"And Cut!" The lights come back on and a crew member quickly comes over with a can of Coke. My throat is dry and my body aches, I've been up for a little over 12 hours shooting the same damn scene because according to Mattieu, the ever so pretentious French Director –the scene just "lacked something".

"Is there anything else I can get you?" asks the young and perky crew member, batting her big doe-eyed lashes at me. I shake my head and with a polite smile, slowly make my way over to the trailer. A hot shower and my bed, that's all I can think of and no, I don't plan on sharing either of those with anyone else. Soon as I've managed to fumble the keys into the lock and open the rickety door to my trailer, my phone begins to ring.

Mumbling soft curses I look at the caller ID, its John Denver – my manager and only time he calls me mid production is when he needs me to do some ridiculous PR stunt for the fans. His incessant ringing means he needs me to hear about it now—not after a good 20 hours of sleep, with a heavy sigh I slide the answer icon.

"You just disturbed the only 20 hours of uninterrupted sleep I was planning on getting for this month so this better be good." I flick on an overhead light and dump my heavy aching body onto my neatly done bed- the one thing I am absolutely certain I inherited from my mom were my little traits of OCD. Clean sheets, clothes, trailer or house- I got it from my mama.

"Wouldn't have called if it weren't" comes his answer; his gruff voice fills my ear. He coughs his annoying "smoker's cough" and then clears his throat. Wanda called me, said POP's have got a little proposition for the movie, said it could help boost sales and if there's one thing Mattieu wants more of, its sales." He takes a heavy drag of his cigarette and follows it with another cough, why the guy can't get the hint it does him no good just baffles me.

"What kind of offer are we talking?" I ask a little impatiently, the quicker this phone call ends the faster I can shut my eyes, I'm so scared to close them right now, I might just pass out indefinitely.

"They want to cover you behind the scenes – give you an interview and do a vlog about what it is to be the Jack Teller", this peaks my interest and my eyebrows shoot up.

"Mattie boy okay with that? Thought he hated any sneak peeks of his "creations" leaking out I say my voice drips in humourless sarcasm. Denver scoffs too, guess he was just as surprised.

"Yeah well, I think that as long as the crew doesn't interfere while you guys are shooting it won't be a problem and from what I hear, the writer and crew are in from 9 am and leave sharp at 4 pm. It's a weekday gig too, so they don't plan on disturbing you at all hours."

I sigh, if Mattieu has already agreed then that can only mean one thing, "Do I really have a choice in this matter"? I ask, this seems to tickle my manager's funny bone because judging from the thick voice that rumbles through my ear it looks like I don't. Fuck.

"Wanda says the crew is very professional and the writer is new. So let's just play nice, no harm can come from a vlog now can it?" what an odd thing to say, I hum in agreement, stretching my tired body for the bazillionth time .I sign off saying I'll do anything as long as I can sleep, he mumbles a "good night" and it's off to hot shower and La La Land.

***

The thumping outside my door is not a dream and it isn't stopping either but I'm sure as hell not ready to wake up and deal with whatever today has to offer, "It's my day off for, fucksake," I grumble into my pillow. The thumping stops just long enough to be followed by a boisterous French voice.

"Jack Teller! Open the door s'il vous plait, the POP crew are here!" screams Mattie LaPure through the ventilation found on the entrance door to the trailer.

" I will need you out here in half an hour, please be presentable" he adds before huffing his way back to wherever the hell it was he came from this morning – probably his fancy hotel room.

Looking at my ceiling, I count to 10 and then slowly begin to rise up. The digital clock to my right screams just shy of 8.45. I hate Mondays. Taking a quick shower, yes I shower 3 times a day, I just have to. We can chalk it up to another little trait from my OCD streak.

I quickly make my way over to studio 5, where two crew trucks are parked outside. The air is cold, the room dark and the red light that indicates "Shooting" is on. I look around and spot Marcie the makeup artist working on one of my female leads and counterpart, Sara Jameson, her blond hair falls in perfect waves down her smooth milk skinned back. Marcie looks up at me and gives me a friendly smile which causes Sara to turn around too, "My, My! You're up early! And on your day off" she adds in mock shock.

I shrug, "Mattieu needs me to sell my soul so we can sell the damn movie", Sara rolls her eyes and shakes her head, "Yeah, cause the People's Choice Award and nomination for 2 Oscars you got last year just aren't enough for your credibility."

I laugh and spot the open breakfast buffet with freshly brewed coffee. Score. Pouring myself some into a Styrofoam cup, I wave goodbye to the beautiful ladies and then head over to the crowd gathering around Mattieu.

"Ah! And ere he is!" says my director impatiently waving his long arm over to me, I jog up to the crowd and nod a couple of "heys" – I've always been awkward and shy – no matter the fact that I was one of Hollywood's most desired men and have acted in over 200 films, the idea of meeting new people always leaves me a bundle of nerves.

We park ourselves around as a circle and then begin to "chat" as Mattieu put it. He laid down his terms and conditions and the Creative Director for POP's crew laid down theirs, all the while a woman was hunched over her notebook taking down notes. Do people still take down handwritten notes? I thought tablets and smartphones were the new riot? Her big brown curls spill over like a curtain, she's bent down almost like she doesn't want to look up - she must really want to make an impression. Cute.

"This is our writer, Alisha, she flew over here just two weeks ago from Sri Lanka, y'all ever hear of the island?" says Tommy Davis, POP Magazine's Creative Director, polite murmurs fill the air with either a "yes" or "no". The woman looks up, her hair tumbles in all directions, her eyes coming to focus with mine and then they widen in surprise, or maybe it was recognition.

Her chocolate eyes match her chocolate curls, her skin is the perfect combination of toffee and caramel, her lush pink lips begin to form an "O" and her cheeks darken a perfect shade of rouge. Its natural and beautiful; she's beautiful.

When she stands up, my body suddenly feels as if it's been hit by an odd wave of electricity and my back straightens. The woman's all curves, the two glorious mounds of breasts are covered in an ever green turtle neck sweater, her hips are wide and oh so perfect they make her jeans look like they've been painted on and my fingers ache to touch her and have my arms around that beautiful waist, I flex my palms.

She's tall too, at my large 6'2 frame she comes close. Well past my chest and her head of curls stop just below my chin, did I mention she's in a pair of ballet flats? She exudes perfection. Exotic perfection. Something arouses within me and it makes my dick begin to stir, down big guy, let's not embarrass ourselves.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet you" her English is crisp and articulate but there is a hint of a strong accent to it that snaps my attention back to her; her face glows while she smiles. It's a friendly, open smile – there is no "come hither" vibe or chewing of her lips like most tabloid reporters tend to behave she's actually being professional. The fuck? Of course she's being professional – it's her job, dumbass.

Clearing my throat, I give her a friendly smile back and then offer my hand in a shake "Pleasure's all mine...Alisha"