Funny. I felt like throwing something against a wall right now. Where was this week’s script when I needed it?
By now, half the cast and crew had gathered around. Rex clapped his hands to get their attention. “Stars Collide family, please welcome our newest member, Stephen Cosse. Stephen’s just moved to L.A. from Vegas and is going to be joining the writing department. We’re fortunate to have someone of his caliber.”
“Ooo, you’re a writer.” Jana came closer, her eyelashes now batting so rapidly she looked like a helicopter coming in for a landing. “Want to pencil me into your script?” She clamped a hand over her mouth, her cheeks flaming red. “I can’t believe I said that.”
I couldn’t either. Still, Stephen didn’t seem bothered by her words. He continued to grin—that goofy, cockeyed grin—as more people joined our circle.
“Stephen’s got several years of experience as a comedy writer, so be prepared to laugh a lot when he’s around.” Rex patted him on the back and offered an encouraging smile. “If anyone can bring a smile to your face, he can.”
So far I wasn’t laughing. Couldn’t find much to laugh about on my way to the unemployment office.
“Tell us all about yourself, Stephen.” Jana’s eyes looked as if they might pop out of her head. “Since we’re going to be working together and all.”
He shrugged. “Not much to tell. I’ve been working in Vegas for the past three years as a stand-up comedian. Worked a lot of the casinos and hotels. That sort of thing.”
Wait a minute. You’re a comedian? I thought you were a writer.
I never got to pose the question. Jana let out a squeal. “Oh, I know you! You did an HBO special, right?” When he nodded, she hollered, “I saw that. It was hysterical!” She dove into a lengthy chat about how he’d made her laugh so hard she cried.
Hmm. I hadn’t seen any HBO special, so I felt pretty clueless. Still, if the guy had his own show on a major cable channel, he must not be too shabby, right? Fear wriggled its way up my spine as I contemplated the possibility that he might actually be well-known.
Thankfully, the conversation shifted. Stephen’s next words caught my attention. “I have a daughter, Brooke,” he said. “She’s not exactly a comedienne. I see more potential for drama than comedy with her.”
Every woman in the room appeared to deflate at this news. So, he had a daughter. Must be a wife in the wings. Still, no wedding band. Odd.
Not that I really cared. At this point, the only thing I wanted to do was boot this guy right out the door so I could go back to writing in peace. After spending a few more minutes staring at that handsome face, anyway. It wasn’t every day we had someone this gorgeous come through.
“Brooke is eleven,” Stephen added, then shrugged. “Well, almost twelve. She reminds me of that nearly every day now. Acts like she’s going on twenty, though, which is kind of weird. Most of the women I know try to act like they’re younger than they really are, but not this kid.”
“Hey now,” Lenora said, “age is nothing to be ashamed of.” As she smiled, the crinkles around her eyes deepened.
“My thoughts exactly,” Stephen said. “And it’s funny you brought that up. I’ve been thinking about adding more seniors to the cast.”
We’ll talk about that. As a team. In the meantime, please stop making announcements without checking with me first. Have I mentioned that I’m the head writer of this show?
At the news about the addition of seniors, Lenora’s smile broadened. “Well, I like that idea. I surely do. You’ll give me more playmates.”
At this point, Scott and Kat engaged Stephen in a lively conversation about the direction of the show, honing in on what he’d just said. I shot daggers with my eyes at my best friend, who didn’t seem to notice my angst. In fact, the only time she looked my way, she mouthed the words, “Wow, he’s so cute!” then made some sort of quirky back-and-forth gesture, indicating we’d make a great couple.
Oh no you don’t, girlfriend. I’m not dating the enemy. It’s against my policy.
Not that I really had a policy, but still. There was that whole issue of the guy who’d broken my heart years ago. A girl couldn’t be too careful when she’d already been sliced ’n’ diced by a handsome man she’d once thought to be trustworthy.
Kat pulled me off to the side, a suspicious grin on her face. “He’s the new writer?” she whispered. “Girl, this is a gift from the heavens. Don’t let it pass you by.”
“Stop it, Kat,” I whispered back. “He’s my co-worker, not my love interest.”
“Well, if I got the chance to write this script, I’d scribble him in as the Romeo to your Juliet. No doubt about it. Have you seen his eyes?”
“You’re asking me to fall in love with someone because of his eyes?”
“Not because of. But physical attraction is important. Aren’t you attracted to him at all?”
Um, yeah. I’d have to be blind not to be.
“He’s okay.” I bit my lip to keep from saying anything else and tried to look nonchalant. “Nothing to write home about.”
“Okay?” She laughed. “Nothing to write home about? You need to check your temperature, girlie. I think maybe you’re not well. Or maybe you’re just not awake yet.”
“I’m wide awake and fully in control of my senses.” Mostly.
“Then I hope your spiritual antenna is up, because my gut tells me we’ve got a winner here. He’s going to turn out to be something really special, and I don’t want you to miss it. Or, rather, miss him. Don’t let this train pass you by.”
“You can tell all of that just by looking at him?”
She nodded. “Yep. Call it discernment. Call it a hunch. This is a great guy.”
“You’re crazy.”
“Maybe, but you can mark my words. We’ve got a keeper here, and you’d better snatch him up before Nora or Jana get to work on him. You know how they are. They’re probably already making plans.”
“They can have him. Trust me.”
When Tia called the others to return to work, I took a few steps in Stephen’s direction. For the first time, I found myself alone with him. Not that he seemed to notice. No, he appeared to be overly fascinated by the camera setup. Perfect time to get some answers. Might as well dive right in.
I tried to keep my voice steady as I spoke. “So, I think I heard you say that you’re a comedian, not a writer. Did I hear that correctly?”
He turned away from the cameras and looked me in the eye. “Oh, I should have clarified. I’ve always come up with my own material, but I’ve never written for a television sitcom before. This will be my first show like this.”
“Hmm.”
“Well, that’s not completely true, I guess.” He shrugged. “We recorded a live comedy show for HBO last year, but that’s about it. Nothing like what you’re doing here.”
I turned to Rex, giving him my best “what were you thinking?” look. Not that he noticed. He’d shifted his attention to Tia and the rest of the cast and crew.
I muttered one of my mother’s favorite phrases. In Greek, of course. These undercover remarks often brought a sense of relief and calm. And besides, if I said it in Greek, no one would be any the wiser.
Stephen looked my way when I finished, his face lighting up. “Sophocles.”
“Excuse me?”
“What you just said. ‘Much wisdom often goes with fewest words.’ It originated with Sophocles. Still love hearing it in Greek, by the way. Takes me back. Every time I hear it, it reminds me of a Scripture my grandmother taught me as a kid.”
“O-oh?” He translated Greek philosophers and quoted the Bible? If my mother ever met this guy, she’d offer him our sandwich shop as a dowry.
“You know the Scripture I’m talking about, right?” Stephen’s expression grew more serious. “Even a fool is thought wise if he keeps silent, and discerning if he holds his tongue.”
Ack. I could only hope he wasn’t making a personal reference.
“So, let me get this right.” I reached to touch his arm, noticing for the first time the rock-solid biceps. Focus, Athena. “You’re . . . you’re Greek?”
“And proud of it.”
“That explains why you showed up at my parents’ place the other day.”
“Your parents’ place?” He shook his head, clearly confused. “What place?”
“They run a little sandwich shop in Van Nuys called Super-Gyros. We met when I was leaving the store.”
“Wait a minute.” He nodded. “I think I do remember. We passed each other in the doorway, right?”
“Yes.”
A knowing look came into his eyes. “You stepped on my foot.”
“See how unforgettable that move was?”
“True. You’ve got me there.” He flashed a smile so bright his teeth sparkled. Reminded me of something I’d seen once in a toothpaste commercial. “How could I forget our first meeting? You broke my big toe.”
“W-what?”
“Kidding.” He laughed. “You’re in the business of first impressions, I guess. That soccer-ball pregnancy takes the cake.”
“Yeah, well, I do my best.” What else could I say, really?
“Speaking of the sandwich shop, Rex and I are talking about going back on Saturday. Hope it works out.” He gave me a curious look. “Will you be there? I’m just not sure it would be the same if you didn’t stomp on my foot as I enter. I won’t truly feel welcome unless you do.”
“Very funny.” Maybe the guy did have a sense of humor after all. So he was a little on the sarcastic side. I’d heard worse. “I usually help out on Saturdays. My parents are pretty swamped on the weekends, so I lend a hand. From what they tell me, I’m the phyllo dough expert.”
“Me too.” The intensity in his eyes threw me a little. “I make a mean baklava.”
“Me too.” And please stop comparing your baking skills to mine. You have no idea who you’re messing with here, mister.
That white-toothed smile dazzled me once more. “We’ll have to have a contest one day.”
“Perfect.” Sucker.
“We’ll see who comes out on top.”
Ugh. That last line reminded me that he’d come to take my job. Well, potentially, anyway. If I didn’t watch my back, he might very well land on top. And I might end up in the poorhouse.
Well, not exactly the poorhouse. My parents wouldn’t kick me to the curb if I lost my job. Likely they’d throw a party. Kill the fatted calf and all that. They’d been trying to get me to work in the shop for years.
Still, I didn’t know what I’d do if I lost the ability to write for Stars Collide. Would it leave me wondering if I’d ever catch another break in this town? Cause me to reconsider my calling as a writer?
Hopefully I wouldn’t have to find out anytime soon.
I barely slept a wink over the next several nights. If network executives felt the show needed a fourth writer, there must be some reason. Didn’t they trust us? Were our jobs in jeopardy? What would I do if I lost my place as head writer? These and a thousand other questions slithered through my mind as my imagination kicked into overdrive.
Just as quickly my thoughts drifted back to Adonis. Stephen. He might be the enemy, but I couldn’t seem to find his pitchfork and horns no matter how hard I looked. How could I possibly see past those gorgeous eyes and dark hair to remember he’d come to take my job? All I wanted to do was be swept away by that dazzling smile and that piercing gaze. And what about those broad shoulders? Who could miss those?
Slow down, Athena. You don’t know that he’s come to take your job. Could be he’s just as nervous as you. This is his first sitcom gig, after all.
What was up with that, anyway? Who hired a virtual unknown for a sitcom that was number four in the ratings? Were these people crazy? They seemed to be willing to gamble with the show’s future like Vegas high rollers.
On Friday night, I reached for my laptop, pulling it into bed with me. After signing onto the internet, I typed Stephen’s name into the search engine, along with the word comedian. My heart skipped a beat when I saw that over 420 websites came up. No way. I scrolled through several and had a fast but thorough introduction to the life and times of Stephen Cosse, renowned comic. Wow. Looked like the guy had quite a following, including a fan club and a Facebook fan page. And apparently that HBO special was a huge deal among comedians and comedy lovers alike. Crazy. How come I’d never heard of him?
Easy. I’d never been to Vegas. And who had time to watch HBO when I spent my days writing sitcom scripts? I lived, ate, and breathed Stars Collide. Anything that happened outside Studio B was a mystery to me.
You need a life, Athena!
I shut down the laptop and leaned back against the pillows. When my eyes finally drifted shut, the image of Stephen’s chiseled features took center stage in my imagination. I envisioned him as a romance cover model, long dark hair blowing in the breeze. Okay, short dark hair blowing in the breeze caused by the fan some poor props guy was holding just a few feet away, while the cameraman snapped the photos.
Though I knew very little about his background or upbringing—short of what he’d told us at the studio—I could almost picture him riding in a boat down the Amazon, fighting off snakes and other wild creatures.
Shake it off, Athena. Go to sleep.
Only one problem—I couldn’t sleep. At midnight I took an over-the-counter sleeping pill. It produced zero results. At 1:10 I sat up in bed and turned on the lamp. If I couldn’t get past this, I might as well think it through logically. So what if Stars Collide had a fourth writer? So what if it happened to be another guy? I’d survived this long surrounded by males in the industry, hadn’t I? What difference would one more messy, food-consuming, stinky-footed male writer make in the grand scheme of things? Who cared that he’d had a special on HBO? These days, practically anyone could get a special on TV, right?
By 1:45 my stomach was tied up in knots. I began to wonder if perhaps I had an ulcer. By 2:30 I’d mapped out an alternative plan for my life: I’d work at my parents’ store, making baklava. Not exactly what I went to college for, but who cared? Working in a sandwich shop wasn’t the end of the world, right? With so many people out of jobs these days, I’d be fortunate to have the income. And maybe my parents wouldn’t think I was a slouch if I earned my keep by working in the shop. Of course, my mother would grumble that I hadn’t married and given her grandchildren yet, but I would jump that hurdle when I came to it. Hey, I could always adopt.
By 3:15 I’d talked myself out of the sandwich shop idea. Really, if I was as good at making phyllo dough as everyone said, why not open my own bakery? Sweets by Athena. No, too plain. Delectable Delicacies by Athena. Nah. Too long and complicated. Maybe I would come up with something later, after I rented that empty building just a few doors down from Super-Gyros and set up shop making pastries—Greek and otherwise.
Only one problem. I didn’t really know how to make anything that wasn’t Greek.
Okay then. I’d do a Greek pastry shop, specializing in the sweets I knew and loved. Maybe Mama could help me. No, she was too busy at the sandwich shop. Hmm. Maybe my sister? Or Aunt Melina. She was always looking for something to do. Of course, she was usually a little on the tipsy side, so no telling what the bakery goods would turn out like. Likely she’d load up the cupcakes with rum and sell them to customers by the dozen. The ones she didn’t eat, anyway.
At 4:20 I got up to go to the bathroom, then returned to my room and paced. What was the point in calling myself a Christian if I didn’t trust God with the finer points of my life? What a hypocrite I’d become. Maybe I just needed to pray about all of this. Give it to him. Or try to.
Moments later, I crawled back into the bed, propped up my pillows, and lit into a prayer session, bending the Almighty’s ear in my direction. He already knew my fears, of course, but I reminded him anyway, just in case he’d forgotten. And surely he realized I needed an income, right? I couldn’t go on living with
my parents forever. Well, I could, but my childhood bedroom had passed its expiration date years ago. A twenty-eight-year-old woman didn’t need to start each day by looking at Strawberry Shortcake bedsheets and wallpaper. And the little hand-painted dresser had been cute in the early nineties, but no one had furniture like that anymore. Well, no one in their late twenties.
My thoughts shifted to my fellow writers, and I prayed for them. Well, two of them, anyway. I couldn’t bring myself to pray for Stephen just yet.
Hmm. I suddenly faced a crazy temptation. Maybe I should pray that his writing skills would turn out to be lousy so that Rex would send him packing.
Nah. That would just be wrong.
Right?
By five in the morning, I’d finally fallen asleep. I dreamed that I was at the World Cup, playing soccer with the ball I’d kept hidden in my shirt. I’d just prepped myself to kick the black-and-white ball into the goal when a member of the opposing team—one who looked suspiciously like Adonis—tackled me and knocked me to the ground, then kicked the ball in a different direction. Just as quickly, the ball morphed into a baby, which he scooped up and passed off to me. I, in turn, handed it to Kat, who looked dumbfounded as the cooing infant began to cry. Still, she held on tight, eventually singing the little one a lullaby. Very, very odd.
I awoke at eight, feeling like I’d been run over by a Mack truck in the night. One glance in the mirror made me wish I had. Were those really my eyes? Who had bags like that at my age? And what was up with the drool marks on the right side of my lips? They’d crusted over in a faint little dribble. Gross. The wrinkle marks on my cheek weren’t so bad, but the red streaks in my eyes made me look like I’d spent the night mourning the loss of a loved one.
No, even grief couldn’t make me look this bad.
Mama stuck her head in my door to tell me she was leaving for the shop. After taking one look at me, she promptly declared that I must be ill.
Hello, Hollywood! Page 5
