“I just … don’t.” The words don’t come out easy when he stares at me like he is. Everything about him screams confidence. I’m the exact opposite.
“Don’t be like that, Birdy.”
My brows pinch until curiosity has me looking up at him. Mischief dances across his features, the corners of his lips quirked up until dimples pop out on either side of his mouth.
“Don’t call me that.”
He winks. “Seems appropriate. You’re flighty when it comes to answering my questions.”
I’m flighty? He ignored me to look at old photos like he’d rather see the evolution of hairstyles, rather than answer a simple question.
He starts walking further down the hall, causing me to try catching up with him. Nothing but the squeal of our shoes against the freshly polished floors fills the silence between us.
I’m prepared to respond when he suddenly stops by the auditorium. One of the double sets of doors is propped open. The janitors are probably cleaning after it was used for the middle school assembly on drug use this morning.
When he starts walking in, I snap out of my train of thought and grab his arm. “What are you doing? You can’t go in there.”
He rolls his eyes and peeks in. It’s nothing special to look at. There are three sections of seating, and a medium sized wooden stage in the front of the room. Currently, the two sets of black curtains are open, revealing the cobblestone wall that matches the exterior of the school. On the rest of the beige walls are random geometric shapes that match the school’s forest green color scheme. We’re home of the Spartans.
“They do plays here?” His question is almost lost on me because he’s studying the stage contently. It isn’t until he looks over his shoulder at me and tips his head toward the room again that I muster an answer.
“Yeah.”
They’ve already started meeting afterschool about the winter play. I heard someone say it’s going to be a musical, but for such a small school it’s very hush-hush. I’m betting on Grease, since that’s a fan favorite.
He hums before turning toward me. “Do you participate in them?”
Me? I blink, wondering if he’s kidding. Then I remember that he doesn’t know me, which means he doesn’t know how awkward I am in front of people. “Um … no.”
He tilts his head. “Why not?”
I give him a small shrug. It’s really a comfort thing—not a difficult answer. Somehow I don’t think that’ll be good enough for him though.
“I’m not much into acting, I guess.”
There’s no guessing about it. The only acting I do is when I come home and tell everyone I had a good day at school. It’s a tale I spin to stop my brother from threatening petty people who make fun of me over stupid things like staying quiet or eating alone.
We begin walking again. “What are you into then?” He stops in the middle of the hall, his boots making a horrendous sound against the tile. “Wait, let me guess. You’re the bookish type who loses herself in period pieces where the men insult the available women until they inevitably get married because they’ve always truly loved each other, right?”
I blink. Then blink again. “Did you just describe Pride and Prejudice?”
His grin returns. “Unlike you, I happen to love acting. My old school’s drama club did a year’s worth of Jane Austen adaptations.”
“And I assume you always got the lead?”
He doesn’t have to tell me with words.
He tells me with his eyes—with his confidence. It radiates off him like his own personal spotlight. I wonder if it gets too hot.
Shaking my head, I fight off the small smile that wants to tilt my lips. If they curve upward, I lose. New Kid can’t win.
He steps forward, the tips of his boots nudging the ends of mine. “Come on, Birdy. You know you want to smile.”
My brows arch. “I told you not to—”
“Fine,” he relents, studying me. My five-foot-seven frame feels puny compared to him. He notices the difference as much as me, looking down to catch my eye. “Little Bird is far better.”
My jaw clenches. “I’m not flighty.”
He steps back. “Sure you’re not.”
He’s the epitome of Mr. Darcy.
“What am I supposed to call you?”
His eyes flash. “Corbin. Corbin Callum.”
Chapter Four
Corbin / Present
Craft Food service has a few tables set up in the main hall for everyone working on the lot. By lunch, they’re all surrounded by scatterings of people talking amongst themselves about industry gossip. I’m not interested in who got implants, who broke up, or who had a mental breakdown.
My feet guide me to the Italian buffet, where salad, pasta, and breadsticks are lined up in a tidy row of steel trays. Stepping to the side of where Kinley places leafy greens on her plate, I grab a breadstick and tear off an end.
“You should use the serving utensils.”
Besides a quick hello to save face when introductions were made in front of the entire cast, this is the first voluntary conversation we’re having one on one. The last thing I want it to turn into is a half-ass lecture on how to properly utilize buffet style lunches. I want to talk about her. How she’s doing. If she’s as excited about this film adaptation as much as I am to be part of it.
Grabbing a plate and putting the torn bread onto it, I follow her along the edge of the table and absentmindedly pile food up. “You used to hate Italian.”
She stops and finally, finally looks at me. Her dark brown eyes don’t hold a friendly hue to them though. They’re distant round orbs that give me no indication to what she’s thinking.
The rest of her is the same, just older than I remember. Her round face is slightly more defined, her cheekbones more prominent, and her lips still full like I used to love. She never wore makeup to emphasize any of the features other girls would kill to have. Like the long dark lashes that flutter whenever she tries to look at me without giving herself away. I recognize her old mannerisms. She used to hate getting caught staring, but like me, she can’t quite stop.
Her gaze dips to the piles of dirty dishes off to the side, trying her best to keep the conversation boring. “Why don’t they use disposable?” she asks, not directing the question to anyone specific as she walks to a nearby empty table.
My desperation to hold a conversation with her has me jumping on the opportunity. “I think they like to keep staff busy so they’re not loitering during shooting. Most of them are happy to do just about anything if it means being near people like us.”
Brows arching, she blinks up at me. “I guess you’re going to have to explain that to me. Who exactly is ‘people like us’?”
Rubbing my lips together, I shift under her scrutinizing gaze. “I just meant, uh … you know, actors. Celebrities. A lot of the people employed to cook, serve, and clean do it to be part of whatever films are shooting on location.”
Picking up her fork, she shakes her head and stabs a chickpea from her salad mix. “I’m kind of relieved. For a minute I thought maybe you’d changed. I’m glad to know you’re still an asshole though.”