The Unidentified Redhead (Redhead #1)(37)
Author: Alice Clayton

I loved that I could make him feel like this.

“So, this meeting, is it a callback?” he asked over the roar of the water. I stepped out from underneath the shower head, pointing it more directly on both of us.

“Kind of, I auditioned for them last week and rather than a traditional callback, I’m going straight through to producers,” I answered, sweeping my hair out of my face. “Shampoo, please,” I directed. He turned around in the shower stall, giving me a peek at his cute little buns. I couldn’t resist a little squeeze.

He flexed them for me, making me giggle.

“Fuck, you have like four different shampoos. Which one do you want?” he asked, puzzled. “And why do you have so many?”

“I need them for different days. Some days you need a clarifying shampoo, some days you need a color boost … today we will go with the deep conditioning, please,” I said, pointing at the chosen shampoo.

“Huh, I usually just collect all the free ones from hotels and use whatever I have on hand.”

“Maybe that’s why you feel the need to wear that damn ball cap all the time,” I teased.

“Don’t hate the cap,” he said, pouring the shampoo in his hand.

“Spin ‘round,” he said, indicating that I should face away from him. I did, and I felt him begin to wash my hair.

Well, wasn’t he too cute?

“So, producers. That’s great, Sheridan. What time are you meeting them?” he asked as he continued to lather. He seemed to be having great fun making swoops and swirls with my hair and all the bubbles, and I think I caught what looked like a pompadour in the reflection of the glass door. He had used almost two palms full. I wasn’t surprised at all the lather.

“Holly said at 2:00 p.m. What do you have going on today?”

“I have more reshoots tonight, probably pretty late,” he said. “OK, rinse.” He guided me under the spray.

I felt him gently work all the lather out of my hair, being careful not to get any in my eyes. He really was sweet. I returned the favor, lavishing attention on his scalp, since he was a fiend for it. Of course, he was so much taller than I was, in order to reach his head I had to stand on tiptoe in front of him. He made sure I was steady, though, keeping my br**sts firmly grasped in hand.

“What? I’m supporting you. I don’t want you to slip and fall,” he said, when I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Uh huh,” I answered, giving his head one final scratch. “OK, rinse.” He closed his eyes and stood under the water, while I grabbed my shower gel—brown-sugar and coconut scented—and proceeded to wash my body. By the time he opened his eyes again, my body was covered in fragrant bubbles and my hands were slipping and sliding around on my skin, something that was not lost on Mr. Hamilton.

“Crazy, what are you trying to do to me?” He sighed, leaning against the tiles.

“Settle, George. I’m just taking a shower. Here … try some of this.” I flipped him the bottle.

Maybe I arched my back just a little more than necessary when I swept my hands across my br**sts.

“Grace … ” he warned, and I could see how I was affecting him. I giggled.

He examined the shower gel. “Coconuts! It’s coconuts!” he exclaimed.

“What’s coconuts?” I asked, turning my back to him to rinse my front.

“That’s what you smell like! You smell like coconuts and clean laundry,” he said proudly, as if he had cracked some code. He might just have been the cutest thing ever. I peered over my shoulder at him. He was grinning.

“I smell like clean laundry?”

“And coconuts—don’t forget the coconuts,” he said, reminding me.

“No, we really shouldn’t forget the coconuts,” I said, turning to face him and running my hands down his torso, and even lower. His eyes widened.

I didn’t forget the coconuts.

That afternoon I was speeding down Sepulveda, heading to my meeting.

Holly had told me I would probably sing again, so I kept the top up and was doing my vocal exercises in the car.

I was excited for this meeting. When I had original y been given the details of this new show, it intrigued me. It was a brand new musical, still in the workshop stages. They were continually rewriting the music and the lyrics, and as an actor, the chance to be the first to inhabit a role was intoxicating.

The female lead was in her thirties and an aging beauty queen. The entire show was based around her coming to terms with her age, no longer being the ingénue, and dealing with the aftereffects of a messy divorce. It was about a second life, redefining yourself all over again. It was sweet and funny, and the music I’d already heard was amazing.

This show was me. I was all over it. Now I just had to sell the director on it. I was new to show business, as far as they knew me. All I really had going for me was Holly, and she had to sell like hell to even get me the initial audition.

But once I was in the door, it had been all me. This was my first real test, my first real reentry into the industry, and I was taking full advantage.

I was ready. I was excited. And if I booked this job, I would be ecstatic.

When I arrived, I met with two of the New York producers, the director, and I was supposed to meet the writer, but he had just stepped out. As I chatted with them, the director asked how long I had known Holly.

“Oh gosh, we’ve known each other since college! We were roommates, and then we both moved out to L.A. within a few months of each other.

She’s great.”

“Yes, I’ve worked with her on several castings over the years. Holly’s fantastic.” He smiled and I smiled back, proud of my friend who was obviously so well respected within the industry.

“Ah, here’s our writer! Michael, we’d like you to meet—”

“Grace? Grace Sheridan?”

The voice was familiar. I turned around, an expectant smile on my face. He seemed to already know me. Then I saw him. Of course he knew me.

He had broken my heart thirteen years ago.

Dammit, Holly …

“Seriously, Holls, what the f**k? How could you send me in there blind like that?” I yelled, swerving in and out of traffic like a crazy person. People were honking at me, and I flicked off at least three of them at once.

“Grace, calm down. I had no idea it was the same Michael O’Connell. I mean, what are the odds?”

“What are the odds, indeed.” I grumbled, as I cut someone else off. “Shut up!” I yelled as the man flashed his lights at me, screaming obscenities.