Page 65 of A Lucky Shot

“You didn’t answer when I texted you.”

“My phone died.”

Josh gritted his teeth, glaring at her sewing machine like it was responsible for draining her phone’s battery. “You should charge your phone before you go in case you need to call me. Or someone. Whatever.”

“That’s what Jill always tells me.”

Cass cast a glance at her still-open front door, shifting from foot to tired foot. He looked as good as ever, his hair sticking up in dishevelled spikes, the shadow of his beard coming in dark against his golden skin and outlining the sharp angle of his jaw. He looked down at her with his trademark glower, arms crossed over the chest she knew from experience would be warm and firm and smooth. Her heart pulsed under her breast, and she pressed her hand to still it. “Um, I was going to make tea.” Wait, he didn’t like tea. “Or coffee.” Don’t say it. Don’t ask it. Don’t do it … “Do you want to come in for a bit?”

Shoot.

Josh huffed out a breath through his nostrils as he looked around her mess of an apartment. “No,” he said after a beat. “I’ve got things to do.”

Her stomach dropped just an inch or so. “Oh.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were home safe,” he finished.

She would not be disappointed. Nothing to be disappointed about, after all. To not have a nice, innocent cup of tea or coffee with him. He cared enough to see she was okay. That was kind. Something a friend would do.

It would have to be enough.

She rubbed her hands up her bare arms to wipe away the goosebumps that had sprung up. “You knew that when I called you,” she said. “You didn’t need to come over.”

“I wanted to see for myself.”

“Well, you’ve seen,” she said, trying to keep the petulant tone from her voice. “Thanks for checking. I’ll see you in a couple days?”

“Yeah,” he said, and reached out once more, as if to confirm yes, she was there in one piece. He nodded and disappeared through her door, leaving her without another word in her mostly messy apartment.

Her stomach sank for the second time in as many minutes. What else would be so pressing at nine-thirty on a Wednesday night other than meeting a hookup.

Well, good for him.

Fifteen dates down, fifteen to go. Then she’d be over him.

The morning sun hovered below the horizon. The stars had disappeared on the opposite side of the sky, and the nearly full moon slowly slipped behind the mountains like a party balloon losing its buoyancy.

Cass scrubbed at her eyes and stifled a yawn. Call sheets summoned her to set at four a.m. Wasn’t as bad as Libby’s call time. She and her team had worked through the night.

Brynne, already in position, looked fresh, even from here. None of the gossip about the actress was true. That she was tough to work with. A demanding diva who disappeared for hours to make the crew wait. A few B-words and C-words were dropped.

In fitting sessions, it became apparent Brynne was just exceptionally quiet, extremely introverted, and deeply, deeply self-conscious. The half hour in her trailer to visualize and refusal to watch dailies made more sense. Cass kept their conversations friendly and focussed, and in the short months they’d known each other, Brynne’s icy attitude melted.

There was something about having your hands all over someone’s boobs for fittings that removed silly things, like personal boundaries and inhibitions.

Dawson, too, had picked up Brynne’s loner vibe, and his quiet demeanour complemented her need for restrained energy. The two had become inseparable on set. Which was great, most of the time. Until he had to tackle her as she fled, begging him to stay away from her.

“Hold still, Big D,” Cass said with an indulgent grin, tugging gently on the zippers of the oversized parka that wrapped the giant actor.

It was a nervous tic, she’d realized, him fiddling with his clothes before a particularly stressful scene. He’d tear paper to shreds, bounce a ball off the wall, drum his fingers on any nearby surface. Anything within reach to keep his hands busy was fair game. And if nothing else was available, his clothes bore the brunt of his jitters.

“Sorry, Cassidy,” he said, his deep voice tight as he stared into the middle distance.

No surprise why he was so nervous. He was about to race across the snowy field, again, and tackle Brynne into a mattress hidden out of camera line. Brynne had refused to use a stunt double, and the gentle man was terrified of hurting her. Josh had already spoken to him—four times after four takes—and Brynne had reminded him she was made of the tough stuff and could take it, but he’d pulled up short at the last moment every time.

Cass brushed her hands down the front of her own parka, warm even in the crisp November morning. The fields shimmered under a glittery gauze of hoarfrost, and the air sparkled clean and fresh in her nose with every chilly inhale. Stephen had whooped in glee when the forecast had called for the cold snap, and days of shooting were rearranged to take advantage of the bluebird sky and pristine snowy landscapes. That also meant driving the portable trailers with blankets, heaters, and thermoses of coffee outside of city limits into a farmer’s field in the middle of nowhere.

Parallel tracks marked Brynne and Dawson’s path as they moved the shot out after every take, each one inching closer to the rising sun. It wasn’t fresh snow they were running out of. It was time. The sun would be fully up in minutes, and Cass could see Josh glancing over, clearly fretting to get the blue hour light before it disappeared.

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