I needed this job. Or any job, for that matter.
“I know. Thanks, Macy.”
“No prob. Good luck. Your aura is off right now. I can feel it through the phone. I’m doin’ your cards when I see you later, Trenton. We gotta figure you out.”
“Good luck with that,” I mumbled before disconnecting the call to deal with my missing car.
The police confirmed that my vehicle had indeed been towed to Tony’s Auto Garage. And Tony confirmed that it would cost me two hundred bucks to get it out of hock. I stared daggers at my phone and cocked my arm as if to chuck it at the building’s mammoth glass doors…just as Sebastian Rourke pushed through them.
He shoved a pair of sunglasses on his nose and headed toward a brand-new white Audi, pausing when he spotted me.
And me? I froze.
Seeing the producer on the set was one thing, but bumping into him in a parking lot I clearly didn’t belong in was another. I wasn’t sure how to play this. If HR was right and there was a chance of landing any part in the next film, I had to be smart.
And British.
“ ’Ello.”
“Hi. Careful with your phone. That glass is tougher than it looks,” Sebastian advised, opening his car door.
“Right, mate.”
He crouched low as if to climb behind the wheel, then straightened, resting his forearm on the roof of his luxury ride. “You’re the stuntman, right? The Brit.”
About that…
I wasn’t British. Obviously.
I had been to London, though. And I think I had some Scottish blood on my dad’s side of the family…which maybe counted? I’d also landed a few British roles throughout my not-so-illustrious acting career—three were in Shakespeare productions and two were on ancient CSI episodes. My scenes had been cut, but I’d gotten paid for them, so I had that going for me.
Nonetheless, I took great pride in my accents. No kidding, my Irish accent was even better than my English one.
I might have been in the midst of a seriously crap day, but I couldn’t help thinking that running into Sebastian Rourke entirely by chance for the second time within two hours had to be a good sign. Or better yet, an opportunity to get myself back on set. If that required a British accent, so be it.
“Aye. I’m havin’ a bloody rough go of it.” I winced slightly. That sounded too cockney. I had to mellow my voice to something more melodic. “My car’s been towed.”
Sebastian inclined his head. “Oh. That’s too bad.”
“Hmph.” I wandered toward him, sliding my cell into my pocket with a nonchalant shrug. “I’ll figure something out. Um, listen, I wanted to apologize.”
“For what?”
“Falling, killing the scene, causing Hal to be more ill-tempered than usual…take your pick.”
He released an amused half laugh. “You don’t have to do much to get on Hal’s bad side.”
“True, but I regret having an audience.”
Sebastian lifted one corner of his mouth. It wasn’t an actual smile, though. It was cagey and suspicious. “Did he really fire you?”
“Aye.” I shrugged nonchalantly as if my heart wasn’t trying to beat its way out of my chest. “HR suggested there might be a spot for me elsewhere. Perhaps on your next Baxter production.”
He gave me a brief once-over, then gestured wanly toward the studio. “Send your contact sheet to Trish in the morning. What was your name again?”
“Trent Mackay.”
“That’s right. I’m Seb,” he replied, offering his hand.
His palm felt cool and firm against mine—stronger than I expected. Best of all, our proximity gave me a chance to study him freely, and I had to admit, he was more impressive up close.
Seb was an inch or two taller than my six one and had an unmistakable aristocratic air about him with his perfectly straight nose and his lean, willowy physique. The expensive cut and clean lines of his suit accentuated his broad shoulders and tapered waist. And damn, blue was definitely his color.
It was fair to point out that we were complete opposites in the looks department. I was thick and muscular with dark hair, brown eyes, and thick eyebrows. I wasn’t ugly by any means, but I’d been told I had the kind of face that generally made a casting director think mobster, assassin, or cop gone bad. Though in my worn Levi’s, plain black tee, and pilfered leather jacket, I probably could have passed as his bodyguard.
“I know who you are,” I rasped, squeezing his hand a beat too long. I released it with a cocky grin that was pure bravado, but it might have come across as flirtatious. Oops. Not a good move, Mackay. I schooled my features to something more neutral and stepped aside. “I should go. I need to pick up my car, and I could probably use a drink…or three.”
“Me too,” he huffed, opening his door wider. “I’m thinking a double. Twice.”