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“Lauren, we’re friends, right?”
Startled by the strange intrusion into her quiet world, Lauren looked up from the mobile she’d been scanning and into the bright blue eyes of her handsome friend. Except he didn’t look so handsome at the moment. It seemed as though he’d been pulling at his hair, the usually tamed and gelled curls having sprung from their previous locations, making look like a bedraggled poodle.
“I don’t understand the question,” she said with a frown.
He sighed. “We’re friends? Right? Like we know everything about each other, we’ve got each other’s backs. We can talk about anything. Stuff like that?”
She eyed him for a moment, not sure where this conversation was going, and wondering if she shouldn’t escape while she still had the chance. The thoughtfulness in his words, however, made her curious enough to remain seated on the couch with him. What had he been thinking about that had required such a silly question?
“Of course we are, silly. Why?”
“I really need your help.”
“Okay,” she said slowly. “With what? Cooking? Shopping? A kidney? Hiding a body?”
He hesitated.
“A viable ovum? A healthy womb to incubate your baby for ten months?” Lauren meant it as a joke and he laughed at her good naturedly, but something passed across his face that gave her a reason to pause. Shaking her head to rid herself of the interest and disregarding the shiver up her spine, she smiled at him.
“Ten months?” he asked. “I thought it was only nine months.”
“Honestly. For being so educated, you can be really clueless,” she replied with a chuckle.
He pursed his lips at her and rolled his eyes. “I don’t make it a habit or hobby to research the female reproductive process. But really? Ten months?”
“Yeah,” she replied, confused at the way their conversation was going. “It’s forty weeks on average, so you do the math.”
“Huh,” he said, gazing thoughtfully across the room.
When he didn’t immediately continue, she grew anxious. “Please tell me you don’t expect me to carry a child for you. That’s not gonna happen.”
He frowned. “You mean you wouldn’t? Never ever?”
“Tom, if you are ever in a relationship with a man and you want to do surrogacy, we can talk then,” she replied. “But since you are neither gay nor do you have a sterile girlfriend or wife, I’m closed for business.”
He gave her another odd look. “Our conversations always devolve in the weirdest ways.”
“You started it,” Lauren replied and turned back to her mobile and the current level of Angry Birds she needed to beat to move on in the game. “What do you want anyway?”
Tom shuffled some magazines and books around on the table that sat in front of them. From the pile he extracted a packet of paper stapled at the corner. The pages were well worn and crinkled, stained and ripped. “I need you to run lines with me.”
“You’re joking, right?” she asked critically.
He shook his head and gave her a sheepish smile.
“Thomas, you are out of your bloody mind if you think I’m going to run lines with you again.” She clicked off the screen on her mobile and shoved it into her pocket. If he was going to get any more harebrained, she would be forced to leave.
“Come on, it’ll be fine,” he pushed, leaning over and wrapping his arms around her so that she couldn’t get away from him. She breathed in a whiff of his pleasant cologne and the lingering soap from his shower that morning. The scent made her sigh and a tingle spread through her body. It really wasn’t fair. He always seemed to know her weaknesses, and he never shied away from using them all to his advantage.
She didn’t have the same luxury, because as well as she knew him, she just couldn’t find any of his own weak spots.
“No, I won’t,” she said. “I was prepared to give you a kidney or hide a body. But I absolutely refuse to help you run lines again.”
“Why not?”
When she turned to look at him, she cast upon him the most baleful glare manageable. He seemed unfazed by it. “Because I can’t act and you know it.”
“I just need you to make sure I’m saying my lines correctly and you add in the other lines,” he said, brushing the long hair in front of her shoulder back behind it in a strangely intimate gesture. “Just read them.”
“Don’t you realize how much I get lost in watching you do your thing and then I can’t concentrate on reading? Do you even remember what happened the last time I helped?”
His lips curved into a slow, soft smile. He reached up with his right hand and drew his fingers along a tendril of hair still sitting on her shoulder. She watched in fascination as the golden blonde twirled around the tip of one of his long fingers. He wrapped half of its length around his index finger before she dared look up at him.
Tom’s light eyes had turned dark and serious.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
Surprise overcame his face and he snatched his hand away like the hair had lit on fire in his grasp. “Sorry… I didn’t…”
Lauren pursed her lips.
He sighed and regrouped quickly. “I won’t make you cry. This is a little different than Loki dressing down Black Widow.”
She shuddered in remembrance. There was little doubt about the man’s acting abilities and once in the “Loki zone” all hallmarks of her beloved, sweet-natured friend had disappeared. Why she had ever agreed to run lines with him that day was still beyond her comprehension.
It was the scene that had made millions of masochistic fangirls sigh in sexual frustration and solidified Tom’s place as a terrifying, unrepentant villain in cinema lore. To Lauren, it was as bad as the day she had failed her first practical exam at uni. She still had nightmares.
She had lost herself in the moment as he inched closer, taunting and berating in his lines. He pounded a fist on a table, rattling the glassware and plates that had previous held their lunch; he’d done it completely out of the blue for the effect of his lines. As much as she had been reading Black Widow’s lines, she had not become the character; she couldn’t divorce herself from the situation and that it was Loki who was violent and cruel to Black Widow, not Tom who intended to hurt Lauren. The action had startled her so much that she had burst into tears like some little girl.
She had gotten over it, mostly, but to this day, she couldn’t even watch that scene without feeling the familiar squeamishness of discomfort in the pit of her belly. Something important had changed between them that day. Even though they hadn’t discussed it when he had attempted to soothe her fears, it was a giant elephant in the room. It was something strange and not altogether unpleasant, but she had vowed never to run lines with him again because she didn’t want the rift to grow larger.
Clearly, he hadn’t felt the same, judging by the pleading expression now in his eyes. Tom moved back a bit, but didn’t release his all encompassing grasp on her body. His bottom lip had jutted out in the most epic pout she’d ever seen on the man. “Please?”
She blew the air from her lungs. “I hate when you do that. You know I can’t resist that look. Just give me the damn script.”
Tom grabbed the packet and handed it to her.
“I don’t see why I have to do this with you,” she said. “Why can’t your costar do it? Where is she?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “Off in America somewhere filming some movie.”
Lauren glanced at the black Courier font on the cover page. “You didn’t say it was Tennessee Williams.”
“You didn’t ask,” Tom replied. He jumped up from the couch and glided across the room toward his kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
Tom reappeared with one of the straight back wooden chairs that surrounded his dining room table and a clear glass of water. “Props.”
“You said I just had to read.”
“You have to do some of the scene directions,” he said. “I need help visualizing it.”
She testily arched her right brow at him, but didn’t verbally protest. Instead, she read the scene direction in a vain attempt to prepare for the un-preparable:
“Why don’t you ever do anything fun?” she asked. “Why can’t we get a nice comedy or buddy cop movie or something?”
Tom laughed as he set the chair in front of the window overlooking a bleak London day. It had been threatening to rain for hours. It was why they had decided to stay in rather than get caught in the storm while on a jog. “Because the meat is in the drama.”
“I know, but a little chuckle here and there might be nice.”
She stood from her seat and slowly made her way around the couch to the chair. Tom gazed out the window as if entranced, one hand on the back of the chair. Lauren reached out for him, brushing his fingers with her own.
He looked at her, a small smile curving his lips. “I promise I’ll start looking for a comedy piece… but that means you’ll have to help me with the lines.”
Lauren rolled her eyes and walked around the chair, sitting on it. “What are you going to use for the bed?”
“The what?” he asked, confused.
She lifted the packet and pointed to the scene direction. “The Man is on the bed.”
“Oh!” he chuckled. “I’ll just lay on the couch.”
Lauren silently thanked the gods that he hadn’t conned her into doing this in one of the bedrooms. She wasn’t sure how she could have handled that situation. His hands covered her shoulders and squeezed slightly.
“You ready?” he asked.
“I suppose.”
She listened to him lumber back across the room to lay on the couch. Lauren gripped the script packet in one hand and the water in the other, imitating the direction for him.
And then he began the dialogue, which moved quickly. She flipped the page and struggled to read ahead of him while he acted his lines.
“You aren’t doing what the scene direction says,” he replied.
“I’m trying!” she exclaimed. “How am I supposed to do all of this? I didn’t even read it all through.”
Tom didn’t reply, but Lauren read through the next page, extending an arm out of her imaginary kimona to pick the water up again. When she didn’t hear him, she turned to look for him.
“Don’t look back here!”
“Tom!” she said, laughing nervously. “How do I know if you’re doing what you’re supposed to?”
Tom groaned. “Trust me.”
“But the purpose of running lines was so that I could make sure you were doing everything correctly.”
“Lauren! Please! Who’s the professional here?”
She rolled her eyes and shook her head, turning back to the window. “Fine. I’ll just sit here.”
“Thank you,” he replied with no little amount of attitude. “Start from the top of page two.”
Lauren nodded her head, but then a thought occurred to her. “Do I need to hum some Spanish tune or something?”
“Lauren!”
“Geez, fine, Mr. Grumpy Pants,” she remarked. “I’d like to remind you that you’re the one who asked me to do this.”
He muttered something unintelligible. All Lauren could do was smile and sip the water out of the glass he had prepared for the prop. His lines began again and she leaned forward to drop the glass on the windowsill, giggling just like the scene direction had described.
In the middle of a long monologue, she found herself lulled back into the familiar place of peace and contentment that came with listening to him act, even though it was rather strange not being able to look at him while he acted out his lines behind her. But there were some clues as to what he was doing if she paid attention to that, and not on the script. First it was the rustle of clothing on the couch as he sat up on the bed and shifted, followed by the sound of his feet resting on the wood flooring beneath him. Then it was the tired sighs here and there.
Lauren had known he would need no help in learning his lines or portraying a starving drunk in love with a woman. She was fairly certain he could play anything and make it believable. At least to her, it would be believable. There were very few people more proud of him than she that he had made it this far and seen his dreams to fruition. But sometimes it was difficult to comprehend that the man who starred in big movies and was loved by millions of fans the world over was also the same little boy who ran around in nappies with her when they’d been toddlers. The sheer level of awe she felt around him in these situations really could be troublesome.
Like when she lost her place in the middle of everything and he asked for a drink of water. The request jarred her out of her thoughts and the warm, tingling sense of love welling within her heart.
“Huh?” she asked, blinking her eyes and turning. “What?”
“The water, Lauren,” he laughed in exasperation. “The water. Top of page four.”
“Top of…?” She looked down at her page. Oh, goodness. She hadn’t even turned the page. Rectifying the situation, she read down a bit further.
He cleared his throat. “Give me a drink of that water.”
Lauren got up from her seat and paused, finding that he had divested himself of his shirt since she had last turned around. She supposed it was for the scene direction—she was grateful he wasn’t in his boxers only—but she had not been prepared for what she would see. He seemed unconcerned at her startled intake of breath. It wasn’t an entirely terrible sight, she would admit, but it did make her gulp and force a hot blush to her cheeks like she was some simpering teenager.
She met him in the center of the room with the glass. He took it with him to the window where he pretended to sip and spit outside. When he crossed back over, he handed her the glass. She sipped as directed, her eyes going to his smooth chest and ridges of lean muscle. Lauren had to tear her eyes away from him to concentrate on the script in her other hand.
And then she froze, reading the next scene direction. His fingers were already on her throat, light and soft on the column of her neck. She wetted her lips with another drink of water and swallowed what was in her mouth, but it had gone completely dry anyway. She hadn’t expected... she hadn’t...
“Now I’ve recited the litany of my sorrows!” he said as his character. “And what have you got to tell me? Tell me a little something of what’s going on behind your—”
His hands covered her hand as it held the glass, gingerly taking it away despite the scene direction. Safely removing the glass and setting it aside, he met her eyes briefly. The corners of his lips turned up the minutest amount as he lifted her hand back to his lips, his mouth soft and tender as the lips ghosted across her knuckles. Again, his blue gaze, now dark like before, met her own in a challenging sort of way. The all too familiar flutter in her chest had returned along with the aching need much lower in her belly.
God, why did he do this? He had to know what he was doing. Tom released her hand and she dropped it limply to her side.
“Lauren?” he inquired softly. “Hello? Next bit...”
“I, uh,” she said, shaking her head to clear the cobwebs that had suddenly formed. “I’m... sorry... I...”
Tom’s smile was slow and knowing. He did know. And he didn’t care. “Lauren, do what the scene direction says. I need you to do it.”
“But...”
“Tom—,” she breathed.
“Do it,” he replied. “Touch me.”
Swallowing her pride, she reached out for him, not expecting the jolt that went through her arm or his shudder when the pads of her fingers tickled the smooth skin.
“Your fingers are cold.” His voice was thick, deeper.
“I’m, um...” she began. “I’m sorry?”
The left side of his mouth lifted in a rakish grin. “Go on... there’s still...”
“Tom, I don’t think I should.”
“You should,” he said, now breathless. “You definitely should.”
Lauren knew it was a bad idea. But she did it anyway. She dared any woman to refuse an imploring Tom Hiddleston. That was a Herculean task, and even then, she was sure Hercules wouldn’t be able to do it.
She lifted her hand from his chest and then traced her fingers along the thin lines of his lips, her hands quivering from anxiety and sexual frustration. Why was she doing this? His hands raised again, sliding along her throat and down over her shoulders, fingers teasing at the collar of her shirt, dipping lower until she realized the path he was taking.
“Stop!” she exclaimed with a rueful chuckle. “Just... stop! I can’t do this again. I’m getting too wrapped up into the scene and I...”
She pushed away from him and retreated to the furthest corner of the room. He stood completely still, eyeing her from his spot at the center of it all.
“Do you even know what you’re doing to me, Tom?” she asked. “What you hold in your hands every time you do something like this to me?”
Tom sighed and cast his eyes toward the ground. “What do I do to you?”
“If I have to tell you, then you clearly don’t know.” She tossed the script on the table beside her and lunged for her handbag. “I’m going home.”
He grabbed her arm as she passed, spinning her back into his arms. They locked securely around her, his breath warm on her cheek as lips pressed there a moment later. “Lauren, I know exactly what I hold in my hands. I just wanted to know what I did to you. I want to hear it from you. I need... I need confirmation that I’m not...”
Not what? Not what?! she screamed in her head.
“Your mobile’s ringing,” he said flatly.
She cringed and let out a heavy sigh. “Fuck.”
“It’s the hospital?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I have to go.”
He nodded curtly. “You have to go. You always have to go.”
His words stung, far deeper than she had ever thought possible. The hurt in his eyes only made it worse. She couldn’t look at him.
“I’m sorry, Tom,” she said. “I’ll ring you later.”
She left through the door, trying to wrap her head around what had just happened so that she could fully concentrate on the fact that she was needed at the hospital for a delivery. Her patients needed her full attention; they certainly didn’t need some lovesick woman consumed with confusion and lust for her best friend.
When she finally made it outside, it was raining. She shuddered in the damp cold, wishing for the heat upstairs, but sighed, pulled herself together and continued on her way.