Page 21 of A Cameo for a Cowgirl

“It wouldn’t have stressed you out as much,” Jess said.

True. “I just didn’t expect the start of this season to be so much busier than the last.”

Jess’s brows rose. “So what’s different this year?”

A certain somebody who didn’t like mice, for starters.

“What’s that look for?” Poppy asked. “Is there an actor who’s hit on you?”

“Ha! Try just the opposite.”

“Deets, please.”

“No, nothing like that.” She still couldn’t admit to the identity of the show’s new leading man. “Let’s just say that God is reminding me that I’m supposed to be gracious.”

“Ooh, intriguing!”

No, it wasn’t. It was disturbing how much that man had the power to disconcert her. She’d dealt with other guys who’d hit on her effectively, dampening pretensions with a well-executed arch of eyebrow or well-timed remark, or when God had reminded her to turn the other cheek. And while she didn’t expect Harrison Woods to ever hit on her, she didn’t like feeling she was someone he wanted to avoid. They might have agreed to avoid each other, but that now felt stupidly petty. And the fact she was still thinking about this proved she’d given him entirely too much power in her mind.

“Hey, do you have that accommodation thing happening yet?” Poppy asked.

She nodded. “That’s part of it.” She explained about the trailer and the mouse, and the last-minute change of accommodation, internally high-fiving herself at not naming names.

“What kind of man is scared of a mouse?” Jess asked. “At least he didn’t kill it.”

“I hope your props are okay,” Poppy said.

“Me too. I took Miranda today and she seemed to think it was all good.”

“You need a break.”

She sure did. But even with the promise of an afternoon off this Saturday to celebrate Hannah’s soon-to-end single status, the wedding itself loomed just the weekend after. Maybe after that she could finally relax.

* * *

The best night’s sleep of his life had been followed by three days of filming where he’d been so busy it was all he could do to eat his meal with the cast at night before he tumbled into bed. But finally, it felt like he was fitting in. He was remembering names, and more importantly, remembering his lines, and he got the impression that Mal didn’t think employing Harrison was such a mistake anymore. The scenes he’d been shooting had involved everything from time with his Mountie colleagues to scenes shot with Ainsley where they first met.

He liked when a production schedule allowed for a more natural chemistry to develop between people. He’d shot some movies where the shooting schedule meant he’d had to film a scene and grieve a character he hadn’t actually met yet. Here, where the actors all knew each other and had spent time together, really made it feel like a family. And the fact he didn’t have much of a family himself—his grandmother had basically raised him, after his parents proved they couldn’t—meant he was starting to relax into the rhythms of this cast.

And now, they were eating lunch on Friday, the weekend beckoned, and he felt like he had a chance to breathe.

“This is good, huh?” He motioned to the salad the caterers provided.

Ainsley smiled. “I don’t mind admitting I ask them to make chicken Caesar salad every Friday. It gives me the boost to finish the week well.”

“I think people underestimate how much food can make or break a production.”

“Right? And when it’s healthy but still tastes nice, it’s even better.”

“Amen.” Part of the double standard of filming: women were far more likely to hear murmurs of needing to “watch your calorie intake” than a man, with everything from costume fittings to proposed methods of transport potentially affected by an additional few pounds. A man had it easier, with none of the waist-cinching corsets and clothes that were deemed historically accurate, when an hourglass figure was a legit goal. Moments like that made him extra thankful to be a man.

Ainsley’s head had tilted, and she was studying him, a small smile on her dial.

“What is it?” he asked.

“I was just wondering, do you mean that?”

“Mean what?”

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