Chapter Eleven

DREW flopped down on his bed, staring at the ceiling. He’d pried his feet out of his uncomfortable shoes, hung up his tux for Jorj to take to the dry cleaner’s, and showered off a layer of Hollywood shine and hair gel. But he couldn’t seem to wipe the smile off his face.

He was probably being ridiculous. All that time together, getting to know each other, learning each other’s secrets, and they hadn’t even kissed. Yet somehow it still felt like the most intimate date Drew had ever been on. Then again, he’d already admitted that he’d been doing it wrong for most of his life. If it took going slow to get it right, he’d go slow.

Even if the memory of Steve’s body against his own, as the night drew to a close and they decided, on a whim, to dance to the music drifting in from the front lawn, made him want to skip ahead. Steve was just a hair taller than Drew, and broader in the shoulders. “This reminds me of my eighth-grade dance,” Steve had snorted as they tried to work out who would lead.

Drew didn’t have an eighth-grade dance. It was nice to get to experience some of what he’d missed. He laughed and took Steve’s hand, lacing their fingers together. “Maybe if we….”

They didn’t have much of a shot at the Dancing with the Stars title, but there was no one there to judge, and Steve fit too well against him for Drew to care that they were just making slow circles in their jellyfish spotlight.

By the time he dropped Steve off, he felt like he was walking on air. Steve didn’t invite him upstairs, but that seemed right. Instead he thanked Drew for a nice time, his eyes laughing all the while at the cliché, and then leaned in and kissed his cheek.

It was stupid, but Drew could swear he still felt the subtle brush of Steve’s day-old stubble.

When he drifted off to sleep, he was still smiling.

“CUT!” Nina called for the twelfth time on the same scene, and even Drew, who prided himself on his professionalism, had to groan.

“This scene isn’t working,” Steve said, stating the obvious.

It really wasn’t, and Nina’s grandkids and the handful of other extras were getting restless.

“If it doesn’t work, maybe it needs a rewrite,” Nina suggested. “Anyone know where we can find a script doctor?”

“Ugh.” Steve grimaced and his cheeks went crimson. “Sorry, everyone. I’ll fix it.”

Drew wanted to comfort him. Sometimes scenes didn’t work the way they’d been written and you just didn’t find out until you were shooting. That happened when you added more than one human element. It wasn’t his fault. “Maybe we can take fifteen?” he said. “I’ll work it out with you.”

“Please,” said Marley, the eight-year-old.

Drew choked on a laugh.

“Make it an hour and get something to eat.”

Excellent.

They grabbed pens and a couple extra copies of the script from a gopher and made for craft services. “So. Where are we going wrong?” Drew said, shoving a rolled-up script into his jeans pocket. Hopefully Will wouldn’t disembowel him for the wardrobe offense.

“I’ve got a couple ideas.” Steve handed him a plate as they perused the day’s offerings. The potato salad looked promising, but Steve bypassed it in favor of the pasta. “Let’s sit down and I’ll go over them.”

They picked an out-of-the-way table and set their trays down. Drew slid his potato salad across the table. “Is there dill in this?”

Steve stabbed a potato and popped it in his mouth. He shook his head.

Drew pulled the plate back and picked up his own fork for a bite. “So the scene is broken. What do we do about it?”

“Figure out where it’s broken first.” Steve flipped open his script and tapped a page. “Here, see? Scotty has this line about the server’s ass. Objectively fine. It’s falling apart on Morgan’s reaction. It doesn’t feel genuine.”

Drew swallowed and nodded, setting his fork down to open his own script. “I agree.”

“Ugh.” Steve groaned and raised his hands as though he wanted to scrub his face—then though better of it before he could ruin his makeup. “Can I just say that it is extra annoying to be the one who created the problem in the script and also the one who can’t just act through the problem and make it work, and being the person who fixes it? I feel like I’m letting everyone down.”

“Don’t.” Drew shoveled in another hit of potato salad. “This is normal. You gotta know that, since you’re the guy who gets brought in for fixes all the time. Things change in filming. It happens.”

The tense set of Steve’s shoulders eased a little. “I know. But I hate causing extra work for myself and interrupting everyone else’s workday.”

“So let’s figure it out. Where is Morgan’s reaction going wrong?” Drew thought he already had a pretty good idea, but it would probably be tacky for him to say it, and he was pretty sure Steve knew too.

He sighed. “It’s flat. It doesn’t fit the way I’ve played the character until now. Here it comes across as if he doesn’t care, no matter what kind of blocking or inflection I pair it with. It’s not genuine.”

“Because?” Drew prompted.

Steve scrunched up his face at him. Oh yeah. Steve knew exactly what he was getting at. “Because Morgan’s been attracted to Scotty this whole time, or there’s no way he would’ve gone along with this insane adventure. And now there’s a little more than attraction in the mix.”

He waited after that, but Drew kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to say the wrong thing, and he didn’t want to say anything in case Steve elaborated.

Finally Steve sagged and a rueful, honest expression replaced his grimace. “I’m not that good of an actor.”

Drew went warm all over. “You’re doing great.” He wanted to reach across the table and cover Steve’s hand with his own, but that would incite a round of workplace gossip, so he focused on not letting go of his fork. “Really. Even if we hadn’t decided to… date”—it still took him a complete mental shift to get his brain around that word—“I wouldn’t regret insisting you play the role.”

Steve nodded. “And I don’t regret taking it. But this wasn’t supposed to be a romance!”

“It isn’t. Relax. So Morgan’s feeling pissy and kind of jealous, right? Now make it funny.”

There was that face again. “Can you do the line for me? As Scotty, I mean. And I’ll get in character and we’ll just ad-lib until it feels right.”

Drew took a bite of his sandwich, dusted off his hands, chewed, and swallowed. “Sure. You wanna do blocking too, or just dialogue first?”

“Start with dialogue and see what happens. I think we can probably salvage most of the rest of the scene. We just need to fix one or two lines. It’s easier to fit it in with the motions that come afterward if we leave it open for now.”

By now Scotty was as familiar as a favorite pair of shoes. Drew let the easy, lackadaisical, uncomplicated whimsy of the character settle over him.

And then he dialed into his lizard brain and imagined someone with a butt as nice as Steve’s walking past their table. If they were doing blocking, he’d have leaned over to get a better look, because Scotty was just like that. Instead he let out a low whistle. “Now there’s a cake I’d like to—”

“Slow down, there, sweet tooth. We’re on a mission, remember? ‘Get to Vegas, save the dog, home in time for Sunday Night Football.’ Your words.”

“You probably don’t even watch football. I bet you like Jeopardy!”

“Jeopardy! runs on weekdays.”

Drew struggled not to break, because of course Steve knew that. “This is why you never get laid.”

“Even you aren’t getting laid at seven thirty on a Tuesday. You’re probably watching repeats of Cornholed”—Drew almost choked; Steve looked half a second away from losing it—“and getting better acquainted with your Fleshlight.”

Drew batted his eyelashes. “I’m flattered you think I can afford a Fleshlight.”

Steve did lose it then, tossing his pen at Drew and bending his head as he laughed at the table. Drew slid Steve’s tray out of the danger zone to avoid a wardrobe mishap. “Oh, screw you. God. Yeah, I can definitely react to Scotty saying that in character. And that fits right in with the rest of the scene. We should be able to paste the end back on.”

Drew nodded. “There’s just one problem.”

Steve raised his head and his eyebrows, and Drew nodded over his shoulder to where Nina was helping her grandkids get a snack. “What do you bet one of the kids asks what a Fleshlight is?”