He narrowed his eyes. “How exactly would you do that?” I walked carefully toward him across the kitchen, as if he were a wild animal and not a screenwriter refusing to admit he has writer’s block. Same difference.
“The producers want a new kind of meet-cute,” I said slowly, thinking it through. “I’ll bring you real-life examples of couples meeting each other just like in a film.” I was sure I could find stories. When you were single, the Internet was full of them. “Ones that will show you you’re being . . .” Arrogant. Willfully ignorant. An asshat. “Short-sighted about the genre.”
NOB was thoroughly unimpressed. “Anyone can Google, Red.” As I glared at the nickname, an idea started to form. A ridiculous, totally foolish idea.
Because he was right: What I was offering wasn’t enough. It wasn’t just about getting him to sign the addendum so he could put off the inevitable humiliation for three months. I had to get him to write. For that, he’d need inspiration. And lots of it.
“I’ll do it, then,” I said.
He blinked. “Do what, exactly?”
“I’ll be your living proof. Sign that addendum and I’ll meet someone exactly like they do in rom-coms. I’ll re-create the meet-cutes from those films. The road trips. The holidays. The chance encounters. I’ll keep going until one of them works.”
But you can’t even meet someone through Tinder, my voice of reason pointed out. I shushed it.
NOB looked me up and down with a sly smile. “So what you’re saying is, if even you can meet someone that way, I have to believe it’s possible.”
I put the addendum down on the breakfast table. “So what you’re saying is we have a deal?”
His golden brows quirked. “Steady on, Red.”
“Evie.”
“Signing that will just give me three more months of the producers and Monty being on my back, distracting me.”
“That’s what I’m here for,” I said, trying not to sound too eager. I’ll show Monty what I’m capable of. “Tell them I’m assisting you. I’ll keep them at bay.”
NOB studied the wall behind me for a moment. “Say you do meet someone. How will I know you’re telling the truth? You could just bribe someone to say he fell for you. And you’d have to find someone pretty quickly to give me time to write a whole script.”
“All valid concerns,” I said, quickly retrieving pad and pen from my bag. “So let’s talk terms.”
“Isn’t that what the addendum’s for?”
“The addendum is for your deal with Intrepid. This is for the deal between us.”
I wrote down, If Evie Summers (“The Assistant”) can prove to N Ezra Chester (“The Screenwriter”)—
“What did you just cross out?”
“Nothing.”
—that the “Romantic Comedy” genre is realistic by meeting someone the same way people do in rom-coms (i.e., through a “meet-cute”), then he will submit the full script to Intrepid Productions by their deadline of February 18 of next year.
NOB leaned over my shoulder. “You have to fall in love with them too.”
Surely he’s not serious? “This is about meeting someone.”
“Exactly.” He was clearly enjoying himself. “You meet someone, and you both fall in love. Isn’t that the rom-com way? You have to find Mr. Happy Ending. Otherwise, no deal.”
My fingers tightened on the pen. This is your life he’s talking about. It had been a year since Ricky. I didn’t know if I was ready to meet someone, never mind like this.
But surely NOB was only trying to make things difficult. Right now, I just needed him to sign. Then I’d get him writing. Worry about the love part later.
“Fine.” I made the amendment with a flutter of apprehension. Though if he was going to get his way, I’d get mine.
The Screenwriter agrees to start work on the script from the moment he signs the addendum, I wrote. And will send his pages to The Assistant on a regular basis.
The amusement faded. “What?”
“Just making sure you can get it finished on time,” I said. “Otherwise it wouldn’t be responsible of me to let you sign this. Plus, I’ll need proof you’re actually writing.”
He folded his arms, something unreadable slipping into his eyes. “I’ll start writing, but there will be no happy ending from me until you get yours. And the pages will go to Monts. He’s my agent, last time I checked.”
I faltered, then made the change. As long as he writes the script, that’s all that matters. The agency would be safe, and so would my promotion.
“Here.” He plucked the pen from my fingers. With brisk strokes he wrote, The Assistant agrees to write detailed reports on every meet-cute for The Screenwriter.
“I’ll need proof you’re actually doing it,” he mimicked me, right down to the accent.
Snatching the pen back, I went to cross the line out—and hesitated. This could work in my favor. He probably thought the reports would keep me busy and off his back. But maybe one of these “reports” would be exactly what he needed to kick-start his writing.
“There’s just one more thing,” I said, and wrote: The Screenwriter and The Assistant agree that the above arrangement will never be disclosed to Monty.
If Monty ever found out how tenuous the agreement was—an understatement, if there ever was one—he’d be furious. He’d assured the producers that he had everything under control. If he discovered that the deal was resting on his assistant’s love life, he’d be humiliated. Forget about the fact that I’d succeeded where he had failed. I’d be fired before NOB even had the chance to miss the new deadline. Better that he believed NOB was writing of his own volition. It would be one less thing for me to worry about.
“Keeping secrets from your boss, Red? You’re just full of surprises today.” NOB considered me. “You know you’re only going to prove that rom-coms are bullshit, don’t you?”
“A lot can happen in three months,” I said.
“Agreed.” An expression flitted across his face, but it was gone too quickly to catch.
“Are we done?”
I held out my hand. He took it. “I need to hear you say it.”
“Red,” said NOB. “If you can prove it’s possible to fall in love like they do in those movies, I’ll write the damn script.”
I pushed our handwritten agreement and the copies of the addendum over. He hesitated, just a little, before signing them.