Page 7 of One Kind Hand

Then her focus went right back to the TV screen. Austin smashed the bad guy’s face into his knee, making it look as if the move took no effort at all. Hell, every strand of his hair was still in place and that scruff around his mouth was . . . hot.

Charlie warned herself not to put her hand down her pants. Not again. She’d given in to touching herself the other night, but two nights? C’mon. She had more control than this. Yeah, she hadn’t had actual sex since the summer when she’d had naked fun with a dude she’d met in the Dominican Republic while doing some rescue work down there. That had been two adults scratching itches though. Nothing more.

Austin struck her as a something more type of guy.

As if she knew him or something. Charlie rolled her eyes, but she didn’t change the channel nor did she look away when Austin removed what was left of his shirt on screen to tend to his injuries. She’d love to give him a hand. Maybe two. And he certainly needed to be kissed all better.

“Oh my God, Charlie.” She slapped her own cheek. “You need to get a life. Like right now.”

Her phone dinged on the end table next to the couch. Hoping one of her friends was coming to the rescue with a social invite that would get her away from this TV she couldn’t seem to shut off on her own, Charlie picked up the phone.

Flicka Entertainment?

Charlie’s feet dropped from the coffee table and she sat upright.

“Flicka Entertainment!” Holy shit!

She quickly reminded herself to relax. This was probably one of those automated we regret to inform you types of calls. A we-don’t-want-you-or-your-stupid-chopper calls.

Charlie stood, a few hidden popcorn kernels falling from the folds of her sweatshirt and dotting the hardwood floor beneath her bare feet.

“Hello,” she said nervously after tapping the screen. Charlie Moyen didn’t do nervous, but here she was with sweaty pits and wet palms.

“Hello, is this Charlene Moyen of Moyen Helicopter Services?” a business-like female voice asked.

“Y-yes,” Charlie stammered, reminding herself to get a fucking grip.

“Wonderful. I’m Janice with Flicka Entertainment,” the woman said. “You filled in an entry form to have your helicopter services considered for the new Austin Rayhill movie we’re producing in Vermont. I’m delighted to tell you Mr. Rayhill selected your entry himself.”

Charlie backed up into the wall, needing something for support. It didn’t do any good though and she slid down to the floor instead, her lungs suddenly forgetting how breathing was supposed to work in the human body.

Austin selected me?

“Miss Moyen?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you freaking out right now?” Janice laughed.

“Maybe.” The word came out shaky.

“Trust me, I get it, sister,” Janice said. “We were surprised when Mr. Rayhill’s agent requested the script for Hunting Justice. Flicka Entertainment has a few successes under our belt, but to score a huge star like Austin Rayhill for the lead part had us freaking out too.”

“My chopper is for real chosen? This isn’t a joke?”

“No joke. I’m emailing you the details to the email address you provided on your entry form. Does that work for you?”

“Yeah.” With blood pounding in her ears, Charlie could barely hear what Janice was saying to her.

“Are you sitting, Miss Moyen?” Janice asked. “Because this next part might have you squeeing.”

Squeeing? Charlie didn’t squee. Like ever. Isabel was the squee-er in their duo.

She regarded her crumpled position on the floor. “I’m sitting.” Close enough.

“When Mr. Rayhill’s agent contacted us to say a selection had been made, he also requested an in-person meeting with you and Mr. Rayhill prior to filming because . . .”

Charlie didn’t register the rest of what Janice had said because her brain was looping on the phrase in-person meeting. An in-person meeting with Austin Rayhill. She had to put a hand over her mouth to keep from . . . well, from squeeing!