Chapter Seventeen

 

 

AFTER that inauspicious beginning to the day, Drew shouldn’t have been surprised their first scene was a mess.

The scene would only end up being a minute long. It barely had dialogue. The blocking should have been a breeze.

Of course, all that went to hell when the script called for you to kiss your introvert boyfriend on camera. Oh, and it doubly went to hell when you skipped forward to a scene you hadn’t had time to rehearse because you had planned to film something else today instead.

When Nina called action, Steve was supposed to follow Drew at a dead sprint down a hotel corridor. Drew would be one corner ahead of him and turn out of sight, then reach out and grab Steve as he went by to try to make their pursuers run past them. Only Steve would stumble—right into Drew’s arms, where they’d lock eyes. Then Drew would kiss him, only for a sound down the hallway to interrupt before the kiss could deepen.

What actually happened when Nina called action was that they ran, Drew reached out for Steve’s arm, missed, and Steve kept going down the hall.

“Cut,” Nina said flatly over Drew and Steve’s giggles. Even Mel, who was manning the camera in the alcove with Drew, cracked a grin.

“Your aim sucks,” Steve chirped.

“You ran too fast!” Drew complained.

Nina sighed so loud they could hear her plainly from fifty yards. “Reset.”

On the second take, Drew successfully caught Steve’s arm, but they overbalanced and careened into the wall.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Drew said breathlessly—literally; Steve had him pinned so he could hardly inhale.

“Cut!”

Things went downhill from there.

The third run-through, Drew thought it was going to click. Everything felt right in the lead-up: their footfalls were in sync, he caught Steve’s arm firmly, they managed to balance without wrecking the camera shot.

Their eyes locked.

Drew moved his hand to the back of Steve’s neck.

All according to the script.

But when he pulled Steve in for the kiss, Steve balked like a spooked horse and wouldn’t lean in.

Drew tried not to take it personally, but, well. Ouch.

He didn’t wait for Nina this time. “Cut.” He let go of the back of Steve’s neck, which had gone hot under his touch. Something told him this was only the beginning of their problems.

Steve took a step back, avoiding Drew’s gaze. That sealed it.

“Can we take five?” Drew asked.

Nina put down her notes and waved him off, which meant Deal with your shit. Super.

Drew grabbed the Perrier one of the production assistants held out for him and led the way to their trailer. Steve followed.

So did the eyes of the crew.

Well, if they were being watched, Drew would make sure it was a good show. He walked into the trailer, taking a few long strides to ensure Steve would have room behind him.

When the door banged shut, Drew turned around. Steve didn’t have much of a poker face off the set, and right now he looked like a dog expecting a kick.

Drew took two steps toward him, mentally asked Will’s forgiveness for the wardrobe infraction, fisted his hand in Steve’s shirt, and yanked him into a kiss.

The trailer door gave a hearty clack as Steve knocked against it. Drew crowded in, gentling his mouth, waiting for Steve to respond. And then finally he did, tension bleeding from his body as he exhaled through his nose and settled his hands almost hesitantly on Drew’s waist.

Drew kept kissing him, remembering that night at the house, how Steve had kissed him and kissed him until he was almost sore. They didn’t have time for that now, but he wanted—needed—to remind him how good that was.

He reached up to cradle the back of Steve’s neck, then stopped himself and pulled away because he wanted to put his hand in Steve’s hair, and that would mean another trip to Makeup.

Steve blinked at him with soft, dazed blue eyes.

“I’m not going to kiss you like that in front of people,” Drew said, hoping he’d correctly identified the problem. “In case that’s what you’re worried about.”

Steve flushed.

Yeah, Drew thought so.

“I know we’re never going to have very much privacy,” Steve said haltingly. Drew hid a wince at how true that was. “I shouldn’t have written the scene knowing I’d have to act in it.”

“It’s not a real kiss.” Drew had kissed plenty of people on camera and not meant it. On-screen kisses were meant to look good. Even he didn’t generally find them sexy, and he’d been accused of exhibitionism on more than one occasion. “It’s not you and me. Okay?”

Steve wrinkled his nose. The skin around his eyes was pinched. Not convinced, then.

“Here.” Drew took a step back and reached for Scotty. “We haven’t had time to rehearse this scene yet. Let me put your mind at ease.”

Steve rubbed his forearm for a second, then closed his eyes.

It took a moment—no fluid transition between Steve and Morgan here. Not like that day in the casting room. But it had already been a trying day, and Steve was in his own head. Of course he’d have a hard time getting into Morgan’s.

He did, though, and when he opened his eyes again, Drew saw Morgan’s years of careful repression layered over them.

Good.

Drew reached behind his neck, and his eyes widened, but he didn’t resist.

Drew kissed him—except he didn’t really. Scotty wouldn’t kiss Morgan for the first time the way Drew kissed Steve, easy and passionate and casually intimate. Scotty had only just realized he wanted to kiss Morgan at all. It was all impulse, no substance, with little beneath the surface except the shock of his own discovery. A hard press of lips, and then a pause as Scotty realized what he was doing. Enough time for Morgan to telegraph to the audience he wanted more.

The second Steve’s posture relaxed into Drew’s touch, Drew broke away.

“Okay,” Steve said a second later. “Okay. I get it. Not romantic.”

“Nope.” Drew took a step back and straightened Steve’s shirt. Not too bad. He might even escape without Will’s interference. “And for future reference? It gets exponentially less sexy with each take.”

“Can’t wait,” Steve deadpanned.

Of course, they still had to do it in front of people.

They walked back to set shoulder to shoulder and found their marks. Nina raised an eyebrow, but Drew just shrugged her off. Time would tell if their break had made a difference.

This time they nailed the blocking… right up until Drew tugged Steve a little too hard and their foreheads knocked together. Ow.

He stared at Steve from half an inch away, daring him to make a comment, half a second away from laughing at the futility of the whole thing.

Then the corner of Steve’s mouth quirked up, close enough Drew could feel it, and he planted a showy, unsexy kiss on Drew’s lips anyway.

Someone catcalled, and there was a smattering of laughter and applause. Eventually Steve pulled away and bowed, his cheeks and ears red.

“Cut,” Nina said for the zillionth time, but she was laughing too.

“Writers and their ad-libbing,” Drew faux grumbled, jabbing Steve with his elbow. Steve smiled back, a little green but okay, Drew thought. Baby steps. They were going to be fine.

 

 

THE kissing scene needed only one more take, but sadly, the day’s trials didn’t end there. Drew spent half his time between shots on the phone, trying to sort out the dog situation. They had only rehearsed about half of what they’d moved up to shoot today, and it showed in the number of takes needed for each scene.

Steve’s mood grew progressively more sour as the day wore on. Drew watched it happening, figured he was part of the problem, but he couldn’t do anything about it.

It was sort of a theme for the day.

He’d returned Grace’s call to have her contact a few other animal talent agencies and see if anyone could help them out. So far no luck. They were filming the scenes they could, but Drew was starting to worry. They couldn’t finish the film without a dog. At least not without yet another major rewrite. Until they figured things out, spirits were low and tensions were high, and Steve withdrew into himself a little more every time the cameras stopped.

Drew figured he’d done something wrong, but he wasn’t sure exactly what or how to fix it.

By the time the afternoon light had faded enough that they had to call it a day, Drew was concerned. “Drive back with me in the Rover?” he asked, motioning to his vehicle, which they’d parked down the street several blocks from where they were filming.

Steve nodded wordlessly and followed him back.

But once they were inside, Drew didn’t put the car in gear right away. He started the engine to run the air conditioner, thankful he’d found a spot in the shade, and waited for words to come—his or Steve’s, he wasn’t sure.

His own came first. “Are you mad at me?”

Steve raised his head and met Drew’s eyes for the first time off-camera in what felt like hours. “What? No.” He seemed genuinely surprised and alarmed Drew would think so. “No,” he repeated. “I’m just… thinking, I guess. I’m not mad, I promise. I’m in my head a little.”

Drew had a feeling Steve was holding back, but he didn’t think the car was a good place to push. Besides, the cast and crew had booked a local restaurant for dinner. They’d feel better after they ate. At least he hoped so.

They drove in silence back to the hotel, and Drew handed over the keys to have the Rover valeted. Steve followed him out of the car, still lost in his own head.

And then a shiny black BMW X6 squealed into the parking lot.

There was only one valet attendant, which was probably a blessing, because it meant only Drew and Steve were there to hear when Marla Stone stormed out of her car, slammed the door, and half shouted, “I’m going to sue that limp-dicked, hairy-assed little weasel!” gesturing at the sky the whole while.

In her youth, Marla had shining auburn hair, sharp cheekbones, fair skin, and a commanding presence. Her first role of ingénue had turned quickly to that of femme fatale, and that was a mantle she still wore well at seventysomething. She obviously colored her hair, but she stood straight, and her movements spoke of a woman half her age.

So, Drew thought bemusedly, did her vocabulary.

Steve’s mouth dropped open. “…Mom?”

“Hello, darling,” she said, some of the frost in her posture melting as she patted Steve’s cheek. “I hope you don’t mind we stopped by to vent.”

Steve blinked at her. Drew, also not particularly prone to speechlessness, could think of nothing to say, even to introduce himself.

“We?” Steve said.

Marla opened the passenger-side door and unclipped a pretty pink leash from the seat belt. Rita hopped out and went straight for Steve, fluffy tail wagging madly.

The dark cloud that had been following Steve most of the day blew off, and he grinned unfettered as he knelt to lavish her with pets.

Drew forgot to police himself watching him, which meant he had a really dumb, sappy smile on his face when Steve’s mother turned her attention to him.

Oops. “Um,” he said. Crap, was he going to blush too? How embarrassing. “Hi.” How should he address her? Mrs. Stone? Marla? Mrs. Steve’s Mom? He had never done the meet-the-parents thing. He decided to skip it. “Drew Beaumont. Nice to meet you.” He held out his hand.

Marla took off her sunglasses and regarded him shrewdly with clear blue eyes. Then she extended her empty hand and smiled, showing off a number of smile lines. “The pleasure is mine. Call me Marla.”

“Marla.” He smiled. She had a firm grip. “I hope—oof!”

Rita planted her paws in his chest in a blatant demand for attention. “Sorry,” Drew said to Marla, trying to get Rita to put four feet on the ground. “I think I encouraged some bad habits.”

“Nonsense. I’m happy she likes you. She’s very particular. And, as it turns out, a better judge of character than I am.”

Steve found his voice again. “I’m assuming Rico is the limp-dicked, hairy-assed little weasel in question. Thanks for that visual, by the way, Mom.”

Rita got her fill of Drew’s attention and dropped to stand at Marla’s side. Marla rolled her eyes and put her sunglasses back on. “Obviously. Next time I meet a new boyfriend, I’ll have Rita vet him first.”

“What did he do?”

“Oh, you know that gallery we were supposed to open together. Well, apparently he’s decided that the legal arrangement we signed shouldn’t apply now that I’ve kicked him to the curb.”

Drew had only known Marla for thirty seconds, and he couldn’t imagine crossing her. Rico was either dumber than a box of hammers or he had balls like coconuts. “Tell us about it over dinner?” he invited. “We’re supposed to go out with the cast and crew, but I think they’ll understand if we ditch. Or you could come with?”

“Now that’s the best invitation I’ve gotten all day.”

 

 

THEY spent a pleasant few hours at a shady restaurant patio a few streets over from the crew’s chosen haunt, Rita curled up under the table. Steve relaxed more with every passing moment until he was smiling, leaning back in his chair, his legs stretched out in front of him. He looked good like that. Despite the audience—and the fact that the audience was Steve’s mother—Drew found it hard to tear his gaze away.

Marla noticed, if the looks she shot Drew’s way were any indication. And she confirmed it when Steve excused himself to go to the washroom and she leaned forward and put her hand on Drew’s wrist. “I like you,” she said. “And my son is besotted. But if you’re not good to him, I’ll make your life hell. What I do to you will make what I’m going to do to Rico in court look kind and compassionate. Understood?”

Drew swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.”

But even with that frightening interlude, dinner was fun. Marla had made a career of being personable, and she was easy to talk to and adept at steering the conversation where she wanted it to go. Drew happily went along for the ride as they swapped stories about making movies, nightmare directors, and Steve’s childhood antics.

He was in the middle of explaining their current dilemma with Dog Gone when he paused and looked under the table. Rita peered up at him from her back, gravity pulling her upper lip into a ridiculous smile.

Drew sat back in his chair and turned his attention to Steve. “Hey. Does Rita have silver screen ambitions, by any chance?”

“Well, she was found on a TV set.” Steve quirked up a lip. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

“She’s perfect for the part,” Drew pointed out. “Husky, Finnish Lapphund. Call it creative license.”

“She doesn’t exactly have formal training. A lot of dogs get anxious in new situations.”

“It might not work.” Drew shrugged. “But you’ll be with her the whole time. If you think she’s uncomfortable or unhappy, we’ll wait on filming the dog scenes until we can find the right dog for the job.”

Steve looked at Marla. “What do you think? Can we borrow Rita for a few days?”

All things considered, by the time Drew and Steve said goodbye to Marla and Rita, Drew was feeling pretty good. Steve seemed to be in a better mood, they had potentially solved a major production hurdle, and he had a full belly of good if simple food.

But while Steve showered off the day’s grime, Drew couldn’t stop thinking. Having dinner with Steve and his mom was nice. Drew and Marla got along well and didn’t have any egregious ego clashes or—and Drew was glad of this because he’d worried a little—feel the need to upstage each other. The three of them fit. They felt like family.

And now he couldn’t help but wonder what it might be like to take Steve home to meet his.

Would Steve and Sarah get along? They were both introverts; it would take them some time to get to know each other well. What about Drew’s father? Did he and Steve have anything in common? Drew could hardly remember if his dad liked to grill, it had been so long since he’d been home. What about Sarah’s boyfriend? Would he and Drew like each other? What if Steve fit better in Drew’s family than Drew did? And why did it suddenly matter?

He could imagine Steve relaxing in the backyard with Brit, who’d just finished her English Lit degree, debating the finer points of writing or a play or novel. Sarah and Mom would boss Dad around in the kitchen until everything was prepared and plated to their liking.

But where was Drew? He wouldn’t have anything to add to Steve and Brit’s conversation, and in the kitchen he’d only get in the way.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Steve said, stepping out of the bathroom. He ran a towel over his hair. His boxer briefs clung enticingly to his body.

Drew pulled his gaze up to Steve’s face. “Sorry. I was just….” Fantasizing about taking you home to my parents when you’ve never even seen my apartment. He sighed. “You know I still haven’t called my mom back?”

Steve crossed to the bed and sat next to him. “What’s the holdup?” He smoothed his palms together and then scratched his upper arm. Anxious.

Drew had best tread carefully.

“I don’t know. I guess I wonder if….” He made a face. “I’ve been gone for so long I don’t know if I belong there anymore. They’re getting along fine without me. They have their own lives.”

Steve swung his feet up on the bed and turned toward him. “That doesn’t mean they don’t want you in them.”

True. But that was just the lead-in. He took a deep breath. “I know that. And I’m going to call. I want to tell my family about you. You’re important.”

Steve’s cheeks went pink, and he bit his lip. “So what’s the problem?”

Feeling awkward, Drew lifted a shoulder. He couldn’t believe he’d made it to this point in his life without doing this, but—“I’ve never told my parents about someone I’m dating before.”

“What, really?”

Drew gestured aimlessly. “Well, for years it was nothing but hookups—I wasn’t exactly going to write home to Mom and Dad ‘that actor from that show you like let me stick it in’!”

Steve choked out a laugh. “I’m gonna ask you who that was. Later, though. But I swear it’s not that hard.”

“Says the guy who talks to his mom every day.”

“Point taken.”

Drew rubbed his forehead. “That’s not all either. I sort of….” Out with it, he told himself. “I told you I’ve been thinking about going to spend some time there when I get a break from filming.” He inhaled deeply. “Do you want to come?”

For a heartbeat Steve froze, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. Then his flush deepened and a shy smile crept onto his face. “You want me to meet your family?”

“I may not be sure what they think of me after all these years,” Drew said, lacing their fingers together, “but they’re going to love you.”

I do.

The realization should have surprised him—probably should have terrified him. It had been so long since he’d felt this way. But it was the most natural, logical thing in the world.

“You think?”

“I know.”