Not in the Script

by Amy Finnegan

Jake Elliott @onlyhre4thefood

  @actorincognito And yet I still look better than you. #gofigure

  Brett Crawford @actorincognito

  Hey lady friends! Go say hello to my new #CoyoteHills castmate @onlyhre4thefood! He’s single! #pleaseretweet

  That isn’t the worst of it: along with this last tweet, Brett attached Jake’s Armani ad with the cowboy chaps, then posted several more of Jake’s ads with the same message.

  “My, my,” I tell him. “You’ve got some very aggressive fangirls.”

  Jake takes his phone away. “I don’t think this is what Vicky meant by ‘friendly banter.’ ”

  “It’s exactly what she meant.” I step away from the table to check on the peach cobbler. Jake follows me, and I have this crazy urge to reach back for his hand. But I don’t, of course. “Ready for dessert?”

  “Yep. It smells delicious.”

  That’s when I notice the oven clock. “Oops, I forgot! My dad’s gonna call you any minute.”

  Jake stands perfectly still and silent. Then, “Huh?”

  “Sorry! I meant to tell you earlier,” I say, and grab Jake by the shoulders. For a beautifully tanned Arizona boy, his face is looking pretty pale right now. “Relax. I told him that you want a business degree, but have to do most of it distance ed. That’s all. So he’s just going to give you some ideas on how to juggle the course work.”

  “Because he’s a dean?” Jake’s confused expression is sort of adorable.

  “Of the College of Business. At the University of Arkansas.”

  He smiles. “You’ve never mentioned the business part of that.”

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to until he agreed to give you some advice.”

  Jake’s cell rings and the sound startles me like a freight train just blasted through my kitchen. But it’s perfect timing because my hands are still on his shoulders, and his own hands have somehow found their way to my waist.

  And I want them there.

  Jake

  Only a father with some serious parental instincts could sense when a guy is eyeing his daughter the way I’m looking at Emma, hundreds of miles away from him. Why else would he pick that very second to call? But Mr. Taylor has nothing to worry about. When my cell rings, Emma steps away from me—fast. I clear my throat and answer, “Hello, this is Jake.”

  “Jake, Bob Taylor. Emma told me you want to be a businessman.”

  Brisk and to the point. I straighten up. “Yes, Mr. Taylor. Thanks for calling.”

  Emma snickers at my formality, so I lightly step on her foot as I walk off to her living room. For the next fifteen minutes, Mr. Taylor fires questions at me, I try to come up with impressive answers, and then he gives his opinion on what I should focus on first. At the end of the conversation, he says I can call whenever I need “further assistance.” I thank him for his time, and he tells me, “Happy to help. Good luck.”

  And that’s it.

  I return to the kitchen to find Emma scooping peach cobbler onto some plates. “Your dad had some great advice,” I say. “Thanks for thinking of that. Really.”

  Emma hesitates before she replies. “He didn’t give you his lecture about acting only being a career for the narcissistic, did he?”

  “Well, yeah,” I lie. “But I just said, ‘I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you. I was talking to myself.’ ”

  Emma laughs and hands me a plate of cobbler. The ice cream on the side is already melting from the heat. I mix it all together and shovel a huge spoonful into my mouth. “Dang,” I say after a few seconds in heaven. “Does my mom pay you to be nice to me? Dinner, the call from your dad, and now this?”

  Our eyes meet, and Emma smiles. “I can’t help but feel sorry for a guy who doesn’t have much going for him.”

  I tug on a lock of her hair. What I really want to do is kiss her.

  McGregor is steaming mad. We’re filming on the classroom set when A-10 fighter jets start flying over the studio into Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, and they aren’t just a sound issue, they’re making the cameras shake. The scheduling guy tries to defend the oversight, saying that he’s dealing with the military, who doesn’t find it a top priority to inform a television studio of its every move.

  “Well, why not?” McGregor snaps at him. “I didn’t become a US citizen for nothing!”

  That’s when we’re told to chill somewhere off set until we can resume filming. Emma and I end up in Brett’s dressing room, eating an early lunch while Brett tells us about some of the strangest stuff he’s seen in his nearly two decades in the entertainment industry. And things turn a little crazy when he gets to the story of Mr. Piddles, the cat.

  “We worked together in Southside Runaway,” Brett says. “So I’d have to act all nuts while I told this cat my life story, right? Like how my character left an abusive home, joined a gang, became an addict—all this dark stuff. But the cat’s real owner, Gustave, who insisted on being on set with the animal wrangler, kept bursting into tears, so we’d have to stop filming. Gustave would then rush over to Mr. Piddles, stroke him, and say”—Brett imitates a heavy French accent here—“ ‘Ahh, you mus’ stop deez ’orrible talk! My ’iddle pussycat eez too upset!’ ”

  “Seriously?” I say. “Mr. Piddles licks his own backside.”

  “Oh no, not this cat. Mr. Piddles had a litter box that was covered by a blue satin tent. And when he’d done his business, he’d strut out from under the tent, and Gustave would clean him off with warm rose water and a washcloth.”

  Emma laughs so hard that her plate full of salad, chips, and a sloppy joe sandwich slips off her lap and lands face down on Brett’s dressing room floor. Between gasps, she says, “Why … would … anyone name a cat Mr. Piddles and then treat him like a princess?”

  While she tries to catch her breath, I start cleaning up the mess.

  Brett tosses me his napkin. “Gustave said he rescued Mr. Piddles from a shelter and kept the name to prevent an identity crisis. When I suggested that the name probably came from the cat piddling all over his former owner’s home, Gustave actually slapped me.”

  “Sometimes you deserve to be slapped,” Emma says, still laughing. Then she notices me cleaning up and drops to her knees. “Thanks, but I’ll get it.”

  Her spilled plate could almost go unnoticed in here. Junk is scattered all over Brett’s floor—scripts, fan mail, candy wrappers. The cleaning crew probably has to wear hazmat suits.

  “Poor Mr. Piddles,” I say, still helping Emma.

  She sneaks me a smile that could melt an icecap.

  “Don’t worry, he had therapy,” Brett says, munching on his chips and spraying crumbs as he talks. “A therapist called every day, one o’clock sharp, on Mr. Piddles’s cell phone. Yep, that cat had his very own cell.”

  Now I know he’s joking. “You’re making this up.”

  “I’m not.” Brett turns to the laptop on his desk. “I’ll prove it.” A few minutes later, we’re all staring in awe at Mr. Piddles’s personal website. He looks like a plain black cat—other than the fact that he’s sitting on a powder-blue pillow with silver fringe and resting snugly in a cast chair. Scrolled across the backrest in glittering calligraphy, it says Mr. Piddles.

  I also notice what appears to be a bejeweled cell phone tucked under the cat’s paw. “Wow. Nothing in Hollywood can shock me now.”

  “Just wait until you work in feature films with some ‘up-and-coming’ big shots,” Emma says. “They’re usually worse than those who actually are stars.”

  “Kimmi Weston, for example,” Brett adds. He snatches up a mini-football and tries to spin it on his finger. “She won’t be around long, though. Most actors who are prettily packaged but talentless never last.”

  “Don’t bet on it,” says Emma. “She is talented, and McGregor has high hopes for her.”

  “Yeah? Well, I hope she steps in front of a truck,” Brett replies with a menacing smile. His effort to get along with Kimmi seems all but forgotten lately. “Why are you so nice
to her, anyway? She walks all over you.”

  Emma shrugs. “What’s the harm in pretending like I don’t understand her snide remarks? Catfights only make things worse. Besides, it’s fun to play naive.”

  “So you’re … acting?” I ask. Something about this doesn’t sit well.

  “Why not?” Emma replies. “You do it in real life, right, Brett? Every once in a while?”

  Brett puts on a pitch-perfect face of a guy who’s never even considered it. “Why would I want to be anyone but myself?” he says, and I can’t help but think right then that Brett Crawford isn’t an award-winning actor for nothing. He might even be smarter than he acts.

  Emma laughs. “Do you really want me to answer that question?”

  “Only if you sit on my lap while you tell me,” Brett replies.

  “Sorry,” Emma says, “but I’ve gotta run and get more food to dump on your floor.”

  “Me too!” I follow her out.

  “Hey!” Brett calls after us. “Grab me another napkin.”

  I peek back into his dressing room. “How about a washcloth and rose water?”

  He chucks the football at me. “How ’bout I tell the tabloids you’ve traded in your leather chaps for pretty dresses?”

  “Oh! You’d look great in a strapless!” Emma says as she strolls off. Lacking a comeback for either, I shoot the football at Brett’s head and run to catch up. “But, seriously, if you ever do give up your cowboy chaps, I want them,” Emma adds. “They’d go for a fortune on eBay.”

  “Yeah?” I ask. “I bet you already sold the silverware I used the other night.”

  Emma gasps. “How did you know?”

  I lean closer. “Paparazzi … they’re everywhere.”

  She tries to trip me. “Now you’re being mean.”

  “You weren’t just making fun of me?”

  “Nah. I know you’d never give up your chaps.”

  We have to stop flirting once we leave the empty hallway. The sloppy joes have been replenished, and now there’s a massive tower of fruit, a cheese tray, and a platter of brownies. There are a few more tables too, with chicken, fish, and vegan choices. How can actors be expected to stay in shape with so much food around a studio?

  Kimmi steps between us at the table.

  “Hey, you’re off the phone!” Emma says, all cheery. “We’re hanging out in Brett’s dressing room, discussing the sad plight of the male model. You should join us.”

  “Who’d want to miss that?” Kimmi replies.

  When we get back to Brett’s dressing room, he’s throwing darts. “You throw like a sissy,” I tell him. “Give me those.” I take his darts away, step back another foot from where he stands, and let a dart fly. It doesn’t hit dead center, but it’s pretty darn close.

  “I’ll give you fifty bucks if you can do that again,” Brett says.

  “I’ll do it for free.” I throw another dart, and it hits the bull’s-eye.

  Emma whistles. Brett slaps me on the back. “That’s insane!”

  “I’m not surprised,” Kimmi says. “Jake hits every target he aims at. In modeling, he became a hot item in like, what, a few months? Then he landed a job the rest of us needed years of training for. And don’t forget his gift with women. Have you spent much time with your waitress friend, Jake, or was that just a one-night thing?”

  She knows nothing about me. I’ve worked my butt off to be good at whatever I do, and if life ever starts feeling too easy, the rug always gets ripped out from under my feet. But I don’t care to explain that to Kimmi. And we met that waitress months ago, so why bring it up now?

  “I left that restaurant thirty seconds after you did,” I reply. “Alone.”

  “Interesting,” she says. “Then who do you spend all your time with?”

  Kimmi’s eyes shift, and she gives Emma a thin, poisonous smile that makes my skin crawl. That’s why she brought up the waitress—to see Emma’s reaction in front of me.

  She knows about us.

  Everyone is silent for a good four seconds, but Emma doesn’t flinch. “Sorry, Kimmi,” she finally says. “Nothing exciting to report on this side of the room.”

  Brett has gone straight from laughing to looking seriously pissed. He does like Emma, but I have to be careful how I talk to Emma about it. She’ll never give me a chance if she thinks I’ll just be another possessive creep like Troy.

  “You know what?” Brett says. “We were having a blast in here before Kimmi showed up. I can hardly wait for our Labor Day trip to Lake Tahoe. Three whole days with the Ice Queen!”

  Emma flicks the center of his forehead. “Play nice, Brett. You two are like kids fighting over a tricycle.”

  Kimmi snickers. “Yeah, Brett, grow up.”

  “She wasn’t just talking to me,” he says.

  “Whatever.” Kimmi opens the door. “I have to call Payton. I’m inviting some of my own friends to Tahoe, so he needs to book an extra houseboat.”

  Once she’s gone, Brett shuts the door and bangs his head against it, popping off a curse word with each hit. He finally ends his R-rated rant with, “I can’t believe Kimmi and Payton are actually dating!” He looks over at Emma. “Please, I’m begging you, come to Tahoe. I’m gonna die if you don’t … no, it will be Kimmi who dies, because I’m gonna push her overboard.”

  Emma laughs. “When the police ask, I’ll be sure to tell them that I’ve never heard you fantasize about Kimmi’s death. Twice, just today.”

  “Please, you’ve gotta come. I’ll do anything.” Brett is right in her face.

  She backs away. “I’ve already told you. I have plans.”

  Yep, she does. Emma is spending a day with my mom that weekend, talking over ideas for her foundation while they work on the unfinished quilt.

  “What’s so important that you won’t cancel?” Brett asks. “If you have a secret boyfriend, you better tell me before word gets out. I need to be ready to look like a brokenhearted sap.”

  Emma tilts her head. “You know, Brett, that’s tempting—it would be hilarious to see you stumble through a role like that—but I’m trying to start up a charity foundation, and that takes priority over sunbathing.”

  “Oh. Boring,” he replies. “Then, Jake, you should come with me.”

  “Thanks, but I can’t. I already have plans with my own buddies—we play in a basketball tournament every Labor Day weekend.”

  “Whatever. Then I’ll have to talk Payton out of taking Kimmi,” Brett says as he tosses the door open. Then he slams it shut, and Emma and I make eye contact.

  We’re alone, which rarely happens on set.

  “This is convenient,” I say, gathering some darts. “We’ve got a few details for Phoenix to work out.” I take aim and get a dart off, but it’s a few inches from the center. “I’m thinking you should just stay the whole weekend.” Another dart. Closer. “There’s no way you and my mom can get that quilt done in just one day. And you guys have a lot of foundation stuff to discuss.”

  Bull’s-eye.

  Emma is smiling up at me with a hand on her hip, so I know something sassy is on its way. “Running together is one thing,” she says. “Dinner was pushing it. But spending three days with you in Phoenix? Hello? That would be a pretty major date.”

  “Eh, I don’t know about that,” I say as I pluck darts out of the board. “I’ll be playing basketball pretty much the whole time, and you’ll have a quilting needle in your hand. Just how close do you think I’ll want to get to you?” Emma is still smiling, but now she’s shaking her head. “I’ll stay in a hotel, and you can stay at my mom’s,” I offer. “How’s that?”

  “No way. If anything, I would stay in a hotel.”

  I can’t believe I’m getting somewhere. “Trust me, Emma. My mom would rather have you as her guest than me. I eat too much and I make a mess.”

  Emma snatches a dart. “Then when would we even … hang out, or whatever?”

  Her first dart hits the wall, and I bite back laughter. “I gue
ss if you really want to, we can do something between, uh … my last game of the day and when I go to a hotel?”

  My team rarely makes it past the first couple of games in the tournament, but Emma doesn’t need to know that.

  “Depends on what you have in mind.” She takes aim again and hits the door.

  “How about dinner and a movie?” I ask. “Then cuddling on the couch while we watch late-night TV?”

  She laughs. “Yeah, sure. Because that’s nothing like a date.”

  “Okay, fine. I’ll settle for half of that.” I hand her one last dart and jump out of the danger zone. “No movie. And we can skip dinner too.”

  Emma

  Labor Day takes forever getting here, but once it comes around, I’m so nervous to spend the weekend in Phoenix that I drive about twenty miles an hour up the freeway.

  When I reach his mom’s house Saturday morning, Jake is already at his first tournament game. This past week, Mrs. Elliott and I spent a couple of hours on the phone discussing the general idea of my foundation, so now—as we work on her quilt—we iron out the details of providing financial and social support for the disabled.

  Mrs. Elliott has also talked this over with her physical therapist, who specializes in cases like her own. He’s offered to meet with us at his office Monday morning, when it’s closed for the holiday, to give me a better sense of what questions to ask on an eligibility application. I already have a law firm doing the paperwork, and Jake is gathering a list of people to call when it’s time for donations. McGregor has helped with names too, so everything is coming together perfectly.

  And since Rachel loves all things Hollywood, I’ve asked her to help out by searching the Internet for celebrity-sponsored charity events. I hope to get some good ideas for what could be successful moneymakers, while at the same time be entertaining enough to draw a crowd.

  Jake’s mom warns me in advance that her home health nurse is coming for about a half hour—and might ask a lot of questions if she sees me—so when she arrives, I hurry out to my car that’s hidden in the garage and use the time to call Rachel. She’s called four times since I’ve been here, and answers on the first ring with, “Why haven’t you been picking up your phone? Where are you?”