Page 10 of Ship Wrecked

When Maria and Darrell chortled together, Peter turned away to hide his frown before hurrying toward one of several horse-drawn carts waiting by the harbor—jaunties, the locals called them. Passenger cars weren’t allowed on the hilly, startlingly green island’s few roads. The production had received special dispensation to use transport vehicles for necessary equipment, but otherwise, everyone would be walking, riding a bike, or taking a jaunty wherever they went.

Unlike his agile triathlete of a father, Peter didn’t have a great sense of balance, and he couldn’t see himself forcing beleaguered equines to cart him everywhere, so he figured he’d mostly be hoofing it. Which he didn’t mind, honestly. He enjoyed walking, and exploring the sparsely inhabited island on foot might distract him from potential boredom and... other issues.

When Maria’s voice came from too close behind him—“I’m issuing a seaweed-eating challenge to you and the entire crew, Darrell, because if I’m dying of iodine poisoning as we film this season, I’m taking all you bastards out with me”—he quickly picked up his pace.

Very soon, though, avoiding her would require more effort thanturning his back and breaking into a near-jog. Even more effort than he’d expended during their initial stints filming in the production’s Canadian studio and that huge, high-tech Belgian water tank.

Almost every remaining scene in the second season featuring Maria and Peter featuredonlyMaria and Peter. Always together. Just the two of them.

Amber certainly wouldn’t be replacing her, despite all his bravado and his idiotic taunts.

Yeah. He was shit out of luck, and deservedly so.

When he was a kid, his mom had called him a champion grudge-holder, and not much had changed since then. Other than, of course, her presence in his life, since she’d died while he was in middle school, and he missed her every fucking day. But apart from that crucial difference, over two decades after her death, he was still her same sturdy, surly son, more than capable of remaining pissed at someone indefinitely.

Even when, upon further reflection, maybe he didn’t have all that much actual cause to be pissed.

Maria might be a television amateur, but she was game and she wasgood.

Alongside two dozen other actors, they’d first spent endless days in the studio surrounded by green screens. Their reconstructed knarr, a Viking cargo transport ship, had been mounted on a gimbal, and everyone hung on for dear life and attempted to remember their lines as the hydraulic system tossed them from side to side and up and down as if they’d been caught in a terrible storm, while water sprayed in their faces.

Some of the extras had eventually vomited. Others had quietly bitched about staying cold and wet for hours at a time. Peter hadkept his mouth grimly shut and huddled under a blanket near a space heater during halts in the filming.

Maria had treated that bucking boat like a goddamn roller coaster, eyes bright with enjoyment whenever she didn’t need to look scared or fiercely determined. Between takes, she’d laughed with the crew and extras, and when the camera was rolling, she’d acted her delectable ass off.

Then they’d all flown to Belgium and filmed at an enormous water tank, where high-tech equipment created vicious waves to buffet all the actors. Everyone except Peter and Maria pretended to drown horribly, and Cyprian and Cassia had their first on-camera fight. And sure, they’d had safety equipment, stunt actors, and various professionals ensuring their well-being, but that fucking tank was over thirty feet deep, and those waves were frightening as shit.

He knew for a fact she’d never faced anything like that on a Swedish stage. Hell, during his fifteen years in Hollywood, he hadn’t experienced anything remotely comparable either. To say the conditions were challenging was a vast understatement.

Somehow, though, she’d managed to convincingly convey absolute devastation at the death of her lover and teeming rage at Cyprian, the man she blamed for Erik’s drowning. All while coughing up mouthfuls of water whenever a wave surprised her. All while looking hot as hell as she struggled in his protective hold and fought to discard her wet clothing, piece by piece, before the added weight dragged her to the ocean floor.

All while remaining pleasant and civil to him between takes, even though he barely said a word to her or looked at her off camera. At least, not when she could see him looking.

Suffice it to say, he wasn’t too worried anymore about her ruining his biggest, best chance at fame and professional recognition.He might notlikeher, but he could definitely work with her. At this point, he was avoiding her mostly out of habit and partly out of shame, because he’d been a real dick to her in that LA parking lot. And, yeah, partly out of some lingering animosity too, because he’d admit it: She’d hurt his stupid fee-fees by not wanting more than a single night with him, especially when he’d been so damn hungry for as much of her as he could get.

Sighing, he slung his duffel in the nearest horse-drawn cart as their line producer, Nava Stephens, indicated he should, and tried not to grit his teeth at the sound of Maria’s cackling laughter behind him.

Right now, the crew probably thought his reserve in her company was due to method acting or some shit like that. Eventually, though, they were going to realize his behavior toward her could in no way be considered professional. Which was ironic, since he’d derided Maria for her ostensible inability to meet his own lofty standards of professionalism.

Again, he was thirty-six years old. He should be better than this.

Maybe after a few more weeks of filming, he would be.

When he’d been told he would be staying in a local hotel, Peter had pictured something like a typical American chain. Nothing too fancy, but a building with two or three floors of rooms. Lots of guests, and lots of space to avoid anyone—coughMariacough—he might be avoiding out of sheer obstinacy.

Turned out, very few tourists stayed overnight on the island, and the local fishing community didn’t require turndown service. The only actual hotel on the island, as opposed to a few rented rooms in private homes and a handful of small inns, usually stayed open only from April through September. It was now June, but filming would take place during the winter too, and the couplewho owned the place had been persuaded to return anytime filming did.

Upon first glance, the all-suites hotel was nicer than Peter had anticipated. Elegant in its simplicity and not at all generic. One story constructed of local stone, with panoramic windows everywhere. Gleaming wooden floors and thick rugs. Fireplaces. King beds. Granite bathrooms. A private outdoor seating area for each spacious suite.

Living there, even for months at a time, shouldn’t prove a hardship.

The older half of the couple, a fiftysomething Black man named Fionn, had cooked for Michelin-starred restaurants around Europe before coming home to run the hotel’s small, well-regarded restaurant. His pale, freckled husband, Conor, dealt with their guests’ other needs, so far with impeccable politeness and easygoing charm.

But the damn place boasted five suites. Total.

Five.

Those suites went to him, Maria, the director, the producer, and the cinematographer. Everyone else was scattered around the island, staying in those tiny inns and rented rooms.

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