Page 24 of A Lucky Shot

This was how it always started. She’d fall hard while he was having fun, and she’d have to pretend she didn’t care. Which never worked.

Before she could change her mind, she swiped the thread clear and blocked his number.

There. Temptation gone. No more thinking about Sexy Dimples or the way he made her pulse beat against her ribs and between her thighs. Time to focus on the future. A future that included a vacation with her best friend. Spa treatments. Sleeping in. Unlimited margaritas, seashell-dotted sand, and a bathtub-warm ocean. That was all that mattered.

But visions of sand between her pedicured toes and a margarita in her hand were shattered when Terry, whom she adored like a sibling and was the person who roped her into ninety percent of the projects she’d worked on in the last decade, had her in their sights from across the bar. And was coming her way.

“No,” Cass said pre-emptively as Terry hopped onto the bar stool beside Libby, who scowled at them.

“Hello, my lovelies,” they said with a broad smile. “Having fun tonight?”

“I’m not doing it.”

“Me, either.”

“Come on, now. You haven’t even heard what it’s about.”

“Oops, sorry the guys are calling me over byeeee!” Libby jumped up, calling over her retreating shoulder as she disappeared into a crowd that had not been waving her over.

Traitor.

“So, as I was saying?—”

“I’m busy.”

“You don’t even know when it is.”

Cass tried to glower, and Terry cackled at her attempt.

“You’ll want to hear about this,” they said. “Trust me.”

“I love you, but find someone else.”

“You’ve been asked for by name.”

That didn’t mean anything. Everyone in the tight-knit Calgary film and television industry knew her name. Cass remained stoic and silent, but pleasure tiptoed over her ego.

“You’d be head of costume,” Terry nudged in a sing-song voice. “And I know you like the hands-on stuff, so you could probably still get your mitts on wardrobe …”

Head of costume? It was likely some little indie thing that would be wrapped up in a month. Cass squinched her eyes shut. “No.”

“It has a budget,” they continued, “and pre-production meetings are starting next week.”

“I’m literally out of the country next week,” she hedged.

“So take a virtual meeting. You can be the asshole on the beach drinking mai tais, or whatever, while everyone else sweats in a boardroom. Not that you’re an asshole, darling. You are my favourite person ever. And Libby, too.”

The reason there was no rest for the wicked was because they kept getting more work. When will I learn to say no? Cass grimaced into her half-finished drink and sighed. Apparently, not today. “What’s it about?”

“Ever heard of Sirius Darker?”

She shook her head, nonplussed.

Terry grinned. “Ever hear of Melanie Westwood?”

“I’m in Cancun for a week,” Cass whined into her mochaccino. “And I wanted to do theatre this year.”

But Melanie freaking Westwood had personally picked Cass for head of costume. No idea which tv show or film would have caught her eye, but it didn’t matter. Terry said the director, whom she hadn’t looked up yet, had pushed to bring in their own talent for the costume department, but had been overruled. Terry had stopped badgering her after she promised to think about it, so now she dealt with the indecision of a steady paycheque or something new. Leading costume on a show that wasn’t either another Western, blood-stained tatters, or sourced exclusively from thrift stores would be completely new.

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