Straying From the Path

Nathan walked right past her without stopping.

Cass managed to intercept him when he paused to unlock his door.

“Hi Nathan.”

“Hi Cass.” He was boyish, unassuming, with disheveled brown hair and an untucked t-shirt. No one would ever pick him out of a crowded room for being the hyped-up big-shot director. He’d paid his dues, spending the first ten years of his career in bluebox engineering before he got the idea of reviving on-location filming.

“I wondered if I could talk to you for a minute.”

“Sure.”

“Privately?” She gestured at Stacy, who was watching them.

“Right. Come on in.”

The room was part office, with the requisite desk and computer, and part laboratory, with dissected cameras scattered over a workbench and tripods propped against the wall like insectoid skeletons. Nathan closed the door.

“I talked with Nick May at the party.”

“I saw. You looked like you were having a good time.” Her knees went all weak and silly again.

“Yeah. He, uh—he wants to act in on-location film.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Said he wanted to do something respectable.”

His brow wrinkled. “He called it respectable?”

“Yeah. It almost seemed like he was bored with bluebox.” She pointed her finger in emphasis. “He’s seen Casablanca.”

“It’s funny. Film has turned into what live theater was to film a hundred years ago—the poor aristocratic cousin. Everyone respects it, but no one gives money to it. Did he put you up to this?”

“No. That is, I don’t think so. He didn’t ask me to talk to you if that’s what you mean. It’s just—you might talk to him. Having him on board might give the company the boost it needs.”

“If he can act in front of a camera.”

That was the kicker, wasn’t it?

A knock came at the door. Wearing a sinister grin, Stacy peeked her head in. “Cass? Hi. There’s someone here to see you. Out in reception.”

Cass shrugged at Nathan and followed Stacy out.

There, scuffing his feet on the carpet in the middle of the reception area, stood Nick May, dressed in photogenic casual wear and holding a bouquet of pink star lilies.

His expression lit when he saw her. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she said, digging her nails into her palms.

“Um, here. These are for you.” He offered the flowers. Roses would have been presumptuous, carnations would have been cheap. These were just perfect. “I wanted to tell you I had a really nice time Saturday.”

Speaking of theater, she felt like she was in a play, with Frank the receptionist watching from his desk, Nathan standing in the doorway, Stacy struggling to see over Nathan’s shoulder, and a couple more people crowding behind Stacy.

Slowly, she moved to take the flowers. Her eyes were stinging, and she hoped her smile wasn’t as big and stupid as it felt. “Wow. Been awhile since anyone gave me flowers. Thanks.”

She looked at him, and the link she hadn’t been wearing at the party scrolled a library of information at her optic nerve.

—opening date of his next film, Lunar Wake (in a week), the latest starlet he’s been attached to (Sylvia Fremont), clerk at Gino’s reveals his shirt size (36), and a dozen other facts with the option to see more, (yes or no). More raw data than she’d learned in four hours of luscious conversation. But the data didn’t say anything about him being allergic to sushi, as she’d discovered at the party.