Page 26 of A Lucky Shot

Sci-fi wasn’t her jam, only ever getting through a few of Octavia E. Butler’s books. But dang. She devoured SD (the small but rabid fanbase online referred to the book by its initials, she’d learned) by the third day of vacation and the screenplay right after. She could already picture the trauma on earth. The otherworldliness of the Travellers. The screenplay adaptation took the major story elements and distilled them into a shockingly tight script. Cass couldn’t believe it worked, but it did.

The film had a real budget for costume, too. The last theatre production she’d worked on had given her six hundred dollars for the entire cast. And while the last tv show she’d costumed on had a budget, it was all tattered jeans and grimy shirts, and she had been a grunt on that crew, anyway. But a few of the smaller projects she had led herself, her design portfolio posted online? Her being handpicked for costume made sense.

Cass scooted her beach chair closer to the umbrella and balanced the laptop on her crossed legs. This was the one spot the glare off the pool wouldn’t reflect off the screen, and there were little side tables with legs buried deep in the sand to hold her rotation of fruity drinks. She wrapped her hair back in a silk scarf, popped her earbuds in, and pulled her beach wrap around her shoulders.

Just because she was taking a meeting on the beach, didn’t mean she wanted to flash a bunch of cleavage to the new creative team.

“The timing on this could not be worse,” Libby grumbled, dragging her chair closer to Cass.

It was short; more of a meet-and-greet than an actual get down to work type meeting. The details had arrived in their inboxes while the plane was still in the air, then dropped to the bottom of their inboxes when they promised each other to ignore their computers for the sea, buffet, and the book, in that order, until the very last second.

The hotel Wi-Fi barely reached where they sat, so not flashing cleavage to the meeting was no longer an issue. She logged into the invite and typed into the meeting chat bar.

Cass and Libby here. Bad reception. Will stay off video and on mute for now!

Not great for a meet-n-greet, but everyone knew they’d be on vacation. They could deal. Plus, the first time Melanie Westwood was seeing her wouldn’t be with sunblock smeared cheeks or humidity hair.

Cass brushed sand from her feet as thumbnails of different crew popped up on the screen. And then nearly dropped her daiquiri.

Any other time, she would have squealed at Melanie Westwood occupying the corner of the screen, with Brynne Sparo beside her. Maybe she’d have spared a second glance for the handsome blond man with dreamy blue eyes she didn’t recognize.

But a face with sharp features and glacial green eyes scowling through the screen froze her in place.

“What’s up, babe?” Libby peered at her through her aviators. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Not a ghost. Someone much more physical than that.

Was this a mistake? She grabbed her phone and plugged the name under the thumbnail on screen into IMDb.

No dimples on his impassive headshot, but his intense eyes and high cheekbones were present and accounted for. Hair shorter than what she ran her fingers through, but those were the same lips that had roamed down her body and set her skin on fire.

With her attention half on the video call as people chimed in, she checked his credits.

Confirmed. Director and cinematographer for Sirius Darker, pre-production. She frantically scrolled down to the biography section.

Josh Graham took a circuitous path to film, starting at the University of British Columbia in …

“Holy. Shit.” Libby’s eyes widened, falling back into her own chair.

Cass closed the app like it would make it untrue. Sure, the industry could get small pretty quick, but really?

The laugh started deep in her stomach, shaking her ribs and making her eyes stream until the people sitting beside her glared.

If this wasn’t her luck, nothing was. Her first big gig—leading the department, no less—and she would be working with the man she’d had gloriously fantastic sex with mere weeks ago. The man she’d traded filthy texts with, flirted with, that had watched her beg for his dick on her knees.

The one she had planned never to see again.

Her special, perfect one-night she held like a treasured jewel, close to the warmth of her heart, was about to crash with the harsh light of reality.

Maybe he wouldn’t recognize her. It was possible. Between the theatres and his condo, most of the time they had been together was in the dark.

Oh, who was she kidding? He could be scrolling one of the dozens of photos she’d sent him right now. He had her nudes on his phone, full frontal boobage with her fingers dripping wet after he’d made her come from a thousand kilometres away.

It was a cosmic balancing of the scales. Noticed by Melanie Westwood, but she had to work with the director she’d slept with.

And what was she going to do? Send him a text? What would she say?

Hey there, Sexy Dimples! Small world! Guess we can skip the usual icebreaker questions! Hope that incredible dick of yours is still awesome. Kisses!

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