[there's a certain linger of desperation that embry does well at pushing down - but it haunts hawk later that night in bed as he stares at his ceiling with a cigarette between his fingers, replaying the events of the day. the cops have been called, szep has been sicced on whatever meager evidence they have from security footage and firsthand guard accounts, and tmz has been sated with the knowledge that a minor altercation occurred on set from an unwanted visitor - with production set to resume in one day's time. hawk can't help finding himself wondering in between supervising the trailer relocation and spruce up what embry is getting up to in his day off - if he's actually enjoying it when he'd been so insistent on getting a call and getting back to work. did he give his mother the bracelet? probably not with a black eye.

so hawk calls, and the show must go on.

and it does, for the most part, without much more than minor incident like disagreements over set dressing and costume alterations, a few rewrites and rescheduling the shoot order while embry's black eye heals. the pr machine starts back up again - burgeoning with excitement and actually managing to start driving up significant interest in their little project that could. it's going well - maybe even too well, and hawk's not superstitious, but that usually means the calm before a fucking storm, which he curses himself for thinking about the second it enters his brain. but that's the way it works, and inevitably something is sure to elevate his blood pressure and have him locking the office door to quell the erratic beat of his overworked heart.

it comes eventually in the form of a pretty blonde head, one greer galloway waiting prim in his lobby with a signed contract that has vivienne moore's swooping curl of a signature and has signed away the rest of embry's free time around the city of angels and beyond. she's a polite thing, greer - honestly if she wasn't already signed to one of the best agencies in the country and contracted to warner brother's, he'd figure out a way to snag her himself. frankly she's the perfect sort of rehabilitation for embry's struggling image - a good girl, elegant, well-liked, on the rise. and she needs the edge of a bad boy for her upcoming femme fatale role, so it's practically a match made in heaven. hawk knows there's no business like show business - that hollywood is littered with sham marriages and showmances a dime a dozen.

which is why it's surprising that he feels a twist in his gut watching it all unravel, wondering if embry even got a fucking say in the matter. who is he kidding - they'll probably wind up married or at least actually falling into bed given the spark of interest in embry's eyes and the chemistry he sees immediately heat between them, not an ounce of awkward hellos or polite how-do-you-dos right in front of his fucking eyes. it's probably better for him to settle down and have something to focus on the side that isn't drugs and partying and the temptations that come with the cesspool of this industry hidden among bright lights and unfairly attractive faces.

so that should be good, right?

that's what he keeps telling himself as he scrolls past headline after photoshoot after splash page - people, ok!, just jared, us weekly, deuxmoi - an obscene shopping spree on rodeo drive with embry carrying bag after bag from david yurman, chanel, burberry, hermès, prada, miu miu, jimmy choo and a giggling greer, a night at the la opera in full formal splendor, a weekend getaway to the private beaches in malibu, conveniently taken by drone. it's a fucking whirlwind romance for the ages - the modern day bogart and bacall. people are obsessed, and the phone is ringing off the hook for comments and set exclusives. if it's working half as well as it is for embry as it is for greer - then they've got this whole thing in the bag.

it also means a lot less of embry in his office, which may as well be his home away from home over his trailer these days. hawk is not one to let anyone in without an appointment, but it's hard to say no to his boyishly handsome face and it's not like the conversation is bad while he's poring over budgets and paperwork. he's like a stray cat in the way he takes it like confirmation he can come back and keep doing it - which is why it's a noticeable absence the moment it starts petering out in favor of this circus.

there's gold bleeding into rich orange and pink streaming through his open window - like a paintbrush dragged across the sky as he nudges his office door open with a shoulder and hauls in his briefcase and the takeout he'd picked up to go over a few scripts due later in the week. what he's not expecting is to see feet kicked up on his desk, someone already occupying his chair.

he can't help the amusement that seeps into his voice, the twinkle in his eyes sparkling from the dim light of a breathtaking la sunset.]

Don't tell me your driver got lost on the way to Beverly Hills.

[he tosses his keys onto the desk unceremoniously, setting down a bag from chi spacca in the middle and his leather briefcase in one of the chairs opposite that embry should be warming with his extremely nice ass. or really - shouldn't.]

Aren't you supposed to be opening the door to a Ferrari and escorting Greer into Mr. Chow's right about now?