Page 6 of Where the Little Birds Go (Little Bird Duet 1)

He steps back. “Sure you’re not.”

He’s the epitome of Mr. Darcy.

“What am I supposed to call you?”

His eyes flash. “Corbin. Corbin Callum.”

Chapter Four

Corbin / Present

Craft Food service has a few tables set up in the main hall for everyone working on the lot. By lunch, they’re all surrounded by scatterings of people talking amongst themselves about industry gossip. I’m not interested in who got implants, who broke up, or who had a mental breakdown.

My feet guide me to the Italian buffet, where salad, pasta, and breadsticks are lined up in a tidy row of steel trays. Stepping to the side of where Kinley places leafy greens on her plate, I grab a breadstick and tear off an end.

“You should use the serving utensils.”

Besides a quick hello to save face when introductions were made in front of the entire cast, this is the first voluntary conversation we’re having one on one. The last thing I want it to turn into is a half-ass lecture on how to properly utilize buffet style lunches. I want to talk about her. How she’s doing. If she’s as excited about this film adaptation as much as I am to be part of it.

Grabbing a plate and putting the torn bread onto it, I follow her along the edge of the table and absentmindedly pile food up. “You used to hate Italian.”

She stops and finally, finally looks at me. Her dark brown eyes don’t hold a friendly hue to them though. They’re distant round orbs that give me no indication to what she’s thinking.

The rest of her is the same, just older than I remember. Her round face is slightly more defined, her cheekbones more prominent, and her lips still full like I used to love. She never wore makeup to emphasize any of the features other girls would kill to have. Like the long dark lashes that flutter whenever she tries to look at me without giving herself away. I recognize her old mannerisms. She used to hate getting caught staring, but like me, she can’t quite stop.

Her gaze dips to the piles of dirty dishes off to the side, trying her best to keep the conversation boring. “Why don’t they use disposable?” she asks, not directing the question to anyone specific as she walks to a nearby empty table.

My desperation to hold a conversation with her has me jumping on the opportunity. “I think they like to keep staff busy so they’re not loitering during shooting. Most of them are happy to do just about anything if it means being near people like us.”

Brows arching, she blinks up at me. “I guess you’re going to have to explain that to me. Who exactly is ‘people like us’?”

Rubbing my lips together, I shift under her scrutinizing gaze. “I just meant, uh … you know, actors. Celebrities. A lot of the people employed to cook, serve, and clean do it to be part of whatever films are shooting on location.”

Picking up her fork, she shakes her head and stabs a chickpea from her salad mix. “I’m kind of relieved. For a minute I thought maybe you’d changed. I’m glad to know you’re still an asshole though.”

My lips part in surprise. The Kinley I knew rarely swore unless she thought it was justified. She kept to herself to avoid confrontation, never initiated it so bluntly.

She glances from her plate to me. “Did you ever think that maybe the people hired to do those mundane tasks are just happy to have a job? I know this is beyond you, superstar, but people are motivated by money more than fame.”

“It’s Hollywood,” I point out, a little dumbfounded by her quick judgement. “I’m not saying they’re not happy to be employed doing some shit job for even shittier pay, but you have to admit some of them are here to ogle us too.”

When her fork drops onto her plate with a loud clink, I know I’m in for it. Kinley Thomas loves food. Rarely will she stop eating to give anyone a piece of her mind, but I’ve witnessed it before. Her thoughts build in her head until she’s ready to combust and can’t hold it in.

“I used to be a dish washer once, remember? The Tryon was my first real job that, yeah, only paid minimum wage. It wasn’t fun, the people weren’t that great, and the hours sucked. It was work though. Quit talking about the people who do the jobs you think sound awful like they’re beneath you.”

Swallowing, I try stopping her from standing up. “Kin—”

She grabs her plate. “No.”

“I wasn’t trying to be an ass.”

“It’s your default mode,” she informs me matter-of-factly. “Sometimes I think you can’t help it, especially not now. I mean, I should congratulate you, Corbin.” My name on her lips stirs something in me that has been dormant for too long. “You’re exactly where you want to be. I know how hard you worked to live out your dreams. Great job. You did it.”

Her praise does little for me because the disappointment hanging on every word drowns out the pride I should be reveling in.

She grips the plate a little tighter in her hands, like it’s her way of keeping control. “Do you remember when people in Lincoln told us never to forget where we came from? They didn

’t want us to forget the little people. Well, I haven’t forgotten. Have you?”

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