Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
“Well, you did practically drag me out of the production team meeting by the hair,” I say, allowing a teasing note into my voice.
“I didn’t.”
“I mean . . . it was a little growly, mine, claim-y.”
“Do you want to be someone else’s?” he asks softly, drawing me to him in inches until the tips of our toes touch and I’m too close to see or smell or consider anyone but the man in front of me.
“No.” I don’t smile or make light of it or try to hide the certainty in my eyes. I want this. I want him, and if I have to endure some speculation, well, dammit, I’ll do what I said. I’ll prove I deserve this job. I’ll keep earning their trust.
“Good,” he says, opening the passenger door of his car. “Then let’s get you home.”
45
Canon
It never ends.
The list of things that needs to be done marches through my head, an infinite line of tasks and meetings as we prepare to shoot on location. This drama with Camille today? Last damn thing I needed. Everything I thought would happen if I got involved with Neevah is happening exactly as I predicted.
And yet . . .
Glancing over at her, curled up and asleep in my passenger seat on the way to her place, I don’t regret it. I don’t regret kissing her on Thanksgiving. I don’t regret our time away in Santa Barbara. I don’t regret starting a relationship with her, because it’s like nothing I’ve had before. I hate the chaos Camille’s interview could potentially create, but Neevah is the best thing to happen to me in a long time. Today, when faced with the consequences of our actions, I had to admit that to myself. In spite of all the trouble this could cause, I can’t regret her.
Of course, my phone has been ringing nonstop. Neevah nodded off almost immediately and has been that way for the forty-minute drive to her rental in Studio City. It’s not far from the lot, but this is LA, so everywhere you go becomes a hump. I have one more call to make before I can rest for an hour or so. Maybe we can have a quick meal before I go home and prepare for tomorrow.
I use one earphone to make this last call so the speakerphone won’t disturb Neevah’s sleep.
“Canon, hey,” Verity answers on the first ring. “I wasn’t sure if our call was still on.”
“Why wouldn’t it be? I told you I’d call to talk through the script revisions. They’re minor, but I want to give the cast plenty of time to learn the new lines before we reach those scenes.”
“Yeah, but you’ve had quite the eventful day, breaking the internet and whatnot,” Verity says, her voice curious and cautious.
“I didn’t break the internet. Camille did, and every day for the last three months has been eventful,” I answer stiffly. “We’re shooting one of the biggest biopics of the last decade, so things get busy. You got a point?”
“Don’t get defensive with me, Canon. You know how much I like and respect Neevah. The interview was everywhere today, and I’m sure that was disruptive. Not trying to be all up in your shit. Just trying to be sensitive.”
“I don’t need you to be sensitive. I need those revisions, like, yesterday.”
“Why you gotta be a dick?” A bit of laughter eases the bite of her words.
“Occupational hazard,” I say, allowing myself to relax the smallest bit.
“Can I just say I’m happy for you?”
I don’t discuss my personal life freely. I haven’t known Verity long and I don’t know her as well as I do Jill or Kenneth or Evan, who have worked with me for years. Verity, though, is good people. I’m not sure what went down with her and Monk, but for some reason, I think I can trust her.
“Thank you.”
“She’s amazing.”
“I’m aware,” I say, an unstoppable grin taking over my mouth.
“Much too good for you.”
“Also, very aware of that fact and agreed. Now can we please talk through these line edits so I can check you off my list and maybe have half an hour to eat uninterrupted with my girlfriend?”
The word lands between us like a rock for a moment before it starts to float. It’s the first time I’ve called Neevah that even to myself, much less aloud to someone I work with. I expect it to feel like a shirt that’s one size too small—tight, restrictive, choking at the collar. Instead, it’s the opposite. It feels the way she feels—tailor-made for me.
“Girlfriend, huh?” Verity chuckles. “Alright. I see you, Canon. All booed up.”
“The edits,” I remind her. “We need to tweak that dialogue with Cal and Dessi in France after she receives Tilda’s letter.”
That refocuses her, and we talk through how she might approach retooling some of that scene. After promising to send revisions before morning, she disconnects. Perfect timing because I pull up to Neevah’s place. She hasn’t stirred the whole drive home, and without the heavy makeup, the shadows under her eyes are much more evident. She’s wearing one of the head wraps she often puts on when she sheds Dessi’s wig for the day. The tempting fullness of her lips is unpainted, unadorned. Her arms are folded at her waist. Is that rash she had in Santa Barbara worse?