The bartender and I make eye contact, and I wait for his eyes to widen in recognition. They don’t.
“Lager, or something stronger?”
“Do you have Guinness?”
“Sure.” He walks back to the fridge and takes out a can of Guinness.
While he’s pouring the beer into a glass, two other customers arrive. Is it my imagination, or did the dude move the potato chips rack to shield me from their view? Intentional or not, I’m glad for the makeshift screen.
Turns out it wasn’t necessary. The couple only buys a bottle of water and then hurries away. Phew.
I’m sipping my beer and waiting for the boarding announcement for my plane when the bartender comes back over to check on me. I turn down his offer of another beer. Then he asks me, “Enjoyed your visit to New York?”
Ah, so he’s the talker type. Wonderful.
“How do you know I’m not from here, and taking a trip now?” I ask.
“Slightly too healthy, natural tan to live in the city.”
True. I feel weird answering questions from strangers, so I give him a vague answer. “It was only a short trip, visiting friends.”
“I can tell New York has worked its magic on you,” the guy says, surprising me.
“How do you mean?”
“You have that look of someone who came to the Big Apple lost and is going back with a newfound purpose.”
Uncommon sixth sense, indeed. I neither confirm nor deny his observation. I only shrug.
The bartender takes the hint I’m not in the mood to talk and goes back to sorting glasses out of the dishwashers and putting them onto the shelves.
We don’t talk again until it’s time for me to leave and pay the bill. I walk up to the cash register and give the bartender my credit card.
He processes the payment, then hesitates. “Man,” he says. “You probably hate this, but can I ask you for an autograph for my sister? She’d haunt me to my grave if she knew you’d passed through my bar and I didn’t ask.”
This guy almost had me fooled; I truly believed he hadn’t recognized me. “Did you know who I was the entire time?”
“I wasn’t sure until I saw it in writing.” He flips my credit card, showing me the name part, before giving it back.
I smile. Makes sense. “What’s your sister’s name?”
“Gwen. Gwen Cooper. I’m Mark.”
“Hi, Mark.” I grab a napkin. “You have a pen?”
He gives me one, and I write my standard short dedication:
To Gwen Cooper
Love,
Christian Slade
When I’m done, the bartender takes the napkin and shifts on his feet, clearly torn. I’ve been at this game long enough to get his dilemma. It usually annoys me, but I like this guy even if I don’t know him, so I say, “You have a mother, too? Girlfriend, aunt, best friend? Which one is it?”
“Mother,” he says with a goofy smile. “Margaret.”
I pen a replica napkin for the mom and give it to him.
“Thank you, man,” Mark says. “Have a safe trip home.”
I touch two fingers to my forehead in farewell, and head to the gate.
Thankfully, my seat in first class is next to a businessman who doesn’t look like someone who has much time to watch movies. So I lower the backseat, pull a sleeping mask over my eyes, and wake up only when we touch ground in LAX.
I have no luggage besides my carry-on, so I make a quick exit. The warm LA air and Bill are the only ones waiting for me outside. My driver loads my small suitcase in the trunk, and I hop into the car, riding shotgun as he drives me home. I was never a believer in the driver-in-the-front-passenger-in-the-back riding style.
As we zip through the streets of LA, I stare up at the sky through the side window, searching for the Christiana. But without the app, I have no clue where its constellation is. I wonder what Lana is doing right now. Is she looking at the skies, seeking the same star? Our star?
My stomach flutters at the thought I’ll see her again soon. I only have to hope my plan to win her back will work… What good is being the sexiest man alive if I can’t have the only woman I want?
Twenty-one
Lana
I pick up the landline phone in my office. “Lana Voynich.”
“Lana, it’s Kelly,” the dean’s secretary says. “Mr. Roberts would like to see you.”
I wait for Kelly to give me an appointment time, but when she doesn’t, I ask, “What, right now?”
“Yes, it sounded urgent.”
“Okay.” I check my watch. “I finish office hours in fifteen minutes. I’ll come right by afterward.”
I hang up and lean back in my chair.
Mmm, the last time the dean summoned me to his office was to offer me tenure, but I doubt I’m up for another promotion again so soon. So what could it be?
I’m more filled with curiosity than worry as I knock on his office door twenty minutes later.
“Ah, Lana,” Mr. Roberts—a tall, lean man with gray hair and light-blue eyes—welcomes me. “Come in. I have wonderful news to share. Please take a seat.” He gestures to the empty chair in front of his desk.
I take it and wait to hear what this wonderful news is.
The dean crosses his hands over the desk and announces, “I’m happy to inform you that your rocket project is fully funded for the next five years.”
My jaw drops. “What? How?” My fingers prickle with excitement, and I can’t help but smile. “Was it an alumni donation?”
“Not quite, not quite. Rather unexpected, or…” He gives me an unreadable look. “…maybe not so much unexpected, given—” He stops mid-sentence and starts again, “But let’s not focus on the details. The important thing is that the project is funded, right?”
“Right,” I agree.
“So you wouldn’t mind if the donation came with a small condition attached to it.”
The man is being suspiciously casual, so I ask, “What condition?”
“The donor has requested you for a consultancy.”
“Who’s the donor?” I ask, even more on alert.
“Denouement Studios,” the dean says. “They’re filming some sort of space opera movie, and they’ve requested the university’s collaboration to make sure all the physics and space travel in the film are more-or-less realistic.”
My heart sinks and jumps at the same time, if that’s possible. I flashback to the first night I met Christian, when I stood on the doorstep saying, “Call me if you ever need an aerospace consultancy.” And he knew the rocket project was desperate for funding.
Coincidence? No, two and two only ever add up to four. Hollywood has never come knocking on our doors before. Christian has to be the one behind this unusual request.
But why?
Why now?
We broke up more than a month ago, and I haven’t heard a peep from him since the night of the crash. I’m barely starting to function as a proper human being again after the second disastrous—and, this time, really heart-shattering—breakup this year.
Why sneak back into my life now? Are he and Olivia Thornton over? There haven’t been new pictures of them in the papers for at least a week. Is that why he’s reaching out?
“Err, Lana?” The dean’s voice brings me back to his office.
“Yes?” I blush under the scrutiny of my boss.
“So, are you willing to consult for the studio?” he asks.
“Um.” I feel like a trapped animal. “Can’t somebody else from the department do it?”
“The studio has specifically requested you,” Mr. Roberts says, X-raying me with a penetrating stare that tells me my boss reads gossip magazines.
He’s still giving me the “I don’t care what the deal is between you and a certain Hollywood actor, the donation is too good an opportunity for our department to pass” look when I nod in defeat.
“Did they give you a
schedule?” I ask.
“Filming starts in one week. Kelly will work out a schedule with them around your classes and office hours. I’ll have her email it to you once it’s done. And cheer up,” the dean concludes. “This is good news.”
With a lump in my throat, I attempt a smile and get up, saying, “Of course.”
On trembling legs, I walk out of the office and rush to the library to get Marjory’s opinion on this unexpected development.
Christian
The day after we start filming The Descendant of Dawn, I’m in my trailer busy memorizing my lines when the walkie-talkie on the foldable table near the door crackles to life.
“Boss,” Penny’s voice comes all snappy and distorted from the other side. “Are you there?”
I pick up the small radio. “Present and listening, over.”
“I’ve to signal a very angry rocket scientist marching your way. She’ll be at your door in three, two—”
Penny’s voice is drowned out by the heavy knocking on the trailer’s door.
I turn off the radio, get up, and compose my features in an easygoing expression before opening the door.
Even if Penny forewarned me, nothing could’ve prepared me for the turmoil that seeing Lana for the first time in over a month spreads through my guts.
“Hi,” I say, hoping to read the same emotions on her inscrutable face. Wearing her hair down, a flowy black skirt, and a simple “There’s no planet B” T-shirt… Man, she’s beautiful.
“Hi,” she says back. And where her features were set on anger before, she seems uncertain now.
So I smile. “It’s good to see you.” Again, she looks taken aback by my friendliness. “You want to come in?”
Lana nods and climbs the few steps into the trailer. As we come face to face, I have to muster all my self-control not to close the door behind her and crush her against it in a passionate kiss. I’m dying to hug her, drop to one knee and beg her to take me back, but I know I have to play it cool for now. Assess where we stand first.
Still, I can’t help but say, “You look good.”
Sapphire eyes widen in surprise. She opens her mouth to say something, but then changes her mind.
She’s flustered.
Good. Flustered, I can work with. It’s indifference that would’ve put a nail in my heart’s coffin.
“Why?” she says.
“You said to call you if I ever needed a space consultancy. Turns out I did.”
“That was before…”
“You broke up with me?” I finish the phrase for her. Better remind her who dumped who, and why, before I try to explain Olivia. “I thought we could still be friends.”
“Friends?” She spits out the word as if it’s acid.
Even better. I don’t want to be her friend.
“Yeah, why not? The opportunity came up, and I remembered how you were so worried about the financing for the rocket project. So I asked the studio to make a donation, and I’m sure your technical insight will make the script a million times better.” I don’t tell her I’ve had a few scientific mistakes inserted on purpose for her to catch.
“The donation was very generous,” Lana concedes. I can tell she’s fighting to keep an even tone. “It will fund the project for five years. My students are thrilled.”
“Wonderful. Want to meet the woman who made it all possible?”
A buffer will help us stay civil; we’ve been alone enough for a first reunion. I can tell my being so casual about everything is infuriating her, and whatever explosive mix is boiling inside Lana’s head, I prefer not to face it alone.
“Sure,” she says curtly, and precedes me out of the trailer.
Lana
Friends.
Ah!
I count to ten, but counting to a hundred wouldn’t help me calm down right now. As I follow Christian around the set, I’m simmering with suppressed rage.
Oh, so now he wants us to be friends.
First, he makes me fall for him without telling me who he really is. Then, he drags me into his crazy life. And when I panic for a second, he forgets about me in a few hours.
But now Christian remembers I exist, and he wants to be friends. And I can’t even hate him for convincing the studio to hire me because with his gesture he’s helping kids learn.
Still, how long will I be able to withstand this torture? To be near him without being able to touch, kiss, or even hug him. To be the friendly ex while the new girlfriend visits him on set.
I swear that if I see Olivia here, I won’t be responsible for my actions.
As we walk across the stages, I’m so lost in my own thoughts that when Christian stops walking, I almost bump into him, face to back. But thank goodness I’m able to stop with an inch to spare.
Christian waves to attract the attention of a tall, sleek blonde who’s busy talking into a headset. The woman, dressed in a black pencil skirt suit with a straight, shoulder-length bob without a hair out of place and high stiletto heels, looks like she means business.
When she spots Christian, she taps the mic once. “I have to go now, Pier, but keep me informed on any new developments.” Then, with a big smile, she walks toward us. “Christian.”
“Samantha, allow me to introduce you to Lana.”
“Ah.” Her brown eyes turn to me with keen interest, only to flick back to Christian—What’s with the look?—and back to me again. “What a pleasure to finally meet you,” she says. “Christian has told me amazing things about you. We’re thrilled to have you on board.”
Did he now?
I throw him an uncertain stare, then turn to Samantha. “Thank you for sponsoring our rocket project; your donation will go a long way with the kids.”
Samantha waves me off. “Oh, please, the publicity alone will repay the investment—” She stops abruptly and presses her hand to her left ear. “Yes?” she says into the mic. “Yes, he’s here, I’ll send him your way.” Then, looking up at Christian, she adds, “You’re needed at hair and makeup. You can leave Lana with me, I’ll show her around.”
With half a grin and a mock bow, Christian says, “Ladies,” and goes on his way.
And if it upset me to see him again, watching him go is ten times worse.
To preserve a shred of my mental health, I hope my involvement with this production will be a short affair. I still don’t really even understand what they want me to do.
“So, Lana, let me give you the tour.” Samantha links her arm with mine and guides me toward a squat, rectangular building with no windows. “Unfortunately, there’s not much to see here, as we’re mostly shooting our VFX scenes in LA.”
“Oh, where’s the rest of the production?”
“Vancouver, but don’t worry, we won’t ask you to follow us there. You should be able to do everything from here.”
“And what is it exactly I’m doing?”
Samantha pulls the heavy-looking metal door to the building open and shows me inside. “To start, we’d like you to review the script and tell us what you think.”
We enter a dark room, which looks like the command deck of a spaceship surrounded by acid green walls.
“Isn’t it too late to change the story if you’ve already started filming?” I ask.
“We’re still transitioning from the pre-production phase, really, certain things had to be rushed…” she says with the tone of someone who hates rushing things and had her hand forced on the matter. “And we’re not asking for a developmental edit, anyway. Just a final technical pass to make sure all the scientific details are in order.”
“Am I searching for something in particular?”
“Anything that stands out as weird or scientifically inaccurate.”
“Aren’t spaceships inaccurate per se?” I ask. “Is the movie set in a hypothetical future? How can I tell what futuristic technology is plausible and what’s not?”
“Devil’s in the details.” Sam
antha’s smile falters; guess she isn’t used to getting the third degree from her employees. She looks like a woman who asks the questions as opposed to answering them. “The story takes place in a fantasy universe; but, for example, we kept the military ranking consistent with the US armed forces and hired an expert to check there weren’t any inconsistencies. Same goes for you: we just want to make sure we aren’t breaking too many laws of physics. Like having a ship make a big boom when it explodes in space.”
That she knows the vacuum of space wouldn’t carry sounds surprises me. Finally, a language I understand.
“Makes sense,” I say. “So, what’s the movie about?”
“An evil villain tries to conquer the galaxy, and a redemption story arc where our renegade hero pilot saves the world. While falling in love, of course.”
My throat fills with acid greener than the walls. Will I have to witness Christian getting all smoochy on set with another impossibly beautiful actress while I’m here?
Samantha points at the stage. “This is the main ship’s command deck, where—” Again, she stops speaking mid-sentence to press a hand to her ear. “Come again… No… Yes… No, don’t… I’ll be right there.” Then to me, “Sorry, Lana, I have to cut the tour short.” She ushers me back out of the building. “We weren’t able to provide you with your personal trailer, but Christian said you can use his to work, if that’s okay with you?”
And I hate myself because the first thing that pops into my head is: Is there a bed in the trailer?
Then I sober up and ask, “If I have to read the script, can’t I do it from home?”
At my question, fear flashes behind Samantha’s eyes, a reaction that makes little sense. “No, sorry.”
A lie, I can’t help thinking. But why? Why would she want to keep me here at all costs?
So I ask her, “Why not?”
“We… err…” Then her expression changes from worried and uncertain back to her confident, down-to-business smile. “The script is still confidential, of course. We couldn’t risk having it leaked.” Then, putting a hand forward, she continues, “And I’m not saying you’re not trustworthy, it’s… mmm… the studio’s policy to have no copies leave the premises.”
To the Stars and Back: A Glittering Romantic Comedy (First Comes Love Book 4) Page 17
