didn’t live in the same house as her other clients though. If she did, she totally would have made them biscuits.

You lie in bed at night and remember the taste of his skin and the way it felt when he bent you over and slid his cock inside you. That’s not very professional of you.

Emma hissed, suddenly aware that she was holding the pan of biscuits and standing in front of the open oven. The heat had begun to sting her fingers. And her face.

That night had been a momentary lapse, and she was putting it behind her.

Admit it, you want to put
him
behind you. Again.