by Ember Casey
“If I hadn’t been with a client, I’d have gone up to her,” Justin says. “Turned on the charm a little.”
In spite of myself, I smile. Looks like I’m not the only one lusting after an unobtainable celebrity. I guess we can be jealous together, fantasizing about what might have been if we’d been born a hundred times hotter or richer. I haven’t told him much of anything about Orlando—it’s not like my brother needs to know about the whole Panty Girl thing—but it’s nice to know I’m not alone in having a crazy crush.
By the time I stumble to bed, some of my nerves have settled down. But the moment the lights are out, they all come rushing back. Tomorrow’s a big day. I don’t want to blow it. And I definitely don’t want to embarrass myself again. No granny panties or dingy bra for me tomorrow. No mistakes.
I have to be there early—six in the morning, which is way before my alarm usually goes off—but even though I tell myself over and over again how much I need sleep, my body doesn’t want to listen. I keep thinking about Orlando’s deep, mesmerizing eyes. About his perfectly tousled hair. About how hard and strong his body felt on top of mine when he pushed me out of the way of that car…
Well, this certainly isn’t helping.
With a sigh, I roll over and flip on my lamp, then pull my giant collection of Shakespeare onto my lap. If I can’t sleep, I might as well do something useful. And reading in bed often makes me drowsy, which should help.
Of course, it would probably help more if this play weren’t so damn interesting. Seriously—how had I never heard of Henry VI before? Why didn’t they make us read this in school, instead of reading about whiny Hamlet or the idiotic Romeo and Juliet? Don’t get me wrong—I love a good tragedy. But Romeo and Juliet are both really, really dumb. And they do a lot of really, really dumb things.
The characters in Henry VI are a lot more fascinating. Sure, there are plenty of idiots in this play, too. Apparently Shakespeare loves his idiots. But there are also so many deliciously scheming, ambitious, and complex characters. I wish I could read the script for Death and Deadly Night—I’d love to compare it to its inspiration, to figure out who’s who. I wish I’d paid more attention during those couple of scenes I was in on Tuesday. Is Omar’s character supposed to be Henry? Richard Plantagenet? And who’s playing Queen Margaret? Margaret might be my favorite character—and not just because she shares my name. She’s so cunning and sharp.
By the time I glance at my clock again, it’s nearly three in the morning. With a curse, I throw my book aside and flip off my light again. I pull the covers over my head, trying to will myself to fall asleep.
It works. For a while, anyway. The next thing I’m aware of is rolling over and hearing birds chirping softly outside. It’s still dark out, which is not a surprise since my alarm hasn’t gone off yet. My head is throbbing—which is also not a surprise, since I’ve had so little sleep—but I fumble for my phone, wondering how long I have to lie here under the covers. I blink groggily at the numbers on the screen.
5:50 a.m.
I sit bolt upright. Five-fifty? It can’t be. I’ve read it wrong. But even though I’m wide awake now, the numbers don’t change. I’m supposed to be on set in ten minutes.
Cursing, I throw myself out of bed and run over to my closet. I grab my pencil skirt and blouse—they told me to wear professional clothes again—and pull them on as I run to the bathroom. At least I know my hair and makeup will be taken care of on set, and as much as I hate to skip brushing my teeth, I have mints in my purse. I quickly pee—while running a brush throw my hair at the same time—then bolt back out, grab my purse, and literally sprint out to my car.
Today’s scenes will be shot at a different building. It’s closer to Justin’s apartment than the last one, but it’s still a good fifteen-minute drive. Fortunately, it’s early enough that Atlanta’s morning rush hour hasn’t started in force—another half hour and I’d have been completely screwed.
As it is, I roll into the office building’s parking lot a good twenty minutes late. The sun has crept up over the horizon, turning the sky a dozen shades of orange, but here beneath all the buildings and trees everything is still in shadow. Maybe that will make it easier to slip inside unnoticed. I pull my car into the first open parking spot I see, throw it into park, and run toward the building as fast as I can in my heels.
It’s only when I nearly run into a minivan coming around the corner that I force myself to slow. It would be just like me to almost get hit by a car twice in one week. Better late than dead, I guess. Especially since Orlando isn’t around to save me this time.
I try to ignore the shiver that moves through me at the memory of Orlando’s body on top of mine. I don’t do a very good job.
Which is why when I suddenly hear his voice, I nearly jump out of my skin.
He isn’t speaking to me. In fact, when I glance around and don’t immediately see him, my first thought is that I must have imagined it. But then he speaks again.
“…I promise.”
Quickly, I duck behind an SUV and peer over the hood. Orlando is standing next to a very, very nice car, bent over to speak to someone in the driver’s seat. In the dim light, with the interior of the car in shadow, I can’t see who.
And though there’s a smile on Orlando’s face, he doesn’t look particularly amused or cheerful. One of his hands rests on the frame of the open window, and I can see the tension in his arm from here.
“We’ll talk about this later,” he says.
A woman’s voice responds, too quiet for me to make out the words. A long, slender hand rests on top of his, as if trying to gentle him.
“We’ll talk later,” he says again. Is that a hint of frustration I detect in his voice? Or am I just imagining things?
The woman says something else, and then she leans partway out the window. Her blond hair and perky, pretty face are immediately recognizable. Nadia Sweet. She tilts her chin up, clearly expecting a kiss.
And Orlando leans down toward her.
I turn away quickly, feeling a little sick. What am I doing, hiding behind a car and spying on him? And why should I care if he’s kissing Nadia? Or anyone? Don’t I have better things to do? Places to be?
I hurry across the parking lot, fighting the urge to run. By the time I reach the building, even though I’ve slowed to a brisk walk, I’ve started sweating. The sun isn’t even fully up yet, but the Atlanta humidity doesn’t care, and neither do my sweat glands. I shoot a look up at the sky. It’s clear now, but as muggy as it’s been these past couple of days, I suspect we’ll get a thunderstorm this afternoon. But there’s no time to be contemplating the weather. I almost glance back to see if Orlando is somewhere behind me, but I stop myself.
I have to figure out where I’m supposed to go. And hopefully sneak into the makeup tent without anyone noticing I’m late.
It’s not too difficult to find the production. I just follow the people. This early, most of the usual tenants of this building aren’t in yet, which means most of the men and women hurrying about are part of the crew.
They’ve set up everything in a large courtyard at the back of the building. The courtyard is outside, surrounded on three sides by the U-shaped building, and it’s full of tiled paths, fountains, and manicured flowerbeds. Several tents are set up on the grass, and in the parking lot beyond them, I spot the tops of a number of trailers. I glance around quickly for Karen—she’s the one I’m most worried about—before making a beeline for the tent where I see Penny and the others working.
As I step beneath the tent, though, Karen seems to spring up out of nowhere.
“Where have you been?” she demands. “You were supposed to check in with me the moment you got here! I was about to track down someone else to take your place.”
A hundred excuses fly into my head, but before I can pick the one I think will work best, Penny calls over.
“She’s been looking all over for you, Karen,” Penny says. “She was in here half an hour ago
asking if I’d seen you, and I told her I thought you’d gone to talk to Mack.”
Karen’s lips are still pinched, but a bit of the anger leaves her eyes.
“Well, I guess you didn’t know any better,” she says to me. “I’m just glad you’re here now. Let’s get a look at you.” Her eyes travel up and down my body—I should be used to this by now, the way people keep analyzing me like some sort of farm animal up for sale, but I’m not—and her frown deepens. “You’re a mess! Did you even brush your hair this morning?”
“I was told not to wear any makeup or hair products,” I say. Which is true, thankfully.
“Well, at least you’ve got a better blouse on this time. I’m not sure about that skirt, though. Turn around, let me see your panty line.”
I might not be an actress, but at least I’m getting better at hiding my embarrassment around these people. I think. It’s almost impossible not to blush when I realize that in my rush out the door this morning, I forgot to put on underwear at all.
So much for not going commando this time around, I think. Please don’t let her ask me to change skirts.
But she only gives a satisfied grunt. “Good. Now let’s have Penny do something about that face.”
She leaves me in the very capable hands of the makeup team, who laugh the moment she’s out of earshot. I sink with relief into one of the chairs, perking up even more when some random assistant brings me a hot cup of coffee.
I could get used to this.
By the time I’m done—which takes surprisingly little time, given what they had to work with—I look as polished and gorgeous as I did on the first day.
“How much would it cost for me to hire you full time?” I ask them, grinning at my reflection in the mirror. “I could use a makeover before my next job interview.”
They enjoy that. And Penny offers to give me a few tips the next time I’m in her chair. I don’t point out that there’s not going to be a next time—that this isn’t exactly a full-time gig for me. I’m determined to enjoy myself while I have the chance, though, and that means not pouting over the fact that I only get to live in this fairy tale for one more day.
Apparently today’s first scene will be shot in the penthouse conference room at the very top of the building. By some stroke of fate, I end up in the same elevator as Ford Grand, who smiles flirtatiously at me and stands closer than necessary after pressing the button for the top floor.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm the nerves that have come rushing back. Ford notices and brushes a finger against my hip.
“I know you’re going to do great today,” he says in a low voice as the elevator doors start to close. “I wish you’d let me help you practice your lines a couple times. I could have given you a few pointers.”
I have a feeling I know what sort of pointer he wanted to be giving me. I almost say so, even knowing it probably won’t be received well, but at that moment someone shouts, “Hold the elevator!” and throws an arm between the closing doors, pulling my attention away.
A young man with the frazzled look of an assistant holds the doors open, making room for Orlando to step inside.
I straighten. The elevator suddenly feels charged with energy, and that feeling only intensifies when Orlando’s eyes meet mine for the briefest of moments. He gives us a nod before leaning casually against the wall of the elevator.
Ford coughs as the doors close again. I glance up at him, and he offers a smile as if to imply we have some sort of shared secret between us. This guy really doesn’t let up, does he?
As the elevator begins to move, Ford leans a little closer to me, even though we’re already much closer than two people in an elevator need to be.
“If you have any questions about anything today,” he says in a low voice, “feel free to ask me. I want to make sure you feel comfortable.”
“She’s free to ask anyone.” Orlando makes no effort to keep his voice soft, and I jump. “Including me. Or Karen. That’s why we’re here, after all. And I would hope any of my actors feel comfortable enough raising their questions and concerns with me.”
The energy in this tiny, enclosed space is starting to crackle with tension. Ford, however, just laughs.
“Of course,” he says. “I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. But I can imagine how she feels… First line in a movie, surrounded by all these celebrities, afraid to screw up. I was just trying to let her know she has a friend. Someone she can talk to. It can be intimidating to question the director.”
Orlando looks at me with those sharp golden-brown eyes, and I wish I were better at reading him. Is he offended or curious? I can’t tell.
“Do you find me intimidating, Maggie?” he asks me.
It’s not the sort of question I expected to be asked outright, especially not by a gorgeous man whose eyes seem to see right through me. Of course I’m intimidated, but not for the reason he’s asking.
I panic and say the first thing that pops into my head.
“If I found you intimidating, would I have flung my panties at you?”
For a moment, the elevator is deathly silent.
And then, abruptly, Orlando bursts out laughing.
I smile as relief rushes through me. Ford, on the other hand, seems outright shocked.
“You did what?” he asks. “You threw your panties? When did this happen?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t heard.” I shrug. “I thought a story like that would have spread like wildfire through the whole crew.” If I can’t undo what happened, I might as well own it. And act like I’m not still mortified.
Fortunately, I don’t have to keep the act up too long. We’ve reached the top floor, and the elevator doors open with a cheerful ding. Orlando stands aside, holding the door open, still looking amused. Ford waits for me to move before moving himself.
“I mean what I said, Maggie,” Orlando says as I pass him. “If you have any questions or concerns at all, feel free to say something. I value open communication on my sets, and don’t believe anyone who tells you otherwise.”
It’s not an open accusation against Ford, but it’s too pointed to be tossed out as a casual comment. Either way, Orlando has made himself clear—he’s not going to let Ford have the upper hand, not on his set.
Ford doesn’t give any outward indication that he’s noticed the subtle jab—he doesn’t walk faster, or even frown—but I’d be shocked if someone who thinks so highly of himself isn’t at least a little prickly after that. I decide not to rub it in as we walk toward the conference room. I do glance back over my shoulder, though, and find Orlando watching us. Watching me.
“I do have a question for you,” I say to Ford, trying to ignore the shivery feeling Orlando’s gaze sends down my back. “About the movie.”
“Ask away.” Ford sounds as charming as ever—and his eyes still glint flirtatiously as he looks down at me—but there’s a tightness at the corners of his mouth.
“Who’s your character?” I ask him. “From Henry VI, I mean. I don’t know anything about this movie other than the scenes I’ve been in so far, and I’m trying to figure out who’s who.”
He shrugs. “Who knows? This isn’t a retelling. It’s just loosely based on Shakespeare. Audiences like things based on Shakespeare—it makes them feel smart. But I don’t know why they didn’t pick one of the more popular plays like Romeo and Juliet or Hamlet or something. At least people have heard of those.”
Well, I tried.
We’ve reached the conference room where today’s scene will be shot, and I glance around. This room is huge—and absolutely stunning. One wall is entirely windows, offering a clear view of the scattering of skyscrapers that make up Atlanta’s downtown, as well as a sky that’s a brilliant, shining blue now that the sun is up. The room is dominated by a large, mahogany conference table with black and gold detailing that has been polished to a beautiful sheen. The carpet and wallpaper are both a dark, almost-eggplant purple, but the color looks opulent, not oppressive,
in a space this large. Three gold chandeliers hang from the ceiling at intervals, though there’s enough light coming in from the windows that they’re switched off at the moment. This is by far the fanciest conference room I’ve ever seen—not that I’ve seen many.
The room is humming with people doing last-minute preparations—cameramen making adjustments to their equipment, members of the lighting crew blocking the windows in some places and positioning reflectors in others. A number of extras have already taken seats around the huge table. And Karen walks briskly among everyone, alternately barking orders and speaking into her earpiece.
“We’ll talk more at lunch,” Ford says, his smile suggesting what he has in mind will be more pleasant than our brief interactions so far. I’m not sure I agree, but I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.
For the moment, anyway, my attention is drawn back to Orlando, who pulls my eye the minute he strides into the room. He commands everyone else’s attention, too, simply by his presence, and the crew seems to be working a little faster, somehow managing to appear even more focused on their tasks than they were a moment ago.
Orlando’s gaze sweeps through the room, across the cameras and crew, over the actors already seated, past Ford walking briskly to his chair at the head of the table. He’s not smiling, but he seems satisfied with what he sees in the room. When he spots me, he starts in my direction, but he’s only gone a few steps before a hand pulls at my elbow.
“You’re in the way,” Karen tells me. “Get behind the cameras until your entrance.” She tugs me aside as Orlando strides past. His eyes flick in my direction, and I swear I see a glimmer of merriment there. Just a glimmer, and then he’s back to looking as serious as before.
I don’t know why people think he never laughs, I think as Karen pulls me out of the way. He’s clearly got a sense of humor.
I watch as Orlando speaks with various members of cast and crew, making a few final adjustments before the filming begins. My fingers itch for a pen or pencil and something to scribble on—I’d love to attempt another doodle of him—but since I don’t have either, I’m forced to just watch.