Page 34 of Ship Wrecked

Cyprian would wake and find her gone. Panicked, he’d race after her and persuade her to return from the edge of ruin, and they’d embrace. Kiss for the first time, to the horror of both.

It was a great scene, all high drama and intensity. Peter hadbeen looking forward to it for weeks, and not only because he’d get to kiss Maria again without having to justify it to himself.

But the storm was supposed to be the creation of postproduction and the skilled efforts of the VFX supervisor, not an extremely pissed-off Mother Nature. It wasn’t supposed to be real, and it wasn’t supposed to be dangerous to the cast or crew.

Above all else, Maria wasn’t supposed to be standing that close to a fucking cliff’s edge when a stray gust of fifty-mile-per-hour wind could send her hurtling three hundred feet down and plunge her into the merciless, agitated ocean. The ocean where, if she somehow managed not to die on impact or drown—and to be clear, she’ddefinitelydie on impact or drown—the pounding waves would simply crush her body against the cliffs and grind her to pieces.

A single moment of carelessness, a single misstep, and—no more Maria.

The storm hadn’t even officially arrived yet, which was maybe the most terrifying thing of all. Current forecasts called for torrential rain and wind gusts of up to ninety miles per hour the next day, and Fionn had told them what to expect afterward: flooding, washed-out roads, scattered stone walls, and possibly no phone service or electricity.

And yet, filming was scheduled for tomorrow too. Unlike today, Peter and Maria would be acting together. Cassia would remain near the cliff’s edge for a long, long time while Cyprian pleaded for her to stay with him, to stay among the living.

With a larger crew, with a more generous shooting budget for their location, with different showrunners, they’d have various people watching to ensure the safety of all concerned. But their crew and their budget were tiny, and their showrunners were cutting corners wherever possible to save time and money. WhatRon and R.J. were telling various authorities, Peter couldn’t even imagine.

Toward the end of the take, a particularly brutal gust of wind sent Maria swaying, and she stumbled sideways, closer to the edge, as the crew gasped.

Peter tasted metal. Fear and blood.

The lightning jolt of terror stopped his breath, and he didn’t think his heart beat again until she regained her balance and subtly moved farther from the precipice.

“Cut!” It was a snarl, and Ramón immediately strode in her direction, his jaw as stony as the island itself. “Get away from there, Maria. That’s our last goddamn take for the day.”

Oh, thank fuck. Another go-round might very well break Peter.

Given how much the crew loved Maria, it might break all of them.

“Tomorrow, should I have a leash or something?” she asked Nava, who’d turned paler than he’d ever seen her. “I don’t know what’s standard under these conditions.”

The women walked past him, yet he still couldn’t seem to move, not even to hear the producer’s response. His legs shook, and not from the wind. He kept swallowing, kept dragging his trembling hands through his hair.

In the end, Darrell had to set him in motion and steer him away from the set. The PA’s hand on his shoulder was firm but supportive, his eyes full of more understanding than Peter was comfortable with.

On their miserable trek back to the van, Ramón continued muttering under his breath. Peter couldn’t make out most of it, except for the wordOSHA.

And that was when he knew what to do.

After they’d arrived back at the hotel, while everyone elsetrudged silently down the hall toward their suites and hot showers, Peter lingered near the front desk. When the hallway had cleared, he leaned close to Conor. The proprietor looked up from his computer monitor and jumped a little at the sight of his waterlogged guest looming over him.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you,” Peter whispered, recalling the teasing affection in the other man’s voice whenever he spoke toMaria-My-Dear. Yes, Conor was definitely the right person for the job. “I have a big favor to ask.”

“Tell me,” Conor said quietly, and Peter did.

The weather was swiftly turning from ugly to hideous, so the local doctor evaluated Peter’s condition via a virtual appointment that evening. The determination of his ill health required a startlingly short amount of time. Or at least itwouldhave been startling, under other circumstances than these.

“It’s good Conor sent you my way,” Dr. Fitzgerald cheerily said, tapping out a few quick notes on her tablet. “Otherwise, the consequences might have been disastrous. Deadly, even.”

Should he cough again? It wasn’t strictly necessary, but... was he or was he not an actor committed to his role?

One racking cough later, he nodded at the physician. “I appreciate your time and help.”

“From what I understand, I’ll need to share my findings with your director and producer.” The doctor rearranged her round, lively face to convey the appropriate solemnity. “Why don’t you call them in? Or, rather, text them, so as not to tax your limited strength?”

A quick message, and both Ramón and Nava arrived outside his door.

He greeted them with a wan smile and a limp wave toward his couch. “Thanks for coming.” Mouth in elbow.Hack hack hack. “Ihad the hotel contact their doctor on call when we got back this afternoon, and she wanted to talk to you about my illness.”

“I’m so sorry, Peter.” Nava’s broad brow had puckered, and she shook her head. “I had no idea you were sick. Why on earth did you come to the set this afternoon if you weren’t feeling well?”

---