Today, we’re filming one of the earliest scenes: a party at the home of Charlotte Lucas, best friend of Lizbeth. When I arrive on location, I feel like I’ve been trapped in a Pottery Barn catalog. I watch MiShaun and Emma do their opening scene, and I don’t care if it makes sense. I want her. No marginal, semi-talented, indie-film asswipe like Graham is going to keep her from me. Besides, what the hell is he doing with Brooke?
Laura tells me Tadd and I are up next, so I turn away and do my breathing exercises. Time enough to think about this shit later.
INT. LUCAS HOUSE – NIGHT
WILL and CHARLIE look over fellow partygoers as LIZBETH hides just around the corner and listens to their conversation:
CHARLIE
(speaking over music)
Isn’t this awesome? The girls here are gorgeous.
WILL
(condescendingly)
Charlie, there aren’t any hot girls at this party, except the one you’ve been chatting up. I’ll give you that one, but that’s it.
CHARLIE
Jane Bennet is the hottest girl here. But her sister Lizbeth is cute - I talked to her for a few minutes. She seems nice, and intelligent. Just your type. You should talk to her.
WILL
She was okay, I guess, but not worth the effort.
CHARLIE
God, Will, you’re freaking impossible. Does anyone ever measure up enough for you?
WILL
I wouldn’t hold my breath here.
LIZBETH, indignant, straightens away from her hiding place and marches past them, crossing the room to Charlotte, who’s picking up discarded soda cans and napkins.
“Cut!” Richter says.
*** *** ***
Emma
“Emma, good scene.” Reid holds a venti doubleshot caramel macchiato, his caffeinated beverage of choice. He drinks at least one a day, sometimes two or three, at which point Richter forbids him more caffeine, because he starts talking so fast he runs words together—like a younger, better-looking version of my agent, Dan. Scary. “When you stormed past me and Tadd, it was like a tornado moved past. I definitely wouldn’t want to get you mad.”
“You know, they call it ‘acting’ for a reason,” I retort, trying not to smile.
“You’re very convincing as a woman scorned, that’s all I’m saying.” He attempts to look stern, his eyes teasing.
“Are you suggesting that I have experience in being scorned?” I’m aiming for playfully sarcastic, hoping it’s not resembling resentfully bitchy.
He looks down at me, eyebrows raised. “I’m suggesting no such thing. I just can’t see any guy being as stupid as Will, if Lizbeth was as hot as you.” I can’t stop the blush that creeps across my face. “What happened to you last night?” He’s so good-looking up close that it takes my breath away. I feel like I’m standing next to a work of art. “I looked up and you were gone.”
“Yeah, I’ve been craving more sleep lately.” I turn to grab a bottle of water from the cooler, breaking the mesmeric connection.
I almost tell him I’ve been getting up early and running every morning, but I don’t. Graham and I are the only ones from our cast up and on the street that early, though we’ve crossed tracks with a couple of the production people. Not that Reid would bother getting up early to run with me. I tell myself I don’t want the complication.
The assistant director calls for attention. “Okay folks, let’s get some general party shots, dancing, some semi-inappropriate touching, etcetera, and we’ll be finished for the day.” This announcement earns an exhausted cheer from everyone. “Places!”
***
This morning, Graham was waiting in the lobby when I got downstairs. As we headed for the trail, deciding to reverse our usual direction to mix it up, he examined the sky. “It’s overcast this morning.” The clouds were dark and heavy, the air laden with a metallic pre-storm smell. “We may get rained on.”
The sky remained merely ominous until we were at our halfway point, when it opened up a couple of seconds after a single deafening crack of thunder shook the ground and forced an embarrassing yelp from me. As it started pouring, we looked at each other and burst out laughing. We were drenched in five minutes. When a covered picnic area appeared just off the path, he sprinted towards it, and I followed. We sat on the table with our feet on the bench, staring out at the wet landscape.
I combed my fingers through my hair, squeezing the water out of it. “So what did you decide about the smoking?”
“I want to do it. Quit, I mean.” He ran both hands through his dripping hair, pushing it back and off of his face. “It won’t be easy, though.” He bumped my knee with his. “So, are you prepared to be my support group?”
I smiled. “I guess I sorta have to, since I’m the one who goaded you into doing it.”
He stared at me like he was trying to read my thoughts, and I was abruptly conscious of his proximity, his dark eyes examining my face. “Maybe I don’t deserve your help after teasing you so mercilessly about your cute little ‘huh’ habit.”
Raising a hand to my face, he gently swept a strand of wet hair off of my forehead, tucking it behind my ear. (Cute. Little. Huh. Habit?) I swallowed, my pulse thrumming so loudly in my ears that it drowned out the deluge pounding all around us. Our eyes held as his hand lowered, grazing past my ear, my shoulder, and down my arm, raising a wake of goosebumps in a trail behind his fingertips to my hand where it rested on my thigh.
Taking a deep breath, he hopped down from the table, tugging at my hand, staring out at the rain. My hand was still loosely caught in his. “I don’t think it’s going to let up soon enough. We’re going to have to brave it. Just think coffee.” He looked back at me and smiled. “And I’ll try not to think cigarette. Though no promises until I get those damned patches.”