His eyes turned distant. “I can’t offer anything but that.”

“I know.” She did know, but it hurt to be reminded. Which was exactly the reason she had to be finished with the never-ending Micah flirtation. Here and now. “That’s why it can’t happen.” She swallowed. “And if you keep pushing me, Micah, you’ll win.” She heard him inhale. “But you’ll break me.”

His shoulders fell, his poise collapsing. “That’s not what I want. I don’t want to break you.”

“Then this—” She gestured between them. “This…has to stop.”

“All right.” He put his hands up in a surrender position, his eyes filled with bewilderment. “It’s stopped. Promise.”

“Thank you,” she choked. She rubbed at her eyes before any tears could fall. Stupid girl tears. “Now, if you don’t mind, I want to see this film.”

She didn’t wait to see if he followed as she returned to the theater. She marched down to where the others were seated and tapped Fudge’s shoulder. “Please trade me seats,” she whispered.

Once Fudge relinquished it, Maddie sank into the chair, thankful for the sad subject of the movie so she could cry and hug herself without any questions.

Micah had managed the best acting week of his life. Unfortunately none of the great acting was on camera. Yes, he’d filmed several scenes that week, and they’d been decent, but the most convincing work he did was when the camera wasn’t rolling—when he pretended that he was unaffected by Maddie Bauers.

He hadn’t talked to her in several days—since the day in Breckenridge. He certainly hadn’t touched her. He’d promised he’d stop—stop what? Pursuing her and flirting with her, he supposed. The only way he knew how was to avoid her completely. He’d stayed away from her at the catering tent and let his stand-in take his measurements to be sure he wouldn’t have to address her. He ignored her name on the call sheet and her number in his phone, unwilling to go so far as to erase her contact info. Sure he was in a foul mood every moment of every day, but remarkably, no one but Fudge seemed to notice. Either he was a better actor than he thought, or his mood just blended in with the rest of the cast and crew who were edgy from a week of night shoots.

Micah stifled a yawn.

“Am I boring you?” Beaumont asked. It’d been a long day and the director was coaching the main actors for the next evening’s scenes.

“Sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“It has. Well, I’m done with you, anyhow. You’re on fire, kid. Keep it up. Any questions?”

Micah shook his head. Truth was he hadn’t been listening to most of what his director had said. Early in the conversation Beaumont had begun picking on the crew, had even thrown a vague insult toward the camera crew, and Micah became distracted. Were all his directors such pricks when it came to the production staff? He hadn’t paid attention in the past. Why did he notice now? Was it because Beaumont was especially prickish or because one of the crew members was Maddie?

It was totally Maddie. How could anyone work with her and not notice her passion and drive? He knew Adam noticed. And Joe. And Sam. How did Beaumont miss it? Micah had paid careful attention to her work whenever he watched the dailies—the raw footage from a day’s shoot. So many times he and the other actors would miss their marks, improvising their blocking and Maddie’s expertise kept everything in focus, time after time. Why didn’t Beaumont know that? He sat in video village for nearly every take, watching from the monitors, directing over a headset, but surely Joe and Adam told him. Still, the director acted like he had no clue what Maddie did to cover for the cast.

Micah yawned again.

Beaumont patted him on the back. “Get some sleep. Next week we’re back to day shoots. We’re all struggling, but we’ll get through.”

Yeah, right. This week video village had been set up inside the cabin. Beaumont got to sit in comfort while his cast and crew slapped at bugs and waded through stickers in the meadow and the woods outside in the dark. Hardly seemed like Beaumont was struggling.

But Micah nodded and looked at his watch before picking up his messenger bag. Four in the morning. No wonder he felt so out of it.

He bid good night to Beaumont and the actors still conversing around the table in the cabin dining area and walked into the main room. At the front door, he glanced at the monitors that made up video village in the corner. Maddie sat there, her back to him.

She hadn’t noticed him so he took the opportunity to feast his eyes on her for the first time in days. Her dark brown hair was swept up into an untidy bun, long tendrils hanging down her neck—her long, graceful neck—curling around the cord of the headphones she wore. She’d discarded her overshirt and Micah could see the thin, baby-blue strap of her bra peeking around the edge of her tank. He relished the times she bared her firm, strong arms and her sun-darkened flawless skin. He longed to touch her, run his hands over her shoulders, feel his arms around her.

But that was a fantasy for another life.

What caught his attention now were the images on the thirty-inch monitor she sat behind. Picturesque shots of a young couple filled the screen. The woman knelt in a red wagon, her arms spread as the man ran, pulling her behind him. Both laughed, the camera catching the pure and exquisite joy of such a simple moment. It was shot as the sun was setting, and beams of light reflected off the camera lens, creating a whimsical effect. Micah was enthralled.

He moved closer to watch over Maddie’s shoulder. Eventually, he was unable to contain his curiosity. “What is it?”

She jumped and swiveled toward him. “Oh my God, you scared me.” She removed her headphones and hung them around her neck. “We have a production meeting in a bit. Joe said I could use the monitor until then. Are you guys done?”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes. God, what he’d done to her that she couldn’t even look at him? “I’m done. Beaumont’s still with the others. But I meant, what are you watching?”

“Oh, I…it’s just something I’ve been working on.” She hit a button on her laptop and the screen froze.

“Don’t stop it. Please.”

Maddie shrugged and restarted the film from the beginning of the section.

“Working on,” Micah repeated, his eyes not leaving the screen. “Editing? Directing?”

“Both.”

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

“What?”

He cleared his throat. “It’s beautiful. I can’t hear any sound, don’t even know the storyline and I’m totally drawn in. The images are so vivid. The lighting is perfect. The quality is excellent. Digital film?”

“Yes, I shot it on RED.”

“You shot it? Gorgeous.” Man, he wished he could’ve seen that. The idea of her behind a camera was a total turn-on, mentally and physically. First, she’d look hot on a camera dolly. Hell, when didn’t she look hot? But more profoundly, he’d always admired people who ran camera. They dared to see the world in front of them in such a way that it created an exact story. It was much easier to act—totally self-absorbed—than it was to see everything completely outside of yourself.

He realized then that she probably saw him. Saw him in a way that few women ever did—with her photographer’s eye and her crazy insight and her brief glimpse of him in his youth. It scared him.

He shook away the thought and focused on the screen. When he spoke again, it was as if he hadn’t been quiet for several minutes. “But it’s not just that, it’s the editing. Those jump cuts are awesome.”

Her eyes widened. “They take forever to put together.”

“I bet. But it’s worth it. It reminds me of Soder. Or early Arsky.”

“Really? I was going for Goade, but I’ll take Soder and Arsky any day.”

“Goade.” He chuckled. “Of course. Back to the roots. Yes, I see the influence of Breathing.”