His hug squeezes the air out of me, and I barely manage to choke out, “I’m, uh, happy to be here!”
“How’s Don? Aw, you look just like him!” Tommy says, holding me at a distance.
I hope I don’t look like Uncle Don, since he has a gray ponytail and a slight potbelly, but I don’t contradict Tommy. “He’s great. We live a few blocks away.”
“When he called me, I thought, ‘This! This is a sign!’ My assistant quit last week to work for an underwear model. What’s he got that I don’t?”
I’m not sure if he really wants an answer to this, so I open and close my mouth a few times, but he keeps talking.
“Come on,” he says, guiding me toward a crowd of people. “Let me introduce you to the cast.”
Oh, no. Oh, no. I knew I’d have to see Drew eventually, but I was hoping it wouldn’t be today. Now I’m wishing I thought to wear a disguise, like some glasses or a wig or maybe the giant Predator costume Uncle Don has from the last time he and his friends went to a convention. Anything to stop Drew Danforth from recognizing me from my classic role as Woman Who Spilled Coffee All Over His Coat and Refused to Speak.
But Tommy’s already walking across the street, and people are moving out of our way, and it’s impossible to stop this momentum. Suddenly, there are just three people in front of us; three people who stop talking and look at us expectantly when they see Tommy.
“Annie,” Tommy says, gesturing to several people, “I’d like you to meet our stars. This is Tarah Thomas, our lead actress.”
She smiles, and I’m immediately struck by the thought that she’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. Obviously, I’ve seen her before—I haven’t been living under a rock that doesn’t have cable access—but in person it’s a whole different level. Her dark brown skin glows so much it practically radiates, her curls are artfully styled, her teeth are straight and white. I smile back weakly.
“This is Brody Johnson,” Tommy continues, pointing to a pale guy in a slouchy knit hat and puffy coat.
He lifts a hand in greeting. “I’m the comic relief,” he says with a straight face.
I smile, instantly comfortable around him. He doesn’t even look like a movie star—he looks like a guy you would see in line at the grocery store, which I guess is sort of his appeal. Maybe this won’t be so bad . . .
“And, of course, this is Drew Danforth.”
My smile instantly fades. Here he is, right in front of me, this man with the gold-flecked brown eyes and that voluminous hair. Unlike Brody, Drew does not look like someone you’d see in line at the grocery store. If he was in a grocery store, people would be staring at him and thinking, “Who is that guy?” even if they’d never seen one of his movies.
But I guess he does look like a guy you’d run into on the street, because I literally did.
“Bonjour,” he says with a small smile, before taking a sip of coffee.
I narrow my eyes. “Bonjour,” I mutter back.
“Oh, do you speak French?” Tarah asks.
“N-no,” I stammer, stealing a glance at Drew. He tries to hide his smile behind his cup, but it reaches his eyes. “I mean, I took French in high school but I don’t remember anything. Ouvre la porte. Open the door. I remember that.”
I clamp my mouth shut to stop myself from rambling. I avoid looking at Drew, but from the way his shoulders are shaking, I can tell he’s laughing at me. My embarrassment turns to rage—this guy is famous and rich, and he’s getting his kicks making fun of me, a pathetic assistant/freelance writer?
Tommy claps me on the back. “Well, that might come in handy if you ever get stuck in a bathroom in France. Let me introduce you to our prop department . . .”
With that, he whisks me away from the cast, and I take a deep breath of relief. I refuse to look over my shoulder, but I can feel Drew’s eyes on my back, and I know that if I turned around, I’d find him still watching me.
* * *
• • •
Tommy isn’t big on please and thank you, but he’s always clear about his demands, and he never gets upset when people don’t get things right the first time. He just asks for what he wants again and again and again.
And as for me, he mostly wants me to bring him coffee. Like, a lot of coffee. He decides pretty quickly that he doesn’t like whatever the craft services department is serving and asks me to get him some from Nick’s, and on my fifth trip in there, Nick says, impressed, “This guy really puts it away.”
“Tell me about it,” I say, out of breath from running up and down the street. “I think he’s ninety-five percent caffeine at this point.”
“So how’s it going?” Chloe asks, leaning over the counter. “Have you talked to Drew yet?”
“Have you showed Tommy your screenplay?” Nick asks at the same time.
I ignore Chloe’s question and give Nick an exasperated glance. “No, it didn’t exactly come up in between my coffee runs. ‘Here’s your fifth cup, and by the way, here’s a screenplay I wrote that you didn’t ask for or want.’”
Nick hands me another black coffee. “Couldn’t hurt.”
I shake my head as Nick smirks at me and I find myself wondering, for the hundredth time, why Chloe can’t see that he’s perfect for her. They have the perfect romantic comedy flirty-bickering chemistry, and I see the way he looks at her when she isn’t paying attention. The thing is, Nick is cute—he’s tall and skinny, with light brown skin and that perpetual five-o’clock shadow. Chloe could do a lot worse, and as I know all too well, she has done a lot worse.
“Escape (The Piña Colada Song)” starts to play, and Chloe sways back and forth. “This is my jam,” she says, pouring syrup into a cup.
“This song?” Nick asks. “Seriously? It’s all about a guy and his wife who are trying to cheat on each other.”
Chloe hands the cup to a customer with a smile, then turns to Nick and immediately becomes indignant. “Um, did you miss the end of the song? They end up together! It’s romantic!”
Nick throws his hands in the air. “They hated each other! She wrote a personal ad, looking for some other dude, and he responded because he was trying to leave her. How is that romantic?”
“Oh, my God,” Chloe says, looking at me as if I can help her. “Do you have to ruin every little thing, Nick?”
I bite my lip to keep from cracking up at the rom-com playing out in front of my eyes.
I raise my cup. “Gotta get this to Tommy before it gets cold.”
Nick raises a hand. “See you in half an hour.”
As I scoot out the door, I can hear Chloe groan as Nick says, “And don’t even get me started on that personal ad. ‘Getting caught in the rain’? Seriously? These people are walking clichés and they deserve each other.”
When I find Tommy, he’s deep in conversation with some crewmembers, so I stand off to the side, holding his coffee. As I wait, I look around and take it all in. I’m here. On a movie set. And, sure, it’s not quite as glamorous as I thought it might be—after all, it’s practically in my backyard, not on the New York City streets or an LA backlot—but it’s a real, big-budget movie. One with fancy lighting and sound machines and a costume department and . . .