The Rom-Commers(64)

But what did I want to do? Foist my unwanted screenplay on Donna Cole? Beg her to love me? Burst into tears? Dissolve into fumes of shame? Perish?

“I just wanted to—” I tried again. Then, “I really don’t mean to—”

“Do you need something?” Donna Cole asked.

Oh, god. Oh, god. What had I been thinking, coming over here? Humiliation clutched at my neck. My lungs withered.

Eject! Eject!

I so badly wanted to turn and sprint out of there, leaving only cartoon streaks of shame behind. But my feet still wouldn’t move. And I was just wondering if my only option was to drop to the floor and crawl out on my hands and knees … when Donna Cole’s gaze shifted to the side and her face broke into a smile.

I turned, and there was Charlie. Hands in his pockets, hair pointing in ten different directions, demeanor all aw-shucks—but smiling big, like he knew exactly how cute he was.

“Charlie!” Donna Cole said, standing and reaching out for a hug.

“Donna,” Charlie said, leaning in to kiss both of her cheeks. “Radiant as ever.”

“Aren’t I?” she said, shrugging with pleasure. She took in the sight of him. “You look adorable.”

Charlie nodded. “I’ve taken up line dancing.”

“I love it,” she said. Then, leaning closer, she said, “What are you writing these days?”

“I’m writing a rom-com,” Charlie announced, loud and proud.

“What!” Donna Cole gasped—total surprise with a splash of delight.

Charlie nodded to confirm, like Yep. And then, god bless him, he yanked me sideways, put his solid, nothing-can-ever-hurt-you-again arm over my shoulders, and said, “Under the tutelage of this one.”

Charlie, I could kiss you. Wait—oops. I already did.

I felt all eyes shift to me, now under the loyal protection of Charlie Yates’s arm.

“But,” Charlie went on, “I guess you already know each other.”

Donna Cole looked me over with new eyes. “We were just … meeting.”

“Great!” Charlie said, making everything okay with his big we’re-all-impressive-people-here energy. “Emma Wheeler, meet the legendary Donna Cole. Donna Cole, meet my new favorite writer, Emma Wheeler.”

Donna Cole tilted her head. “Your new favorite writer, huh?”

I did not glance over at Jablowmie for his reaction to that pronouncement.

Charlie gave Donna Cole a lifted-eyebrow nod, like You better believe it. Then he said, like this was not an opinion, but a fact: “She’s good.”

Donna Cole looked back and forth between us. “Is she?”

Another nod from Charlie. Then, “Like I haven’t seen in—” He stopped and thought a second. “Nope. That’s it. Like I haven’t seen.”

Donna Cole looked at me, like Interesting. Then she scooted over at the banquette and patted the seat next to her. “Join us.”

“Nope,” Charlie said, clamping me tighter. “She’s mine today. But Logan Scott can set you up.”

Donna Cole squinted in approval. “Good to know.”

“Anyway,” Charlie said, looking around the table. “Great to see all of you.”

And then a funny thing happened: T.J. stood up, clearly wanting to emphasize his only-other-bro-in-the-group status, and leaned across the table in a burst for a fist bump—but he lost his balance and it turned into something Charlie had to dodge.

As the fist flailed toward his face, Charlie jerked away to the side and wound up smacking his forehead into my cheekbone.

Not that hard. But, yes—it hurt.

I made some kind of oh noise and dropped my face to my hands as Charlie turned toward me.

“Whoa—whoa—whoa—are you okay?”

Charlie was peering in now, touching at my hands, nudging them to move so he could get a better look.

“I’m fine,” I said, head down. “It’s fine.”

“Show me,” Charlie said, his voice soft, like there was no one else there.

I let him move my hands away so he could get in close for an inspection as T.J., who had just jostled and spilled every coffee on the table, went around apologizing and mopping up the table with paper napkins.

When the crisis was over, Charlie made his next and final move. He took my screenplay out of my hand and tucked it under his arm possessively, like it was something precious and thrilling and intended for him only—and he’d been waiting in agonized anticipation all day to get his hands on it.

Next, he pointed at me with impatience: “Did you say that quick thing you wanted to say?”

The question was like telepathy. I got exactly what Charlie was telling me. It was, I suddenly knew, not okay to hand Donna Cole a script out of nowhere, but it was fully okay—extremely okay, in fact—to tell her that you loved her work. Later, I’d thank Charlie a hundred times for helping me find my voice in that moment.

Of course, of course: it made so much sense.

Your first meeting with someone should never be an ask. It should be a give.

There wasn’t much I could give Donna Cole but admiration. But I genuinely had that in spades. I met her eyes. “I just wanted to say that I’m a wild, adoring fan of your work.” Then I added, “The peanut butter sandwich scene in The Lovers is the best thing that ever happened to me.”