“Good. I spoke to the network again and they really want you. Like really. We can easily push for more money and a much better contract. And I was able to get them to work with us on the whole issue of using your name on something you didn’t actually write. They asked if you’d be okay with having in collaboration with Chloe Fisher for the other seasons, and I went ahead and told them you’d only agree to that if you were actually in collaboration with them. So you have the option to sit in the writers’ room and give final approval, or they’ll scratch your name completely once you’re not writing for them anymore.”
“Oh wow.”
“Yeah. They really want you, Chloe. I think they’ll end up agreeing to keep you on, and if season one is a success, I want to be able to fine tune the contract for the remaining seasons. We’re talking bigger payday and creative control.”
“Wow,” I repeat, sitting up straighter. My heart skips a beat, and I don’t know what to think. It’s a good deal. A great opportunity. Anyone would be thrilled to death to get this kind of offer…but the details didn’t work out, and now that I’m hearing Vanessa got things ironed out, I’m feeling almost disappointed. “That pretty much takes care of everything I had an issue with.”
Well, except for the whole I have to stay in LA thing. Sam and I can make it work, I’m sure of that. The flight between Chicago is at the most five hours. It’s manageable. I love him and he loves me…and if he really is going to ask me to marry him, then this is just a small blip on our radar for being together forever.
“And there’s one more thing,” Vanessa says, trying hard not to let her excitement be known. “They want you to direct an episode or two.”
“What?” I heard her but—what? “I don’t know anything about directing.”
“I know, and you will be guided through it. It’s a PR move more than anything, but you will be listed as the director and will get an impressive amount of say in how the episode goes. This could be next level for you, Chloe. Nightfall has done amazing and you have a good reputation in the world of publishing. Get in good with the producers and directors and you are golden.”
I lean back against the couch, mind racing. My last “in” to the elite circle of producers was going on a date that ended horribly and being slung through the mud on Twitter—all because I refused to let said asshole grope me in public.
“Wow,” I say for the third time, at a total loss for any other words. “That sounds amazing.”
“Yes! I was hoping you’d want to move forward and discuss details. The first few episodes are going to be shot overseas, so how do you feel about living abroad for half a year?”23Chloe“Chloe,” Sam breathes as soon as he walks through the door. “You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I smile, debating holding up the pretense that I put minimal effort into my appearance, but that’s not true. Sam saw me at my very worst this weekend and is smart enough to know I curled my hair and put on makeup. “How was the rest of your day at work?”
“All right.” He takes his shoes off and pushes them into the foyer closet. “Did you cook?”
“I did.” The smile is back on my face. “It’s nothing fancy, just parmesan chicken with spaghetti. I kind of forgot about ordering breadstick to go along with this.”
“It smells wonderful.” Sam takes me in his arms, pulling me in for a passionate kiss. I melt against him, running my hands down to his chest, stopping when my fingers hover over his belt buckle. It’s half-past seven, and Sam still wants to walk along the lake after dinner.
Excitement passes through me and I do my best to quell that feeling. It’s too soon to think about it. We’ve only been dating for a short while, but we have known—and loved—each other for years. I know without a doubt Sam is the one for me. I’ll marry him in a heartbeat and have no fears that the rest of our lives will be filled with nothing but joy and happiness.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Starving.”
“Good. I’ll put dinner on the table.”
He kisses me again. “I’ll change and be out.”
Sam comes back, dressed in black athletic pants and a Chicago Bears sweatshirt, just as I’m putting his plate on the table.
“This looks and smells really good,” he tells me, picking up his fork and knife.
“Hopefully it tastes good.”
“You really didn’t have to cook. I would have ordered something if you wanted.”
“I know,” I tell him. “I really do enjoy cooking when someone other than me enjoys the food. And I had to eat tonight anyway, so making something fresh is a win-win for us both.”