This is what you wanted.
A regular job that would allow her to earn money—and not rely on the many millions her stepfather had in the bank. If she dropped her last name, slurpy ol’ Christian would spit out his cold brew. But apart from Sergei, no one knew that Hannah was the legendary producer’s daughter, and that’s how she chose to keep it.
Stepdaughter, she mentally corrected herself.
A distinction she never would have bothered to make before last summer.
Had that trip to Westport six months ago really happened? The weeks she’d lived above the Pacific Northwest bar, restoring it lovingly with her sister in tribute to their birth father, seemed like a hazy dream. One she couldn’t seem to shake. It rode her consciousness like dolphins outlined in a barrel wave, making her wistful at the oddest times. Like now, when Christian was bugging his heartthrob eyes out, letting her know he was ready for straw removal.
“Thanks,” he huffed. “Now I’m going to have to pee.”
“Look at the bright side,” Hannah murmured, so as not to interrupt an effusive Sergei. “There are mirrors in the bathroom. Your favorite.”
Christian snorted, allowing a grudging uptick to one side of his mouth. “God, you’re such a bitch. I love you.”
“。 . . is what you say into the mirrors?”
They traded a lip-twitching glare.
“I think I speak for the production team when I say we’ve found our Lark,” Sergei said, coming around the table to kiss both cheeks of the bouncing actress. “Are you available to begin shooting in late March?” Without waiting for the girl to answer, Sergei pressed a row of knuckles to his forehead. “I am seeing an entirely different location for the shoot now. The energy Christian and Maxine create together does not work against the backdrop of Los Angeles. I’m certain. It’s so earthy. So original. They sanded the edges off each other. We need a softer location. The sharp corners of LA will only snag them, hold them back.”
Hannah stilled, watched the table of producers trade nervous glances. The artistic temperament was real—and Sergei’s tended to be more volatile than most. He’d once made the entire crew wear blindfolds on set so they wouldn’t dilute the magic of a scene by viewing it. Every set of eyes strips another layer of mystery! But that temperament was one of the main reasons Hannah gravitated toward the director. He operated on chaos, bowing to the whims of creativity. He believed his choices and didn’t have time for naysayers.
Real leading-man material.
What was that like? To be the star in the movie of your life?
Hannah had been playing second fiddle so long, she was getting arthritis in her fingers. Her sister, Piper, had demanded the spotlight since childhood, and Hannah was always comfortable waiting in the wings, anticipating her cue to walk on as best supporting actress, even providing bail money on more than one occasion. That was where she shined. Bolstering the heroine at her lowest point, stepping in to defend the leading lady when necessary, saying the right thing in a pivotal heart-to-heart.
Supporting actresses didn’t want or need the glory. They were content to prop up the main character and be instrumental in their mission. And Hannah was content in that role, too. Wasn’t she?
A memory trickled in without her consent.
A memory that made her jumpy for some reason.
That one afternoon six months ago at a vinyl convention in Seattle when she’d felt like the main character. Browsing through records with Fox Thornton, king crab fisherman and a lady-killer of the highest caliber. When they’d stood shoulder to shoulder and shared a pair of AirPods, listening to “Silver Springs,” the world just kind of fading out around them.
Just an anomaly.
Just a fluke.
Restless, probably because of the nine cups of black coffee she’d drunk throughout the day, Hannah returned Christian’s cold brew to the fridge and waited on the periphery to see what kind of curveball Sergei was about to throw the team. Honestly, she loved his left turns, even if no one else did. The tempest of his imagination could not be stopped. It was enviable. It was hot.
This guy was her type.
She just wasn’t his, if the last two years were any indication.
“What do you mean you no longer see Los Angeles as the backdrop?” one of the producers asked. “We already have the permits.”
“Am I the only one who saw the rain falling in this scene? The quiet melancholia unfolding around them?” Who didn’t want to date a man who dropped that kind of terminology without batting an eyelash? “We cannot pit the raw volume of Los Angeles against them. It’ll drown them out. We need to let the nuance thrive. We need to give it oxygen and space and sunlight.”