Page 4 of Hot Nights in Morocco
“Fancy a coffee?” she says, catching me yawning.
My reply is lost to a loud crash as the production office door is booted open.
“Rachel!” bellows the newcomer, her black ponytail bouncing in agitation behind her skinny shoulders. “Jake is kicking off about the costumes again. He’s demanding last-minute changes to everything and we don’t have the time.Somebodyhas to speak to him about it.”
“Well, he’s never going to listen to me, is he?” says Rachel calmly, switching the kettle on. “Is you-know-who here yet? He’s the only one who can calm Jake down when he’s in this sort of mood.”
“I am. And not a fucking chance,” drawls a voice as a delectable-looking man in his mid-twenties strolls into the room. He’s wearing navy combat shorts, black high-top Chucks, and a pale blue-and-white-striped Ralph Lauren shirt. His dark hair is so long and unruly that it’s curling around the tip of his collar. “Sorry, Rach, but I refuse to face the firing squad this early in the morning. Not voluntarily, anyway.”
“Who’s that?” I hiss at her. Tall and lithe with shoulders as broad as his smirk, he’s so good-looking he must be a movie star.
Rachel shoots me an incredulous look and mouths his name at me.
Oh, shit.
That’sMax Dalton?
My new boss…
“But he looks so, um…young?” I whisper.
“You mean attractive,” she says, blushing slightly.
Max grinds to a halt when he spots me lurking behind Rachel. “What have we here?” he says, eyeing me with interest. “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure. You must be my latest…assistant?”
“And you must be British,” I shoot back in surprise. I can’t help it. His accent isn’t the cool California drawl that I was expecting from a member of the Dalton Hollywood dynasty.
Everyone turns to stare at me.
“I prefer Trans-Atlantic mongrel myself,” says Max, looking amused. “My mother gave me the accent, but not a lot else.”
“I dare you to call your brother that,” mutters the aggrieved costume designer to my left.
“Max, this is Charlotte Winters,” says Rachel, ignoring her, and pouring out two steaming mugs of coffee.
It better be the strongest damn hit of caffeine I’ve ever had. Max is even better looking close-up, and he knows it, too.
“It’s Charlie, actually,” I say, sticking out my hand awkwardly.
“I had a friend called Charlie once,” he muses, taking my hand and grinning lazily at me. “He didn’t look half as tempting as you do, though.”
Did he really just say that?
“Rachel, come quick.” A large man clutching a walkie-talkie erupts into the office to join the melee. “The art department is staging a mutiny. Jakehatesthe new set design and he’s threatening to raze studio six to the ground.”
This place is quickly filling up with a whole lot of Dalton disapproval. My eyes swivel sideways to find Rachel’s. What did she call Jake again? An “amazing” producer? He sounds more like a petulant man-child who delights in throwing his budgets out of the stroller.
“Welcome to the madhouse.” Max relinquishes my hand with some reluctance. “You can always tell my brother has arrived by the mounting hysteria amongst his loyal subjects.”
I laugh, despite myself. He’s clearly a degenerate and a raging heartbreaker but I like Max Dalton immediately.
“That’s not all he’s threatening to do,” says Rachel, her cheeks coloring again as she thrusts a mug into my hand. She starts to list off Jake’s latest misdemeanors, when there’s a scuffle in the hallway outside and a loud, mocking voice reverberates off the cracked terracotta tiling.
“I don’t give a fuck about their pride. If they want to stay working on my movie, they’ll have that set fixed by lunch.”
Rachel stops talking abruptly as a dark shadow approaches the doorway. Seconds later, Jake Dalton steps into the room. Pausing to whip off his Ray Bans, he straightens his back and turns to glare at us.
Oh. Good. God.
