F (9:35 AM): That’s always a possibility.
F (9:36 AM): But it’s my mother’s birthday. Might just run her over some flowers and say hey.
H (9:38 AM): You’re a good son. Does she ever come see you in Westport?
F (9:45 AM): No. She doesn’t.
F (9:46 AM): Thanks for the music rec, Freckles. Text you later.
February 14
HANNAH (6:03 PM): Happy Valentine’s Day! Doing anything special?
FOX (6:05 PM): God no. I’d rather light myself on
F (6:09 PM): Are you? Doing something special?
H (6:11 PM): Yes, sir. I’m on a date.
F (6:11 PM): With who??
H (6:15 PM): Myself. Very charming. Might be the one.
F (6:16 PM): Lock that girl down. She’s the kind you bring home to mom.
F (6:20 PM): Do you want to be on a date? With someone besides yourself?
H (6:23 PM): IDK. It wouldn’t suck? Unfortunately, my type would probably define this whole holiday as a commercial gimmick. Or he’d buy me dead roses to represent the evils of consumerism.
F (6:26 PM): That’s a pretty specific type. Are we talking about your director crush? Sergei, right?
H (6:28 PM): Yes. My sister likes to tease me about pining for starving artists.
F (6:29 PM): You like them dark and dramatic, huh?
H (6:30 PM): Careful! You’re going to give me an orgasm.
F (6:30 PM): If that was the plan, babe, you’d have had two already.
F (6:33 PM): Shit, Hannah. Sorry. I shouldn’t have gone there.
H (6:34 PM): No, I went there first. Blame it on the single glass of wine I’ve had. #lightweight
F (6:40 PM): Apart from being dark and dramatic . . . what makes a man your type? What is eventually going to make a man The One?
H (6:43 PM): I think . . . if they can find a reason to laugh with me on the worst day.
F (6:44 PM): That sounds like the opposite of your type.
H (6:45 PM): It does, doesn’t it? Must be the wine.
H (6:48 PM): He’ll need to have a cabinet full of records and something to play them on, of course.
F (6:51 PM): Well obviously.
February 28
FOX (7:15 PM): How was your day?
HANNAH (7:17 PM): It had sort of a “Fast Car” by Tracy Chapman feeling to it.
F (7:18 PM): Like . . . nostalgic?
H (7:20 PM): Yeah. A little blue. I think I miss Westport?
F (7:20 PM): Come here.
F (7:23 PM): If you want.
H (7:25 PM): I wish! We just started casting a new movie. Not a great time.
F (7:27 PM): Have you kept your resolution? To take more risks at work?
H (7:28 PM): Not yet. I’m working up to it, tho.
H (7:29 PM): Seriously. Aaaany minute now. (crickets)
F (7:32 PM): This is where I remind you that the first time we met, you were facing off with a boat captain twice your size, ready to tear his limbs off for shouting at your sister. You’re a badass.
H (7:35 PM): Thanks for the reminder. I’ll get there. It’s just . . . imposter syndrome, I guess. Like, what makes me think I’m qualified to make movie soundtracks?
F (7:37 PM): I get imposter syndrome.
H (7:37 PM): You do?
F (7:38 PM): If you could only hear me laughing.
H (7:39 PM): I . . . wish I could. Hear you laughing.
F (7:40 PM): Yeah. Wouldn’t mind hearing your laugh, either.
H (7:45 PM): How was your day, Peacock?
F (7:47 PM): Worked on the boat with Sanders, so a shit ton of Springsteen.
H (7:49 PM): Blue collar boys. Making money! Sweating in jeans! Bandanas in pockets!
F (7:50 PM): It’s like you were right there with us.
March 8
HANNAH (8:45 AM): Hey. I think you’re out on the boat.
H (8:46 AM): Hope you’re being safe.
H (9:02 AM): When you’re out on the water and can’t text back, I really notice it.
H (9:03 AM): The lack of you.
H (9:10 AM): So I’m glad we’re friends. That’s all I’m awkwardly trying to say.
H (9:18 AM): If you dream of me this time, try dreaming I can fly or turn invisible. Or that my best friend is Cher. That’s way cooler than a flat tire.
H (9:19 AM): Not that I’m assuming you regularly dream of me.
H (9:26 AM): I don’t dream of you that often, of course. So.
H (9:39 AM): Anyway. Talk soon!
Chapter One
Hannah Bellinger had always been more of a supporting actress than a leading lady. The hype girl. If she’d lived in Regency England, she would be the second at every duel, but never wield the pistol. That distinction was never more obvious than now, as she sat in the dark audition room watching a girl with pure leading-lady material emote like her life depended on it.
Hannah’s hands disappeared into the sleeves of her sweatshirt like twin turtles ducking into their shells, her hidden fingers curling around the clipboard in her lap. Here it came. The big finale. Across the Storm Born production studio, their lead actor ran through a scene with their final actress hopeful of the day. Since eight A.M., the studio had been a revolving door of wide-eyed ingénues, and didn’t it figure that not a single one of them would click with Christian until Hannah was past the point of starving, her mouth tasting like stale coffee?
Such was the life of a production assistant.
“You forgot to trust me,” the redhead whispered brokenly, tears creating trails of mascara down her cheeks. Dang, this girl was fire. Even Sergei, the writer and director of the project, was held in a rare thrall, the tip of his glasses inserted between his full, dreamy lips, that ankle crossed over the opposite knee, jiggling, jiggling. That was his I’m impressed posture. After two years of working as his production assistant—and nursing a long-unrequited crush on the man—Hannah knew all his tells. And this redhead could bet the rent on getting cast in Glory Daze.
Sergei turned to Hannah where she huddled in the corner of the freezing conference room and raised an excited black eyebrow. The shared moment of triumph was so unexpected, the clipboard slid off her lap and clattered to the ground. Flustered, she reached for it but didn’t want to lose the moment with the director, so she jackknifed and gave Sergei a thumbs-up. Only to remember her thumb was trapped inside the sleeve of her sweatshirt, creating a weird, starfish-looking gesture that he missed, anyway, because he’d turned back around.
You absolute turnip, you.
Hannah replaced the clipboard in her lap and pretended to write Very Serious notes. Thank God it was dark in the rear of the studio. No one could see the tomato-colored tidal wave surging up her neck.
“End scene!” Sergei crowed, standing up from the table of producers that faced the audition area to deliver a slow clap. “Extraordinary. Simply extraordinary.”
The redhead, Maxine, beamed while simultaneously trying to wipe away her dripping mascara with the hem of her black T-shirt. “Oh wow. Thank you.”
“That felt fine.” Christian sighed, signaling Hannah for his cold brew.
I have been summoned.
She rose from her chair and set the clipboard down, retrieving the actor’s beverage from inside the mini-fridge along the wall and bringing it to him. When she held out the metal travel tumbler and he made no move to take it, she gritted her teeth and held the straw to his lips. When he had the nerve to look her in the eye while sucking noisily, she stared back stone-faced.
This is what you wanted.