Capture (Seaside Pictures 1)

I wasn't used to being reprimanded by anyone. I'd like to think that, considering I grew up in a house with two very emotionally detached parents, it was saying a lot that I even knew how to pick up on social cues, let alone care about another human being. Hell, my parents forgot my birthday, yet threw a freaking party for the family Chihuahua.

But I'd never complained.

I felt stupid having even opened my damn mouth because I'd come from fame, money. I'd been born privileged. Lucky. Even though my parents sucked.

My sister hadn't gotten off as easy.

One addiction after another had finally landed her in rehab, thanks to Alec Daniels, one of the guys from AD2. She still hadn't confided in me the details from a few years ago, but, considering everyone was on good terms again, I could only assume he'd been the one that had gotten her the help she'd needed, which is why, when I'd received the audition for this movie, I'd known I had to try out.

AD2 was doing the soundtrack, and Jaymeson was semi-related to the guys. I knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that it would be a blockbuster hit, and after all the drama and shit from my last flick, spending a few months filming on the Oregon coast sounded like a freaking vacation.

A throat cleared.

Dani put her hands on her hips then held them wide as if to say, "So? Are you just going to stand there like an idiot or actually tell me what to do?"

The voice I had her using in my head wasn't near as sexy as it needed to be, because the girl was sexy, from that cute blonde head all the way down to her ankles.

My eyes lowered.

What was it about her ankles?

Two claps in front of my face.

My eyebrows shot up. "You can't talk, but you can clap in front of me like I'm five?" I slowly pushed her hands away, the contact brief.

She didn't answer.

I hated it.

I pointed to one of the boxes. "So, I guess we can start with the living room. I won't be here a lot since we're doing most of the filming in Seaside, but I figured it would be nice to have a place to come back to, you know?"

No answer.

"I move a lot…" I seriously couldn't stop myself from talking. It was a really unfortunate nervous habit while in the company of someone who suffered from muteness. My money was on her stabbing me before the end of the night. "… you know, because of the films."

Idiot. Of course I moved because of the films. I was an actor for shit's sake. Maybe I should take a cue from her and just not speak. Ever.

Dani started packing one of the boxes, then held up a small, blue pig that I'd gotten from my very first commercial when I was about ten, for a savings and loan company.

"That's Wilbur."

She held the pig out as if it disgusted her. Then again, it had somehow gone from a really nice aqua to more of a dingy white with weird black marks that had suddenly appeared. I'd cried over that when I was little. My mom, bitch that she was, had said my pig must have had cancer — and then had laughed. I shook away the memory, snatched the pig from Dani, and set him in the box, careful to put several pieces of newspaper around him.

"He always gets prime real estate while traveling."

My phone buzzed.

Dani: I like pigs.

I burst out laughing, not expecting that, and glanced up at her shy smile. "Is there a reason?"

My phone vibrated with a text and an emoji pig sitting in mud.

Dani: They have cute tails.

I nodded. "I think we're going to get along just fine, Dani."

She quickly turned around and continued packing the box — but not in complete silence. Because if I listened really carefully, I could hear a slight hum coming from her lips.

Thank God for common ground.

Thank God for pigs.

CHAPTER THREE

Dani

LINCOLN OFFERED TO DRIVE ME BACK to the hotel once we finished packing. I'd agreed only because the only thing more terrifying than getting into his truck, was riding in a car with a stranger, whose only goal in life was to get me from point A to point B in as little as time as possible.

The drive back wasn't as awkward as the drive there.

Mainly because I was getting used to him, sort of. You know, if it was possible to get used to good-looking men who smiled — a lot.

He was a smiler.

I hadn't expected that.

Most of the pictures I'd seen of him were shirtless-brooding-angsty — total opposites of the guy sitting next to me. The guy who packed a pig with him everywhere he went.

A pig.

It had been on the tip of my tongue to tell him about the pig my parents had gotten me when I was little. I'd told them it was stupid to count sheep; ergo, Patsy the Pig had arrived and helped me dream only good dreams.

I still had her.

It was more common ground, something I felt like we needed, since I might as well have been an alien to him.

But the minute I'd opened my mouth to try, to really try, the only thing I could force out was a weak noise that sounded like I was trying to hum.

Totally embarrassed — that's what I did. I hummed because I didn't want him to think I had Tourette's on top of everything else. That's exactly what he needed, someone who just blurted out random noises for no reason.

I held my groan in until he dropped me off, making me promise to show up the next morning bright and early…

I waved.

And he waved back, something I wasn't used to. Typically, once people discovered I was mute, they stopped noticing me, almost like I didn't deserve the attention because I couldn't properly contribute to the conversation. It sucked. Sometimes my own sister even did it, though I knew that was on purpose.