Not in the Script

by Amy Finnegan

  Emma throws a hand up. “Whoa! McGregor … reality? What?”

  “He said he told you. He’s calling it Beauty and The Bod.”

  “Well, he’s totally insane if he thinks … wait a sec,” Emma says. “How would McGregor know to call you The Bod?”

  I grab as many couch pillows as I can to hide behind. “I’m getting pretty good at this acting thing, aren’t I?”

  “You sure are!” Emma pries away one pillow at a time, preparing to clobber me. But then she pauses, smiles, and tosses them aside. “You know, I actually wouldn’t mind having the past few hours on film. I’d watch this scene over and over. I’d never get tired of it.”

  “Yeah?” I say, and scoot a bit closer. “Then let’s go again, from the top—make sure we get it right.”

  “But let’s skip the part where we talk about the weather,” she says, slipping her fingers through the back of my hair and whispering against my cheek. “Jake and Emma’s awesome make-up scene …”

  I kiss her. “Take two.”

  Acknowledgments

  All of my love and appreciation goes to Shawn, Aubrey, Kailey, and Ella, who have been both supportive and patient while I chased this dream. Also to my parents, Don and Ann Marie, and my in-laws, Wayne and Valerie. You’ve pretty much sacrificed your retirement years to help out whenever I’ve needed you. And I have to include Gabby Pribil among my family because she’s cared for my daughters almost as much as I have over the past several years.

  I offer my sincerest gratitude to my fabulous team at Bloomsbury, especially Caroline Abbey, my lovely editor who called me with the best news ever while I was at Costco, and turned out to be the best deal I ever got there. Also Laura Whitaker, who I was lucky enough to acquire along the way as both an editor and a friend (and it’s an extra bonus that she likes a good romance as much as I do). Sarah Shumway, Cat Onder, and Michelle Nagler, thank you so much for the roles you each played in bringing Not in the Script to life. Ilana Worrell, Erica Barmash, Emily Ritter, Lizzy Mason, Courtney Griffin, Donna Mark, and Lisa Novak—few readers are aware of how hard you work to provide them with awesome stories, so this is your well-deserved shout-out. Thank you!

  Erin Murphy … where do I begin? I would’ve never dared to dream that an agent like you existed. You have given me 24/7 customer service, nonstop encouragement, and a lifetime supply of new best friends—the fabulous EMLA Gango! You treat me like I’m your only client who matters (but let’s face it, you treat everyone that way).

  Joy Peskin, your unwavering confidence in this novel is the reason it finally escaped my laptop and is now on bookshelves. And your confidence in me has at times been the only thing that kept me writing. But it’s our irreplaceable friendship I treasure most. By far.

  Sara Watkins, how can I ever thank you enough for your late-night reading marathons, laughing at the same jokes over and over again, and putting up with my endless “Sorry, but I’ve gotta write” excuses? It’s pretty fair to say I owe you lunch. Like, forever.

  I’ve had many other friends and mentors who have cheered me on throughout these long years of learning (and hoping), especially Jessica Day George, Heather Moore, Kim Thacker, Kristyn Crow, Alison Randall, Jennifer A. Nielsen, Carol Lynch Williams, Ann Cannon, Jen White, and Amy Efaw. You are all exceptional writers and even better pals.

  Many thanks to Rachel Parkin and Tyler Atkinson for helping out with the technical details that were needed to write this book, as well as reviewing the manuscript for accuracy. And my highest-pitched fangirl squeals go out to the cast and crew of Parks and Recreation, Parenthood, and Melissa and Joey for allowing me to tour your studios, watch you film, and best of all, bask in your glory!

  I also owe a lot to the many friends I made on Kryptonsite.com, where strangers from all over the world knew me as ajfinn and made me believe that my writing could one day find an audience outside of the three people who previously liked it. A very heartfelt thank you to Cardinal, SVSlueth, MOOman0618, Binkys711, NYC300Z, Ketchup, escout, Dr. Jekyll, LuvClana, Mythos, Superman_lives_on, booze_is_me09, itsallinthespelling, iLuvClana, 4EverSmallville, Spacewalker_33.3, and the rest of my ever-faithful fan fiction readers. Long live Clana!

  And a BIG thank you to the readers out there! I hope you enjoyed Not in the Script and will continue to be a part of my life. Please stop by to say hello on Facebook (Amy Finnegan, Author) or on Twitter at @ajfinnegan. I’d love to get to know you! And you can also follow the characters of Not in the Script on Twitter at

  @onlyhre4thefood,

  @EmmaTayAllDay,

  @actorincognito,

  @SoooooOverIt,

  @Crazy4Hollywood, and

  @NotInTheScript.

  They’ll follow you back and will often reply to your questions or comments. And since I’m obviously not ready to give them up, I will occasionally be posting extra scenes at AmyFinnegan.com, where you can also find news about author events and additional books. I hope to see you around!

  About the Author

  Amy Finnegan writes her own stories because she enjoys falling in love over and over again, and thinks everyone deserves a happy ending. She likes to travel the world—usually to locations where her favorite books take place—and owes her unquenchable thirst for reading to Jane Austen and J.K. Rowling. Not in the Script came about after hearing several years of behind-the-scenes stories from her industry veteran brother. She’s also been lucky enough to visit dozens of film sets and sit in on major productions such as Parks and Recreation and Parenthood. This is Amy’s debut novel.

  www.facebook.com/AmyFinneganAuthor

  @ajfinnegan

  By the Same Author

  The line

  Wish You Were Italian

  by Kristin Rae

  Fool Me Twice

  by Mandy Hubbard

  Not in the Script

  by Amy Finnegan

  WANT MORE OF WHAT YOU CAN’T HAVE?

  Read on for a glimpse at another romance filled with gorgeous cowboys, a touch of amnesia, and an epic revenge plot against an ex-boyfriend!

  “I pledge allegiance, to the flag …”

  I stiffen, my grip on the pitchfork, tightening so hard the wood bites into the still-developing calluses on my palms. The voice behind me is the very one I’ve waited to hear for the last week. … But he’s mocking me.

  I slice a glare in Landon’s direction. He’s standing in the entry to the empty stall, his lanky, all-too-muscular body a silhouette against the fluorescent fixture hanging behind him. The dust kicked up by my work swirls in the light hugging his body.

  I wish I could make out his expression, to figure out if it’s the same sneer he gave me that first day back at school last fall. When he broke my heart.

  I smirk, saying, “Ha, ha, ha. You must think you’re super clever.”

  “Actually, I do.” He puts a hand to his heart. “You really wound my ego.”

  I roll my eyes. “ ‘No tears, please. It’s a waste of good suffering.’ ”

  He drops his hand back to his side. “Are you quoting Hell-raiser?”

  I blink. “Um, no?” I turn back to the pitchfork, hoping he buys it, and toss another scoop into the overflowing wheelbar-row. I should have emptied it already, but this is the last stall.

  “Since when do you like classic horror movies?” His voice has that old familiar drawl to it, that same twang I loved when he whispered to me, his breath hot on my ear. His family is from Texas. They moved to Washington State six years ago, but he’s never let go of the accent.

  “Since when do you care what I like?” I scoop at a pile of manure near his toes, daring him to stand still as it slides dangerously close to his battered Justin cowboy boots. He doesn’t move. “I mean, I was just getting used to the silent treatment.”

  “Meh, I got bored,” he says.

  Bored. I scowl. “I’m sure there’s a real flag somewhere in desperate need of your allegiance.”

  I scoop up another forkful of soiled bedding. Maybe he
thought he’d get away with just waltzing up, that I’d somehow forget what he did, like I’d fall at his feet at the first sign of his interest.

  When I look up at him again, he hasn’t budged, he’s just chewing on his lip. He licks his lip, and for a second I forget I’m staring, thinking about how it felt when we’d kissed, when he’d traced his tongue across my lips. When he grins, I realize he’s caught me.

  Ugh. I should not be thinking of how good he is at kissing. Actually, scratch that. I should be thinking of how good he is at kissing other girls. That made it pretty easy to stay angry. Like he did in the halls the first day of school last fall. I wore this adorable Zac Brown Band T-shirt because he said they were his favorite band, and I was practically bursting with excitement to see him after a few days apart … and then I saw him, but it didn’t go the way I’d pictured.

  He was leaning in to kiss her, while I stood there dumb-founded. He knew exactly what he was doing because mid-way through their steamy makeout session, he saw me staring, a strange gleam in his eyes as he watched the way I unraveled. It was like he enjoyed watching me shatter, just like little boys love burning ants with magnifying glasses.

  And it sucks to be the ant. I am so over being the ant.

  “Nah, you’re a little more … lively.”

  I snort, shaking my head. Lively. Yeah, I could show him lively.

  “What?” he asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. The effort makes his muscles bulge. He probably practices the move in his mirror in the hopes of using it to ensnare his next summer fling.

  I toss the pitchfork onto the heaping wheelbarrow. “Just leave me alone, okay?” I grab the cart’s handle and yank.

  But he doesn’t move, and I back right up into him, our bodies colliding. Instead of stepping aside, he grabs my elbows to keep me from knocking him completely over, and then actually removes me from the stall and slides me into the aisle, like I’m a kitten that’s run into his path.

  Then he turns and easily pulls the overladen cart over the bump, onto the smooth cement of the aisle. The stall door screeches as he rolls it shut.

  “I still have to put pellets in there,” I start.

  “I’ll get it.”

  I stare at him, unwilling to believe he’d volunteer to take on even a tiny portion of my workload without wanting something in return. “Well, you just go zero to sixty in about five seconds, don’t you?”

  He flashes me a wolfish smile, the one that makes him seem half-dangerous, half-sexy. But now I know what really lurks beneath all those muscles and cowboy swagger, and his smile is no longer so attractive.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks, tipping the rim of his cowboy hat back far enough that I can see into his intense brown eyes. He’s … irritated.

  Good.

  I narrow my own eyes and match his look. “The silent treatment, to mockery, to doing me favors,” I say, ticking them off on my fingers. “Before you turned on the roller coaster, you could have at least warned me to keep my hands and feet in the car at all times.”

  He huffs. “Can’t a guy do a girl a favor?”

  “No.” I laugh, and not in a pretty way. “Not you, anyway.”

  Dang. I had wanted to be aloof. Unaffected. I’m screwing it up.

  He shrugs, totally unbothered by my visceral response. “Fine then. Do it yourself,” he says. But he doesn’t move out of my way or open the stall door either. Instead, his eyes sweep over my now-dirty polo shirt, down my legs, and then back up again before he smirks. “What’s with the getup?”

  I grit my teeth and check out my outfit. I’m in my Serenity Ranch polo, as required, along with my jean shorts, but I have lime-green leggings underneath, and my cowboy boots don’t match any of my clothes—they’re powder blue. It’s like my outfit is a mullet—business on the top, party on the bottom.

  “Can’t wear plain old shorts in a saddle, you know that,” I say, like he’s being stupid. “It pinches.”

  “Right. And regular jeans would just be too …”

  “Boring?” I say, throwing his words back at him.

  “Uh-huh, and being a freak show—”

  My anger explodes. “What do you want, Landon? Hurting me last year wasn’t enough and now you’ve gotta waltz in here and insult me?”

  Crap. I wasn’t planning to admit how much he hurt me. I’m ruining all of this. Bailey’s going to laugh me out of our cabin later.

  In response, he crosses his arms and waits as if he was the one to ask the question and he’s expecting an answer, but I have nothing else to say. And then he just shrugs and walks away, whistling an all-too-familiar tune.

  Oh say can you seeeeeeee.

  Ugh.

  WANT MORE OF WHAT YOU CAN’T HAVE?

  Read on for a glimpse at another romance filled with gelato, sightseeing, and off-limits amore!

  There’s every color of gelato you can imagine. All the little flavor signs are in Italian, but I do recognize some of the words, like “nutella” and “amaretto.” Each tub of gelato is its own work of art—a swirly mound drizzled with glistening sauce or sprinkled with nuts, chocolate bits, or fruit.

  The sweaty crowd impatiently nudges me to move along, and a bored server waits for me to order. Feeling the pressure to make a fast decision, I point to the one called stracciatella because it looks the most like cookies and cream, then pick an unlabeled green one, hoping that it’s mint and not something weird like pistachio.

  As I walk out to find a place to sit, a family of three-speaking what I’m pretty sure is French—abandons their table, so I slip into one of the little chairs before anyone else claims it. I set my cup on the table and take aim with my camera, zooming in nice and close with a large aperture so everything but my focal point will be blurred together. Snap. My first photograph in Italy.

  “Nice camera.”

  Startled, I glance up as a scruffy-faced guy about my age pulls out a chair across the table from me.

  “Thanks.”

  “Mind if I sit here?”

  I give a slight shake of my head, looking him up and down quickly. Aside from the insane amount of curly, dark hair on the top of his head, he sort of reminds me of Morgan’s older brother. Tall, same toned build, super-light-brown eyes. The crush that crushed me.

  He takes a bite of his gelato. “I’d never be able to use one of those big cameras. Too many buttons.”

  I can’t help but smile. I haven’t even been in Italy a whole day, but I’m already relieved to hear English—my English. But … “How did you know I speak English?”

  A dimple appears when he smirks and points at me with his little plastic spatula-like spoon. “Because you’re taking pictures of your food, which means not only that you speak English, but you’re also American. Probably a blogger.”

  I click the lens cap back on and let the camera rest safely on my lap. “Well, of course now you know I’m American because you can hear that I don’t have an accent. And I’m not a blogger.”

  I tried blogging last year, mostly to post some of the photos I was proud of, but I never got any followers, so I took the blog down. I keep my special photos to myself now.

  “Oh, you have an accent.” He takes another bite and leans back in his chair. “It’s American. And northern, by the sound of it.” He points at me with his spoon again. “Gelato’s melting.”

  I look at my cup and gasp when I see how much is being wasted, dripping all down the side and making a puddle on the table. I quickly scrape the spoon along the edge before lifting it to my mouth.

  My eyes close automatically, helping to block out all other senses but taste. And the green one is mint, not pistachio, thankfully. It’s the softest, creamiest, most amazing flavor I’ve ever experienced. My tongue is cool, not only because the gelato is cold, but because of the mint itself. It floods my whole mouth then disappears down my throat. I need more.

  I dip my spoon into the other flavor. “Ohhhh, wow this is good.” I sigh.


  “First timer?”

  I swallow and nod, looking back at my table companion. “It’s amazing.”

  “So, you’re not a blogger. Are you a photographer then?”

  “Hopefully one day.”

  “Oh,” he says as he rubs his fingers over his dark stubble. I can hear it, scratchy like sandpaper. “How old are you?”

  “Seventeen.”

  Suddenly I feel insecure, like he’ll think I’m too young to bother with now. I shake the thought away and rescue another bite of gelato from the heat.

  “You seem older than that,” he says, somehow finished with his monster cup. He wads his napkin into a ball before plopping it in.

  I smile and watch as the melted remains saturate the entire napkin. “Yeah, I’ve been told that before, actually.”

  Mom says it’s the way I handle myself, especially around adults and strangers. I’ve been forced into more than my share of social situations where I was often the only child, so I learned to fit in to my surroundings.

  “How old are you?” I ask.

  “Eighteen. Just turned.”

  “Really, you seem … younger than that.”

  I did not just flirt with him.

  He smiles, revealing mostly straight teeth. One of the top ones is a little crooked, but not in a hideous way. I kind of like it actually.

  “Yeah, well, I—” He stops and his eyes shift behind me, wide in amusement.

  I turn my head to find a couple straight out of the 1980s at the end of the gelato line. They’re both sporting mullets and faded jeans. White sneakers. When I notice the matching red fanny packs, I have to look away.

  “You should take a picture of that,” he says, resting his forearms on the table.