The Monday Girl (The Girl Duet #1)

by Julie Johnson

  Wyatt and Grayson both grin — they know I’m full of shit.

  “You two stay out here grinning at each other. I’m heading inside.” Too excited to wait another moment, I turn on one heel and head for the house. I make sure to put a little extra sway in my step as I go, and when I reach the glass doors, I glance back to find both men’s eyes are locked on my ass.

  “Thought you were in a hurry, Grayson? You don’t want to keep your date waiting,” I call over my shoulder. “Then again… if she knows you at all, she’s probably used to it.”

  A dark look flashes across his gorgeous features.

  I smirk as I step into the chilly air-conditioned kitchen. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so snarky, but Grayson Dunn deserves every bit of my attitude.

  It’s alarming to realize that if I get this part, I’ll see him every day for almost a month. Co-starring with a man I’ve loathed from afar for a decade won’t be a walk in the park. We’ll never be friends. We’ll probably never be able to stand in the same room without trading barbs and insults back and forth.

  But, for the chance to play Violet, I’d do just about anything.

  Even make out with my mortal enemy.

  * * *

  “ S tand a little closer .”

  Sloan absently strokes his scruff as he directs Grayson and me from across the room. He’s got a small studio set up in his basement where we’ve been cooped up for the past two hours, reading lines from the script, discussing our characters, and going over the plot. Now, he’s positioned us in front of the camera to test our on-screen chemistry , which is just a fancy way of checking to see if we’re attractive enough to get people to pay $13.75 for a ticket to the theater so they can gawk at us on a thirty-foot screen.

  And they will pay, if what I saw in the script is any indication. This film is going to be a hit. Epic. A love story for the ages. A modern Romeo and Juliet.

  Why the hell they want me for the role, I’ll never understand. I’m not complaining, though — playing Violet would be career-defining. It would skyrocket me from nobody to A-lister. Wyatt wasn’t messing when he said he was going to change my life.

  I sneak a glance at the corner, where he’s sprawled on a plush armchair, staring at his phone. A long tendril of blond hair has escaped his man-bun and fallen across his face. He somehow senses my gaze, because he looks up and winks at me.

  I roll my eyes in return.

  “Okay, I think I’m finally ready to shoot some test film.” Sloan’s voice draws my eyes back to him. He’s leaning over the camera, training the lens on the middle of the room where Grayson and I are waiting, making minor adjustments to the aperture and angle. “Let’s take it from the top of page seventeen… The scene where you finally make it to the beach. You have your scripts?”

  We nod like twin bobble-head dolls. I glance at Grayson out of the corner of my eye and see he’s standing a careful distance from me in an almost identical pose — arms crossed over his chest, face set in a blank expression.

  Sloan pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “Violet, after the crash you’re in better shape than Beck. He took a pretty sharp knock to the head when one of the overhead compartments came open during the descent — he’s bleeding from the temple, he’s got a concussion. You barely got him into the life raft. You’re exhausted, thirsty, you’ve been drifting for days… and you finally see it. The island.”

  I nod, trying to breathe normally.

  “Beck, you’re barely conscious at first — you just know someone’s tugging at you, trying to get you to move, pulling you from the raft and across a sandy beach you’ve never seen before. You’re disoriented. You don’t know how this tiny slip of a girl is even carrying you. You’re twice her size and soaking wet… but you trust her. There’s no other choice. There’s no one else.”

  Grayson nods solemnly and I notice, for the first time, the perpetual glint of amusement has faded from his eyes. He’s totally focused, listening intently to Sloan’s directions.

  “This is just a rough take, to see how you two look together. To test your vibe. Don’t get too hung up on the speaking lines.” Sloan steps back behind the camera. “I just want to see if things flow .”

  Abruptly, my heart is pounding and my mouth goes dry. I’m nervous. I don’t want to fuck this up. It’s an odd sensation — actually giving a shit, for a change.

  “Grayson, sling your arm around her shoulders. You’re weak, exhausted. You can’t quite stand on your own.” Sloan is frowning mightily. Probably because Grayson and I are standing so far apart, you could fit three of his bimbos in the space between us. “And for god’s sake, look at each other.”

  “Don’t worry, Kat,” Grayson whispers as my eyes drift up to find his. They’re startlingly green, in the flood of bright light from the track over our heads. I can see my own face reflected on their glassy surface, distorted and distant. It’s a bit like looking into a carnival fun-house mirror. His lips twitch. “I don’t bite.”

  “Too bad,” I mutter back, voice dropping to an octave only he can hear. “I do.”

  He laughs, white teeth flashing and eyes crinkling at the corners. It’s disarming.

  I feel my heart thudding like a battle drum as he reaches out and slides an arm around my back, leaning his considerable weight against me. Each pitter-patter beat against my ribs reminds me of those same gorgeous features, ten years younger and twisted into a condescending mask in what was, till that point, the worst moment of my inconsequential little life.

  Thump-thump.

  Hate-him.

  Thump-thump.

  Hate-him.

  “Okay, do a practice run — move across the room, I want to see your natural body language.” Sloan crouches behind the camera. “On my count… Five! ”

  “You okay down there?” Grayson whispers from somewhere over my head. “I can ease off a bit, if it’s too much weight…”

  “I’m fine,” I snap. “I can handle anything you throw at me, Dunn.”

  “Four! ” Sloan calls.

  “Fine,” he grumbles back, doubling his weight on my shoulders. My knees nearly buckle under the strain of holding us both upright. Shit , he’s heavy. My arm winds around his waist as I struggle to stay vertical.

  “Three! ”

  “Still good?” Grayson sounds downright cheerful.

  “Peachy,” I grit between clenched teeth.

  He laughs and I feel it vibrate through his chest. “Stubborn little thing, aren’t you?”

  “You don’t know anything about me,” I volley under my breath.

  “Two! ”

  Grayson’s mouth is so close to my ear, I feel the warmth of his breath against my skin when he whispers a single word that sends lightning shooting through my system.

  “Yet. ”

  I suck in a gulp of air. My retort is lost as Sloan shouts.

  “And, ACTION !”

  I begin to move, each step an acute struggle as I hold Grayson upright. He’s not making this easy for me. I drag his dead-weight across the space, pretending not to notice the firm ridges of his six-pack beneath the thin fabric of his t-shirt, or the faint scent of chlorine lingering on his warm skin, or the way his large frame drapes over mine, somehow making me feel petite and strong all at the same time.

  I cling to the image of my nine-year-old self, tears tracking down my cheeks into the corners of my mouth, my tight-pressed lips struggling to contain a sob of humiliation in front of a dozen other kids as fourteen-year-old Grayson laughed down at me.

  He broke my pre-pubescent heart. And the bastard doesn’t even have the decency to remember doing it.

  I set my teeth and hobble a little faster.

  “Oh, that’s good.” Sloan’s voice seems a million miles away as Grayson and I move across the room like a three-legged race gone awry. “Kat, I like the conflicted expression you’ve got on,” Sloan murmurs, half-concealed behind the camera. “You want to help him, you’re determined not to leave him, but you’re also
traumatized from the crash, from the realization that you’re so far from civilization you might never make it home again… You’re running on pure adrenaline, but you haven’t quite shaken the shock that the family who hired you as an au pair is dead, along with everyone else on that small plane… Yes, yes, that looks good.”

  Grayson leans on me a little more heavily.

  I grind my heel down on his toe in retaliation and hear him gasp in sudden pain.

  “Good, Grayson. I like that you’re grimacing. Your head injury would be throbbing, the slice in your leg is deep enough to need stitches…” Sloan sounds approving as he walks away from the camera, picks up a Nikon and shoots some stationary shots. “You two look great on film together.” He clicks the shutter again. “That should do, for now.”

  Grayson and I push away from each other as fast as physically possible; two magnets repelling with equal force. Sloan is so lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t seem to notice the negative tension between his two potential co-stars. He’s already sitting at his desk, scrolling through the test shots on a nearby computer.

  “Didn’t I tell you?” Wyatt calls from the corner, rising to his feet and walking to look over Sloan’s shoulder. “She’s the one.”

  “I’m still supposed to have several others read for this part…” Sloan sounds hesitant. “I’ll have to think it over…”

  Wyatt leans in, grabs the mouse from Sloan, and zooms on a still photograph until the screen is full of two faces. Grayson and me, in the highest possible resolution, filling every pixel of the display. Snapped the moment before we pushed away from each other, our eyes are locked, our arms wrapped around each other’s waists… The tension is palpable, even from here. We look more like two gladiators engaged in a death-match than we do future lovers. But maybe that’s what Sloan wants, because he reclines back in his chair with a content sigh, staring at the image in front of him like it’s the answer to a prayer.

  “Look at the fire in her eyes. The way she carries herself.” Wyatt’s eyes drift over to mine as he speaks, blue and bottomless. “She may not have the experience. But she was made for this role. I’d stake my career on it.”

  There’s a sliver of frozen silence where nobody moves or breathes too loudly, and I know this is it — the moment where everything changes. The exact point when this spark of possibility, lit by a blond, hipster-Viking with too much time on his hands, is either fanned into flames of stardom and success… or flickers out like a candle left too close to the wind, never to reignite.

  Sloan holds Wyatt’s eyes for thirty seconds, engaging him in an inscrutable silent conversation, then gives a sudden nod. Spinning around in his leather computer chair, he pins me with a look. I gulp loudly, and hope Grayson isn’t standing close enough to hear my throat convulsing in panic.

  “So. Kat.” Sloan leans back, arms folded behind his head. Light glances off the shining surface of his wire-rimmed glasses. “Do you happen to have plans this Monday?”

  Three

  “ Y ou’re so paranoid , babe. It’s just my roommate.”

  - A guy who is definitely texting girls he met on the internet during your dinner date.

  T he sky is dark when Wyatt drives me back to my car. The wind rushes through the convertible’s open roof, whipping my hair into a vortex of waves and frizz, but I make no move to tame it. I’m lost inside my head, trying to wrap my mind around everything that’s changed in the past ten hours.

  I’m the lead actress in Uncharted.

  The new Sloan Stanhope movie.

  Co-starring with Grayson Dunn.

  I’ve repeated those thoughts so many times to myself, they barely sound real anymore; like staring at the same word over and over on a page until it’s a jumble of nonsense, and you become convinced you’ve been spelling it wrong your entire life.

  After informing me that I’d landed the part, Sloan drifted upstairs for his nightly yoga session, promising to see me in a few days. Grayson jetted off to rendezvous with his flavor-of-the-week without bothering to say so much as goodbye. Wyatt simply laughed at the dazed look on my face, grabbed me gently by the hand, and tugged me to his car. With the exception of asking for my home address, he hasn’t attempted to strike up conversation, assuming — rightfully — that the powers of speech are currently lost on me.

  Violet. Me.

  Beck. Grayson.

  My reverie is interrupted when I see we’ve sped past the turn for the talent agency where my beat-up Honda is hopefully still parked.

  “Hey, you missed the turn.”

  Wyatt glances over at me, brows raised. “I bought a two-seater for a reason — no place for backseat drivers.”

  “I’m not giving you directions,” I say, rolling my eyes as I sit upright. “My car is back there, remember? At the talent agency.”

  He waves my words away. “I’ll take your keys and have someone drop it off at your place later.”

  “Oh.”

  Wyatt grins at my expression. “Why do you look like you’ve received a life sentence in Alcatraz? You just landed a role most people would kill for. You made it. You should be celebrating.”

  “It doesn’t feel real. It feels like…”

  He glances over at me as he shifts the car into a different gear and merges onto the highway. “Like…?”

  “Dumb luck,” I say faintly. “Like… at any moment you’re going to realize you’ve made a colossal error in judgment, that I’m not actually the girl you seem convinced I am, and change your mind.”

  “Oh.” Wyatt sounds exceptionally bland. “Is that all?”

  “What do you mean, is that all ? Is my existential crisis not enough?”

  “Baby, everyone feels that way.” He sighs. “The most successful people on this earth always feel like the biggest frauds.”

  “Says the man whose first words were probably I’d like to thank the Academy .”

  He shoots me an indulgent look. “Do you actually believe the majority of successful people have an ounce more talent than the average unemployed Tom, Dick, or Harry still struggling to make it?”

  “Um…yes?”

  He snorts. “Success is a quarter timing, a quarter talent, a bit of fate, and a hell of a lot of dumb luck.”

  “So, essentially, you’re saying everyone at the top of the food chain is a total moron who got there by pure chance.”

  “No, not exactly.”

  I raise my brows at his swift reversal.

  “I forgot nepotism,” he adds, looking thoughtful. “And a blatant disregard for moral scruples. Plus, it certainly doesn’t hurt to be really, really good-looking. Those things definitely factor in at least a bit, if you’re intent on making it to the top.”

  A laugh slips out of my mouth before I can stop it and he grins at the sound, his eyes on the road as we zoom through the night. A few minutes pass in silence. We’re almost to my exit when he speaks again, and his voice is uncharacteristically serious.

  “This movie… working with Sloan… it could be huge for you. Sure, he’s a bit wishy-washy, what with the yoga and the meditation and the quirky bonding exercises he likes to torture the cast with every morning before shooting. And, dear god, stay away from him when he does one of his juice cleanses because the man is a terror.” He winces as though remembering the horror. “But at the end of the day, he’s a damn fine director. The script is solid. And Dunn, who I admittedly think is a total twat, is perfectly cast for this role, even if he did fuck things up royally with the Helena situation.”

  I take it by the Helena situation he’s referring to Helena Putnam, the former front-runner whose role I’ve just fortuitously walked into. The one Grayson got a bit too friendly with, before first-takes. Poor girl should’ve kept her panties on and her priorities straight.

  “Trust me, Katharine, I wouldn’t attach my name as the executive producer if I didn’t believe in this movie. But, I have to tell you, until today, I wasn’t entirely sure it was going to come together. Casting the right people i
s the most important part of any project, besides maybe the writing. And Helena would’ve been great.”

  Something unpleasant stirs to life in my stomach.

  I will always be second best.

  The replacement. The understudy. The alternate.

  Selected out of obligation, rather than desire.

  The insecurities roar so loud inside my head, it’s hard to focus on Wyatt’s next words.

  “She would’ve been fantastic, I do believe that. But… I think you’ll be better.”

  I blink. “What?”

  “You heard me.” His lips twitch. “Don’t make me say it again, or I’ll think you’re one of those girls who needs the validation of strangers and Instagram-likes to prop herself up.”

  I roll my eyes and brush back the hair whipping across my face as we exit the highway at full speed, the convertible hugging so low to the ground I could probably reach out and touch the pavement. Neither of us breaks the silence until we’ve pulled up outside my building. Wyatt’s sleek Audi looks laughably out of place beside the dozen or so rust-buckets scattered around the cracked asphalt lot. I point to the unit at the end of the blocky, cement row of condos and we glide to a soundless stop in front of it.

  “You live here,” Wyatt says, his tone a mixture of concern and condescension as he takes in the sight of my townhouse. To call it shabby-chic would be a stretch — infinitely less chic, considerably more shabby.

  “Home sweet home.” I grin and swing open the convertible door. “Thanks for the ride, Wyatt. And for…” I trail off as our eyes meet, and I know we’re both remembering the same moment: this morning, standing in almost this exact position around his car, and the words he’d spoken with such conviction.

  I’m going to change your life.

  “Don’t mention it. I’ll see you Monday.”

  “Monday,” I echo dully.

  “My assistant will be in touch with all the details.”

  I nod, feeling distinctly removed from my own body. Wyatt seems to realize I’m barely holding myself together.