Cat decided the best way to uphold the truce—and not to remind herself what Noah’s tongue tasted like—was to avoid him like the drunk, shirtless guy with his face painted blue in the nosebleed section of every sporting event ever. She chalked that night up to too much alcohol and judgment-clouding rage. It was the only explanation for why she had allowed her sworn enemy to get a good handful of her tits while she gripped his hard-on like a baton.

Of course, alcohol did not explain why she’d been getting herself off to the very vibrant memory of being slammed up against a cold brick wall and consumed. Every night. She was starting to worry she might lose flexion in her wrist if she didn’t chill the fuck out soon.

Cat zipped up her fleece and dragged on a knit hat that would have her hair stylist fussing over her before the next take. “How’s it looking?” she asked, shouldering in next to Paige at the monitor. Paige was dressed like a kid ready for a snow day in a parka, fleece-lined pants, and giant mittens that she could pry open in case she actually needed the use of her fingers.

“Good. Really good. You and Drake look good together on camera. Should keep the rumors flying about you two.”

Cat studied the image. Her bronze hair and subtle makeup made her look girl next door as she stared up into Drake’s handsome face. His height, that thick dark mane, and the killer grin had ladies swooning from episode one. His perfectly tailored flannels and tight jeans didn’t hurt either.

“He’s really loosened up,” Cat noted as Drake delivered a line of dialogue on the screen.

Paige nodded. “He’s definitely learning from you, and it helps to have the story editors on hand providing a guide.”

Drake strolled through the tent, mug of coffee in one hand and a hardboiled egg in the other. His earmuffs were ridiculous, but if anyone could pull them off, it was Drake.

“We ready to roll?” he asked, taking a bite of the egg.

It was the one unattractive thing about Drake Mackenrowe. His paleo diet that did his body so good required him to snack incessantly on things like beef jerky and hard boiled eggs. His breath on set made Cat extremely happy that she didn’t have to kiss him for the cameras.

She couldn’t help but compare kissing Drake to Noah’s performance. It was no contest. Noah Yates knew how to kiss a woman like he was tasting her soul. It was almost a week later, and she was still retreating to that night in her head six or seven times a day. She’d lost her damn mind, and she worried that there was a very tiny sliver of her that wouldn’t mind losing it again to see if it felt the same.