The entire set practically worshiped him.

Evan Reed — the Evan Reed — the star of every magazine cover, the actor with a golden smile and a resume full of awards. The director treated him like royalty, and everyone else seemed to orbit around him like he was the sun.

Everyone but you.

You tucked the new scene script under your arm, weaving between lighting rigs and production assistants. All you wanted was to get these pages to the director before the afternoon shoot.

You didn’t notice Evan falling into step beside you until you heard his voice, low and annoyingly amused.

"Where you headed, shortcake?"

You didn't even glance at him. "Work. Unlike some people."

He gasped in mock offense, clutching his chest. "Are you suggesting I don't work hard? I spent two hours this morning in makeup alone."

You smirked but kept walking. The thing about Evan Reed? He loved attention. Craved it. And you were probably the only person on set who didn’t throw themselves at his feet. Which, unfortunately, seemed to make you his favorite target.

"You know," he said, easily matching your pace, "I think you secretly like me."