Imagine With Me (With Me in Seattle 15)

“Oh,” I say in surprise.

“It’s a lively bunch,” Reggie says. “Not stuffy at all.”

“I see that.”

There are no cubicles, but large desks are scattered throughout the massive, open space. Two men throw a football back and forth. A woman sits on the floor on a yoga mat, her laptop resting in front of her.

“What do I smell?”

Reggie laughs. “Well, there’s a full gourmet kitchen in the back there, open to the rest of the space. A chef will be here all day, ready to make anything you might want for a snack or lunch. Complimentary, of course.”

“I’ve never worked anywhere like this.”

“None of us have, Lexi. Luke started this production house about five years ago, I guess. In that time, he took it from his home office to what you see here.”

“I know he’s well respected in Hollywood.”

“He is. And manages it all from Seattle. We’re casual here. Luke believes that creativity comes from feeling free to express yourself.”

I see that several pairs of eyes have turned my way. They look me up and down speculatively.

I don’t like being watched.

“Please tell me I don’t have to work out here,” I murmur.

“No, ma’am. Luke assigned you and Shawn to the conference room. This way.”

Reggie leads me down a hall to a room with floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto the bullpen.

The noise is less severe here, but the distraction of the chaos out there will still be an issue.

“Uh, thanks?”

“Look,” Reggie says as he flips a switch. Suddenly, the windows are opaque, and I can no longer see through them.

“That’s pretty high-tech.”

“Only the best at Williams Films,” the security guard says with a wink. “Shawn should be here soon. In the meantime, get comfortable. If you need anything to eat or drink, just go talk to Chef in the kitchen.”

“Thanks, Reggie.”

“You bet. Holler if you need anything.”

I need a lobotomy. Because as cool as I’m sure all of Luke’s employees think this place is, it’s absolutely terrifying for me. So many people. So much noise.

Good God, how does anyone get anything done?

I leave the windows frosted and turn to the workspace. It’s a pretty normal conference room with a massive table in the center and chairs arranged around it. A television is mounted to the wall. There’s a credenza off to the side that I’m sure holds snacks and coffee during meetings.

For now, there’s a fresh pitcher of ice water and glasses set out.

I pour myself a glass and start unpacking my briefcase—computer, notebook, pens.

It’s my deepest wish that Shawn and I get along today. That we can put our rocky start on Saturday behind us and work together well and efficiently.

I check the time.

He’s late.

Not just a couple of minutes late, either.

Shawn O’Callaghan, screenwriter extraordinaire, is thirty minutes late.

I sigh and sit in one of the chairs and then frown.

Has anyone ever sat in this chair? It’s stiff and uncomfortable. Similar to the entire room.

“Oh, Lexi, what have you gotten yourself into?” I mumble to myself.

“Sorry I’m late,” Shawn says as he bustles into the room, sets his briefcase on the table, and immediately starts emptying it. “There was a delay with the ferry.”

“The ferry?”

“Yes. And then traffic was murder.”

I’m intrigued by the ferry. I’ve never been on one. “Why were you on a ferry?”

“Because I live on one of the islands across the Sound,” he replies and rubs his hand over his face.

He’s striking, more handsome than I remember him being.

And he has yet to look at me.

Maybe he’s unsure of his footing because of Saturday. This is silly. I need to assure him that this is a new day. We’ll just start fresh.

There’s no need to be uncomfortable around each other.

I open my mouth to say exactly that when Shawn logs into his computer and hits me with, “I already wrote the first five scenes. You can just go ahead and skim them and approve, and we can move on.”

And just like that, my goodwill goes right out the damn window.

My eyes narrow.

My blood boils.

He still hasn’t looked my way.

“Shawn?”

“Hmm?” He turns to me then, those green eyes intense as he stares at me with expectation.

“We’re supposed to be writing this script together.”

“I got a head start. I figured there was no harm in digging in early. Save us some time.”

I sit back in the painfully uncomfortable chair and cross my arms over my chest.

“What?” he asks. “I did us both a bloody favor.”

His Irish accent is thicker when he’s irritated. Otherwise, I don’t hear much of a lilt in his voice at all.

It’s sexy and annoying, all at the same time.

Without another word, I take Shawn’s laptop from him. Rather than read a word of what he’s written, I highlight it all and hit delete, then pass it back to him.

“What the fuck did you just do?” he demands.