It was stuffy inside the trailer.
The air clung to his skin, thick and sticky, like it had been melted down by the sun.
Link's mind went completely blank.
All he could feel was the lingering softness on his lips—warm, unfamiliar, faintly sweet.
Cameron took a step back, her face flushed red, like she'd just spent the afternoon baking on a beach.
She bit her lip, her eyes bright and sparkling. She glanced at him once, then quickly dropped her gaze to the tips of her shoes.
"I…" Link cleared his throat, trying to say something—anything—to break the damn silence.
"I should get back to filming."
Cameron beat him to it. Her voice was quiet, but steady.
She looked up and winked at him, wearing that familiar smile—bright as California sunshine.
"The director's waiting on me."
She didn't give him time to react. She pulled open the trailer door and hopped out lightly.
A rush of air swept in, carrying the scent of palm trees and hot asphalt from outside.
Link stood there for a good thirty seconds before lifting a hand to touch his lips.
Damn it.
He'd lost control.
He stepped out of the trailer, squinting as the sunlight stabbed at his eyes.
Back on set, everyone pretended to be busy, but those sneaky, curious looks were sweeping over the two of them like searchlights.
Chuck Russell stood behind the monitor with his arms crossed, his face unreadable.
Off in a corner, Jim Carrey was stretching—one leg practically hooked over his own head. He shot Link a knowing look, his expression clearly saying:
—Told you so.
Link walked over. Chuck jerked his chin at him, not exactly friendly.
"You good now?"
"Probably," Link said.
"Good." Chuck tossed his pen aside, swearing with a hint of relief in his voice. "If I can't get her to flirt on camera again, I'm making her read the phone book."
Cameron had already taken her place back in the center of the dance floor.
"Action!"
The music kicked in—Cuban Pete, loud and bursting with energy.
Jim Carrey sprang forward like a loaded spring, his movements wildly exaggerated.
Cameron didn't move.
She just stood there, watching him.
Then she smiled.
Not the sultry, scripted smile—but a genuine one. A little goofy. Bright enough to hurt your eyes.
She skipped the rehearsed steps and improvised instead, giving her hips a playful twist and whistling at him.
Jim froze for half a second—then went even crazier, shaking the maracas and circling her like he'd lost his mind.
Cameron didn't retreat. She leaned right into it, moving with the rhythm, loose and carefree, her skirt flying. She wasn't playing a sexy bombshell—she was just enjoying the dance.
The entire set shifted.
Extras who'd been half-asleep started clapping along. The lighting tech cracked a grin. Even the cameraman's steps got lighter as he moved.
Chuck stared at the monitor, mouth hanging open—so stunned he forgot to call "Cut."
He turned and glanced at Link, standing in the shadows. His expression was complicated. In the end, he shook his head like he'd surrendered to fate—yet the corner of his mouth still twitched upward.
The music ended. Jim Carrey dropped into an over-the-top sliding kneel, stopping right at Cameron's feet.
Laughing, Cameron extended her toe and gently nudged him.
"Cut!" Chuck finally shouted. He jumped up from his chair. For once, he didn't yell—just waved his hand. "That's it! Damn it, that's a take!"
By the time they wrapped, it was already dark.
Link was about to leave when Cameron caught up from behind, script still in hand.
"There's a scene tomorrow," she said, falling naturally into step beside him. "I think… Tina's reaction could be a little more playful."
They talked as they walked, passing through the now-empty soundstage.
The night breeze drifted in from the entrance, carrying a faint sweetness with it.
They'd just reached the parking lot—
"Click! Click! Click!"
Flashes exploded out of the darkness like machine-gun fire.
Seven or eight reporters appeared out of nowhere, cameras and microphones raised, surrounding them in an instant.
"Mr. Link ! Miss Diaz! Are you two on a date?"
"When did this relationship start?"
"Is this an official response to Harvey Weinstein's recent comments?"
Questions slammed at them like bullets.
Cameron instinctively stepped back, gripping her script tightly.
Link frowned and stepped forward, placing himself squarely in front of her.
He was about to speak when the reporter at the front shoved a recorder right up to his mouth, smiling with open provocation.
"Mr. Link —what's your response to the statement released this afternoon by Jennifer Connelly's agent, saying she 'refuses to work with producers of questionable character'?"