Page 41 of You Rock My World
After what feels like an eternity, she steps back, inspecting her work with a critical eye before nodding in satisfaction. “You’re ready.”
I thank her and stand.
The costume crew straps me into armor and chain mail that squeaks and tugs in all the wrong places. I adjust the sword strapped to my side and march on set like an armored penguin waddling through medieval hell.
I push past the discomfort, smiling for the ever-present camera and focusing on the scene. Acting is about owning the uncomfortable, right? Still, by the time I reach the main studio, I’m ready to toss the entire outfit into a funeral pyre.
The set for today’s shoot is a grand banquet hall. Long, wooden tables, goblets, tapestries, iron chandeliers.
The air is thick with the mingling scents of leather, a whiff of glue from freshly assembled set pieces, and the faint tang of sweat from the bustling crew—or maybe it’s me who smells. I’d lift my arm to sniff my armpit, but the armor limits my movements. Hoping my BO is under control, I sweep the room, searching for Josie.
The extras are milling to one side in their period attire. I check each face until I find Josie, blending in yet standing out. She’s acting casual, but her excitement shows in the way her eyes dart around the set, soaking in every detail.
She hasn’t seen me yet, giving me a precious few moments to drink in the sight of her.
Half her hair falls in soft waves down her back, while two thick braids frame her face and cross on top of her head. Her gown is a deep-purple velvet embroidered with gold and leaves her shoulders bare. My fingers curl around the hilt of my sword as my eyes settle on her pale collarbones that stand out against the dark color of the fabric. I study her face next. Her lips are painted a muted pink. That is the same mouth that almost kissed me earlier.
The knowledge that I can’t touch her—not yet—hurts more than the chain mail digging into my shoulders.
When she finally spots me, her smile pierces straight through my breastplate and stops my heart. I grin back, nodding in what I hope may appear as a casual greeting and not the look of a drowning man gasping for air.
I want to go to her but the director’s voice booms through a megaphone. “Alright everyone, gather around.”
I reluctantly tear my eyes from my damsel, focusing on the instructions for the upcoming takes.
When the scene starts, I wait off-camera, blind to the hall and everything unfolding inside. Until an assistant director hisses, “Go.”
I storm into the studio, cloak billowing, armor clanking, and stop on my mark, bowing. “Your Grace, we were led astray,” I begin in an urgent tone as I bow respectfully. “The enemy is on the march. They’ll reach the gates by dawn.”
The hall erupts into choreographed chaos, but it barely registers. I have eyes only for her. Josie sits quietly as her role demands, but her eyes betray her. The poised, modest mask her character should wear slips as her eyes burn for me.
I lose my next line.
“Cut,” the director snaps. “Focus, Phoenix. Take it from the top.” He twirls his finger in the air.
The others reset, but Josie keeps her eyes downcast as she smooths her skirts.
Her expression has shifted, the hunger replaced with something smaller, tighter—remorse? I will her to look at me. She must sense my plead because she finally meets my gaze, guilt etched all over her face. I shake my head almost imperceptibly.It’s okay, I want to tell her. I can’t blame her for looking at me like that, not when it’s exactly how I feel.
She nods, and I smile, striding out of the set, ready to get back into character.
The next take, I don’t let myself look at her. I deliver my lines with precision, and when the director yells, “Cut,” he sounds satisfied. But as the scene wraps, Josie rushes to me.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to mess up your first take. I just”—I hold up a hand to stop her, but she continues, her words rushing out in a torrent—“got caught up in watching you and didn’t think you’d notice.”
“I always notice.” I lower my voice. “But don’t worry, you were the best distraction.”
She starts to reply, but the assistant director calls, “Extras back to first positions.” Josie has to stay also for the next scene.
Before she goes, I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger.
As I step out of the set, I glance over my shoulder. She’s watching me, hand pressed to her cheek.
Then she’s swept back into the scene, and I walk away, already counting down the minutes until I can steal another moment with her.
24
JOSIE
