Hannah traced Fox’s profile with her eyes, the strong planes of his face backlit by the rain-blurred driver’s-side window. A line moved in his jaw, that finger still tapping away on the steering wheel. There was no denying she wanted to reach over, turn his head, and kiss him, finally let the fire burn out of control between them, but . . . just this—being a true friend—was more important.
“This is my favorite sound,” she said, unhooking her seat belt and getting more comfortable in the passenger seat. “It doesn’t rain very often in LA. When it does, I go driving just to hear the drops land on the roof of the car.”
“And what kind of music do you play?”
Hannah smiled, enjoying the fact that he knew her so well. “The Doors, of course. ‘Riders on the Storm.’” She sat forward to fiddle with his satellite radio, searching for the classic rock station. “It really lends itself to the whole main-character moment.”
“The main-character moment?”
“Yeah. You know, when you’ve got the perfect mood going, soundtrack to match. And you’re on a rainy road, feeling dramatic. You’re the star of your own movie. You’re Rocky training for the fight. Or Baby learning how to merengue in Dirty Dancing. Or you’re just crying over a lost love.” She turned slightly in the seat. “Everyone does it!”
Fox’s expression was a mixture of amused and skeptical. “I don’t do it. I’m damn sure Brendan doesn’t, either.”
“You’re never on the boat, hauling crab pots, and feel like you’re being watched by an audience?”
“Never.”
“You’re a filthy liar.”
He tipped back his head and laughed. Quieted for a second. “When I was a kid, I loved the movie Jaws. Watched it hundreds of times.” He shrugged a big shoulder. “Sometimes when our crew is in the bunks talking, I think of that drinking scene with Dreyfuss, Shaw, and Scheider.”
Hannah smiled. “The part where they sing?”
“Yeah.” He sent her a sideways squint. “I’m a total Scheider.”
“Yeah, no, I have to disagree. You’re definitely the shark.”
His bark of laughter made Hannah turn more fully in the seat, leaning her cheek against the leather. Through the window, she could see the line of seniors eagerly moving inside, but Fox didn’t seem in a rush to leave the car just yet, his tension still obvious in the lines of his body.
“What is your mom like?”
The subject change didn’t seem to surprise him at all, and he reached for the leather bracelet resting in his lap, twisting it in a slow circle. “Loud. Loves an inappropriate joke. She’s kind of a creature of habit. Always has her pack of cigarettes, her coffee, a story ready to go.”
“Why are you nervous to see her?”
As if realizing he’d been transparent, his gaze zipped to her, then away, his Adam’s apple lifting and falling slowly. “When she looks at me, she obviously sees my father. Right before she smiles, there’s a little . . . I don’t know, it’s like a flinch.”
A sharp-tipped spear traveled down her esophagus. “And you still come to see her. That’s pretty brave.”
He shrugged. “I should be used to it by now. One of these times I will be.”
“No.” Her voice was almost drowned out by the rain. “One of these times, she’ll realize you’re nothing like him and she’ll stop flinching. That’s more likely.”
It was obvious that he didn’t agree. In a clear effort to change the subject, he plowed his fingers through his dark-blond hair and shifted slightly to face her. “I didn’t even ask you how filming went today.”
Hannah blew out a breath, responsibility crashing down on her like a pile of bricks. “Oh, it was . . . interesting, I guess?”
His brow knit. “How?”
“Well.” She dragged her bottom lip through her teeth, telling herself not to say the next part. It was selfish, wanting to see Fox’s reaction. Secretly hoping it would give her some hint as to how he felt about her. What would she even do with that information? “Sergei hinted at wanting to go out. When we get back to LA.”
An eye twitch was her only hint as to what was taking place in his head. “Oh yeah?” He cleared his throat hard, staring out through the windshield. “Great. That’s . . . great, Hannah.”
I turned him down.
I told him we were serious.
She wanted to make those confessions so badly, her stomach ached, but she could already see his incredulous expression. I’m not in the relationship race and I never will be. Fox might have been hiding a wealth of music and deeper meanings in a locked cabinet, but on the surface? Nothing about his confirmed bachelorhood status had changed in the space of a week, and if she pushed for too much too soon—or hinted at her deepening feelings—he could balk. And God, that would hurt.
“Um. But that’s secondary to what else happened.” She mentally regrouped, hemming in her disappointment. “It’s kind of a long story, but bottom line? I have been tasked with recording a demo of Henry’s sea shanties that could potentially replace the current movie score. And if that transpires, Brinley is threatening to quit, and the crew is taking bets on whether or not that day will come. Or if I can actually pull it off.”
“Jesus,” Fox muttered, visibly filling in the blanks. “How did that happen?”
She wet her lips. “Well, you know how the songs in my head went missing?” He nodded. “They came back this morning, with ‘I Say a Little Prayer.’ They started to flow back in. And then I was standing in Disc N Dat and it hit me: there are no better songs for the soundtrack than Henry’s. It just makes sense. They were written about Westport.” She paused. “Shauna is helping me get in contact with a Seattle band to maybe, possibly, record the shanties. I was going to get them recorded either way, but when I brought up the possibility of using them in the movie to Brinley—”
“She got her toes stepped on.”
“I didn’t mean to toe step,” she groaned. “I was just going to float the option, but Sergei overheard the whole thing.” Was she imagining the way every one of his muscles tightened at the mention of the director? “Anyway, it feels like a challenge has been issued. To show whether or not I’m ready for more responsibility with the company. Or maybe just . . . professionally. With myself.”
“You are,” he stated emphatically. Then: “Don’t you think you’re ready?”
Hannah turned her face into the seat and laughed. “My LA therapy-speak is beginning to rub off on you.”
“Oh God. It is.” He shook his head slowly, then went back to scrutinizing her. “That was a bold move, Freckles. Putting out feelers for a band. Approaching her with the songs. You don’t want the challenge?”
“I don’t know. I thought I wanted challenges. But now I’m just scared I won’t deliver and I’ll realize I was never meant to be a leading lady all along, you know? That feeling is just for driving alone in my car and listening to the Doors.”
“Bullshit.”
“I could say the same for your belief that you can’t captain a ship,” she pointed out quietly.