“Can I do that? I mean would that be an ass**le thing to ask?”
Wow, she’s got a lot to learn about being a movie star.
MiShaun laughs. “No, crazy, they don’t want the stars running off set to get their own drug of choice.”
“What’s funny?” I ask, stepping up between them, grabbing a sandwich from the top of one pyramid and taking a bite. Tuna. Not my favorite, but Olaf, my trainer, would approve of the protein content.
MiShaun cocks an eyebrow at me. “You’re funny. Don’t you two have a kissing scene in a few minutes? And there you go eating tuna fish, no care at all for poor Emma.”
I stop chewing. “Shit. I forgot.” I want to kick myself—I forgot we’re about to kiss isn’t the most flattering thing to say.
“Um, that’s okay.” Emma takes the smallest wedge of tuna sandwich on the platter. “I’ll eat a bite, and then I won’t really notice you, uh, having eaten any.” She nibbles it, grimacing almost imperceptibly. “See. Problem solved.”
She just ate something she hates to make me feel better. This bodes well on multiple levels. “So both of us eating it counteracts the effect? Clever. I was about to find a potted plant to spit it into.”
She laughs, thank God. “Nuh-uh.”
“Yuh-huh!”
MiShaun shakes her head as though we’re both unbalanced.
“So, some of us are heading down to the strip tonight. Are you tagging along?” I invite her as part of the group, rather than disclosing that I want her there for myself. I take another sandwich and MiShaun gives me a horrified look.
“Reid Alexander, what would your legions of faithful fans think if I told them you eat smelly tuna sandwiches non-stop?”
“My trainer says I need to eat! Can’t a guy get some protein without seeking approval from everyone? God!” Smiling, I snatch a third sandwich and start to walk away, turning without stopping and pointing at Emma. Like an afterthought. “So yes for tonight?”
“Yeah, sure. Sounds cool.”
“Awesome. See you in a few.”
*** *** ***
Emma
We’re filming the scene of the audition.
When Reid pulls me into his arms and brushes his mouth over mine, he tastes like spearmint. There’s no trace of tuna anywhere, which means we’ve both brushed our teeth since our earlier conversation at the craft services table. (I also flossed and gargled. Twice.) No one but me would know or care whether he tastes like fish or candy when we kiss; his minty fresh breath is for me alone. This knowledge sends a silly spark of euphoria through me.
And then Richter pulls me back to earth. “Cut! Perfect. Unfortunately, we have to film it again.” Unfortunately is not the word I would use for a required retake. He swivels around, looking for someone. “Scott—the lighting is much too ambient. It’s a high school hallway for chrissake, it’s going to be bright.”
I steal a glance at Reid as he stands next to me, the ends of his hair being tweaked to best show the streaks of light blond highlights through the natural dark blond. His eyes are closed as our hair girl, all five foot zero of her, circles him, pulling and spraying. Someone brushes powder on my forehead and refreshes my lip color. Before I have the sense to look away, his eyes open and he’s staring back. He smiles then, and my mouth goes dry. I lick my lips lightly and his gaze darts to my mouth. When his gaze drifts back to mine, his smile both devious and breathtaking.
Oh, yeah. I’m in trouble.
***
We have an outdoor scene to film this afternoon. Meredith and I rehearse lines as we near the exit, until we hear screams from the street-side end of the parking lot. Brooke and Jenna come up behind us and we all peek out.
Jenna sighs. “Looks like afternoon filming is about to hit a snag.”
“I think every mindless girl in Texas between twelve and twenty is at the other end of that lot,” Brooke says.
“More I heart Reid Alexander fans?” I ask needlessly, and she nods. I’m relieved to see our cast bodyguards and two local police officers on our side of the temporary three-foot barrier. Meredith and I exit cautiously while Jenna and Brooke stride out ahead, unconcerned.
“Don’t worry, if any of them get over that blockade, they’ll make a beeline straight for Reid,” Jenna tells Meredith and me. “Maybe Quinton, but he shouldn’t hold his breath.”
“He’d want that?” Meredith points at the screaming crowd.
“Guys always want it.” Brooke answers. “They assume every girl on the planet thinks they’re hot as hell and they’ll get laid any time they want. Which is, for the most part, true.”
A piercing scream for Reid rings across the lot. “God, how will we get any filming done?” Meredith mumbles.
“Depends what Richter does about it.” Jenna shrugs. “Fans aren’t inherently evil, and they don’t want to ruin the film. They’re just a little irrational.”
Jenna’s Oscar-nominated film starred a couple of red-hot thirty-somethings, and the experience left her with an undaunted perception of celebrity groupies. I suspect she’ll need that aloofness. Her dark hair, huge gray eyes and full lips inspired a Vogue photographer to dub her face a work of art last spring, and the cover featuring her not-quite-grown version of Brooke’s build kicked off a few countdown-to-18 calculations (yet another reason I’m satisfied with my non-bombshell body).
Reid’s exit from the building causes pandemonium like nothing I’ve ever witnessed, with the possible exception of a bad call during a game my father and I attended at Yankee Stadium years ago. He ducks his head shyly before raising one hand in the direction of the uproar, which only increases the clamor.