Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

I sit on my bed for a few minutes after Dr. Ansford’s message. Shock and worry and dread swim through my thoughts as I process what she said.

Biopsy.

That word . . .

This isn’t something I need to keep to myself. I won’t be able to. We’re so close to wrapping, with less than a month left. I was hoping I would make it to the end without dragging the producers into it.

The producers means Canon, but it also means Evan. Call me a coward, but I think the conversation with Evan will be easier. He’s my boss, too.

My phone rings, and it’s the person I want to talk to the most and the least in the world.

“Canon, hey.”

“Hey. I didn’t want the day to end with things the way they were with us. I know I was a jerk.”

“And I was late,” I reply, my voice soft and restrained because I don’t want to spill everything in a rush of emotion. He opens my floodgates, makes me want to give him everything at once, even the crappy parts. “And I was so distracted today on set. I forgot lines and—”

“It’s okay. We all have off days. I can’t remember you even having one in the last four months, so you’re due. Just get some rest. You seemed tired.”

“Yeah, I really am.” But my fatigue and all the possible reasons for it are the last things I want to discuss. “Where are you?”

“Home Depot. Don’t ask.”

I snort, glad I can find even the smallest humor in this shit day, and glad it came from him.

“Look, Jill and Kenneth and I have a long night ahead. We need to go through the shot list and change some things. We’re here with the prop guys. I just wanted you to know . . .”

He draws and expels a sharp breath. “I just wanted you to know I’m sorry for this morning and that I don’t want work to mess up . . . things.”

“Things, huh?” I lean back on my pillow and cross my ankles. “You just don’t want me to cut off your supply.”

His low chuckle from the other end is dupioni silk, smooth on one side, rougher on the other. “Cutting off mine means cutting off yours, so I think I’ll be aight.”

“You’re right.” I close my eyes and let his rich voice wash over me, soothe my nerves. “You have nothing to worry about.”

There’s a pause on the other end before he says the words like air being released from a tire. “I miss you, Neevah. I know I just saw you, but I miss last night. Holding you and . . . I messed up this morning, huh?”

“We both did, but you’re too mean for me to fight with. Let’s not do that again.”

“I’m sorry.” Someone calls his name. “Okay. I gotta go. Jill and Kenneth are side-eyeing me hard.”

“Hey! Is Evan with you guys?”

“Evan? Nah. Get some rest. See you first thing.”

“Yeah, first thing.”

Once he disconnects, I fire off a quick text before I change my mind.

Me: Hey. I need to talk to you about something.

Evan: Tonight?

Me: Yeah. Now?

Evan: Where are you?

Me: At my cottage.

Evan: I’m on my way.

53

Canon

“So let’s save those scenes for later,” Jill says the next morning, “because the sun will be highest. I think that’ll be our best light.”

Kenneth and I nod. When it comes to cinematography, light, and composition, I defer to Jill. There aren’t many people I defer to on . . . well, anything, but Jill knows her craft in the way you’d be crazy not to trust her.

Evan walks into the cottage we’ve designated as our command station of sorts. Lines of strain bracket his mouth, which is not unusual when we’re in the final stretch of a movie, but he shoots me a wary look that makes me wonder what’s up.

“Hey, guys,” he says, pulling up a chair and joining us at the table. “We need to talk before the day starts.”

“Okay.” I lean back and link my hands over my stomach. “Shoot.”

“It’s about Neevah.”

The air tightens in the room instantly, for obvious reasons.

One.

She’s the star of this movie and in just about every scene. When something goes wrong with Neevah, it affects the entire production.

Two.

She’s my girl. And if there’s something going on with Neevah, shouldn’t I already know about it?

“What about Neevah?” Kenneth asks, as if number two is not a consideration.

“She texted me wanting to talk last night,” Evan says, leaning forward.

“What time?” I demand, because I talked to Neevah last night, if only for a few minutes.

“I don’t remember. Maybe nine? Does it matter?”

Hell, yeah, it does.

“No,” I say. “So what’s up?”

“You know a few days ago she had to get some bloodwork done for her dermatologist,” he continues. “Well, when she got back to her room last night, the doctor had left a message for her with the results.”