Six, Maybe Seven

by Katie George

  Chapter Three

  THE DAYS PASSED into weeks. I enjoyed my job and my budding friendship with Baylee, who had invited me into her inner world of dreams and hopes. She wanted to be a mother, I gathered, but Richard already had two grown children. I convinced Baylee that she could convince her husband otherwise.

  As for my job, it went smoothly, and I began a routine that involved sleeping, working, eating somewhere in the mix, and repeating. We were still in the midst of casting the TV pilot, as we’d gleaned three of the needed leads and a few supporting characters, but needed about two more leads to fill the requirement the studio needed. On my days off, I still worked in a sense by devoting my time to social events that Baylee invited me to or networking with agents. Having Jamie as a friend boosted my appeal since he worked primarily as an indie actor and could instruct me in some of the “ways.”

  His relationship with Ella Monrey was turning out to last—which surprised me, considering they spent most of their time at her place. I had yet to meet her, which troubled me. I wondered if this was because Jamie was placing too much trust in her, especially after the disastrous ending of his last romantic relationship with my friend, Erinina Huston. Had he begun dating Ella in response to Nina’s wedding invitation on my calendar? I probably should have taken the photo of Nina and her charming fiancé holding hands off the fridge—because I’d caught Jamie watching it in the morning as he snapped banana bits between his teeth.

  Yet I enjoyed my days between the wedding calls and nitpicky work scenarios. I’d managed to attend Chelsea’s bridal shower among a mix of Spanish-speaking señoras and some college friends. It had been a good time, but of course, they asked about my marital status. Um, single.

  Two weeks after my first day as a casting assistant, I stuck the key into the lock of the door at my apartment. It had been a long day, and I was ready to sleep. I barely had time to jog anymore, which was a bummer, but I’d insisted on jogging right after work that day. Add in a trip to the store for some toiletries and junk food, and one of my fingers twisted into a pretzel from holding the groceries. As I pushed my force into the door, a box of goldfish fell to the floor, and I hissed in response, angered. I reached down to pick them up and heard a quiet murmur, right beside my head, and then a giant man-sized hand touched my own.

  Therefore, the rest of the luggage fell to the ground.

  “What the blazes!” Instinctively I cocooned myself into a protective ball and then shot up like a crack of lightning. I burst out my arms in a kung-fu type move, although I knew nothing of the skill. As the adrenaline coursed through my veins, I heard squeaky Jamie shout, “Hey, Sam, is everything okay?”

  Then I fully took in the person I was about to karate-chop. My heart careened into my gut when I realized the man before me was Sam Woodshaw, the actor whom Jamie had loathed only weeks before, and the man whose success was beginning to seep out into public knowledge. From my limited espionage skills, I already knew that he was a British-American man with an English mum and a Californian father. He was from old money, but he’d spent a lot of time with some big organizations championing starvation and refugee awareness. Sadly, I’d even discovered he supported some ideologies that aligned with the Democrat agenda—an agenda my Texan roots wanted to wrap around and squash.

  I stood paralyzed. In the past week since my job started, I’d been around half a dozen actors, some of reputable fame, but none had struck me as Sam Woodshaw did. Sadly, I decided it was his broad shoulders that did the trick, or maybe the long legs. Before I could seem even more ridiculous, I offered, “Are you with Jamie?”

  He smiled at me, somewhat embarrassed himself, which surprised me. He offered a man’s hand, and I stared at it. Dear bluebonnets, I screamed internally, a phrase I’d never said in my entire life. “Sam,” he said quickly. I was somewhat proud that he hadn’t mentioned his last name.

  I shook, not feeling tingling electricity like many of my friends said they had when they’d first touched their prospective love interests. Instead, I felt tremendously awkward. “I’m Emma,” I said, self-consciously wondering if I came across too strong. I then tried to smile, but my frustration at the meeting turned the attempt sour, and without further ado, I stomped into the kitchen.

  “We have a visitor?” I asked as Sam trailed my heel.

  Jamie turned around, wearing his green cooking apron. He nodded. “Sam hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in forever, so I thought I’d step in. I was just telling him—before I asked him to open the door for a loud, ruckus-making you—that Ella was supposed to come over, but she canceled at the last minute. I was already prepping for three steaks, so I invited him over.” Funny, I thought internally, since I still haven’t met her. Now you’re jealous because even Jamie has found a date. Ugh.

  “I’m not intruding, I hope,” Sam said, standing dangerously close to me. Close enough that I felt my skin twitch. His presence made me feel small.

  “Um, excuse me. If I’d known we were having guests, I’d have dressed a little nicer.” I looked at my sweats and a ratty t-shirt. I’d looked better an hour before. Now I was a sweaty mess, with makeup practically sweated onto my skin. My hair was twisted into a tight knot, but I had lost any attempt to care. It was close to eight at night, and Jamie hadn’t slyly commented on our having guests. Problems with roommates, I decided.

  “Oh, Emma. You should know by now that that is one of your nicer outfits.”

  “Seriously, James?” I punched his shoulder. “Well, do you want me to help with anything?”

  “Oh, you smell bad.”

  “I just got done jogging. I didn’t come from the shower, Jamie.”

  “Anyway, she’s trying to show off,” Jamie insisted as he washed lettuce for salads. “In reality, Emma cannot cook anything. Wait! She can cook pasta, but pasta ain’t even cooking.” He rolled his brown eyes in mock annoyance.

  I rolled my eyes and shifted my position to the edge of the kitchen, away from Sam’s brooding and broad body. I caught him gazing at me, but maybe it was the fact that a cuckoo clock hung above my head. It had been a gift from Jamie’s mother when she helped us move into the apartment. She was the only one supportive of the idea of our living arrangements; in fact, I hadn’t even told my dad. What he didn’t know would aid his heart.

  Finally, I gathered the gumption to say, “Well, Sam. Let me call out the elephant in the room: You’re a movie star. In my apartment. That doesn’t happen every day.”

  “In Beverly Hills it might,” Jamie said as he began to dice some tomatoes. He swiveled around to the oven to check on the meat. “You like yours…?”

  “Medium well,” we both said, and I turned around and felt my nose scrunch up. He laughed; I didn’t.

  “Okay. Okay, I see. Sam, why don’t you tell her about how you’re shooting a film in Oxnard. Or how you need a new personal assistant with all the gigs you’ve been landing. This boy has real talent, and I know you may need a new job soon…”

  “James,” I gritted my teeth. “I do not need a new job.”

  “What do you do?” Sam questioned. His lips opened just the slightest, revealing a glimpse of perfect white teeth. They weren’t snow-white however, which was somehow refreshing.

  “I’m a casting assistant.”

  “Oh, really?” He seemed genuinely interested. “For whom?”

  “Braitley & Richter. I just started a few weeks ago,” I said, trying not to sound too interested in my occupation. In all honesty, I wanted to talk about it. Being behind the scenes of character development was a nifty little niche.

  “Braitley, huh,” Sam said, leaning against the doorpost in a way that could only be classified as suggestive. “Interesting choice. I primarily work with Swift Star.”

  “Ah, yes,” I said, trying not to seem so interested then. Swift Star was definitely a higher class office from the common streets of Braitley, but I did not want to give away the pride rooted in my belly. I liked Braitley and Richter—especially because I’d
entered the private realms with Baylee Feta and Braitley himself just in the past few weeks without having an inappropriate sexual relationship or murdering anyone. “Well, I’m enjoying my job.”

  Jamie nodded. “Braitley is okay, but I wouldn’t say it is the best to actors.”

  “Jamie, it pays for this apartment. Keep your opinions to yourself,” I teased, but Sam seemed to think I was being serious, which made me burst into a little flurry of laughter.

  “What made you choose casting?” Sam’s eyes were inquisitive. He wasn’t shy, I decided, but he seemed to have genuine manners.

  Yet I stood before him like a complete work-out freak. A twinge of embarrassment flared up my skin, but then I rationalized that this had happened in my ignorance. “One of my close buddies in college introduced me to this world. Her father worked as a casting director, and after I shadowed him, I realized I enjoyed it. What made you choose acting?”

  “Well, my mother signed me up for acting class when I was young, because I was ‘severely shy.’ Yet I believe I’ve always been fairly open. I always loved it; it’s been something—one of the only things—constant in my life.”

  “Acting is constant? That’s the first I’ve heard of that theory,” I said, wondering if I sounded too harsh. Jamie would probably coach me after dinner on my rude behavior, but I silently thought to myself that I was being hard on Sam to see his reaction—to see if he would back off or fight for my interest.

  “There can still be consistency in the fray.”

  “Hmm, again, stimulating philosophy.” I saw Jamie’s shoulders slump, so I decided to be nicer. “Well, Sam, I guess I am just sour because every actor I know happens to be a giant airhead.”

  Jamie turned and a grin appeared on his face. “And you say that about the class salutatorian.”

  “How can an acting major get that?” I said, although I knew in detail that Jamie had the mind of a genius—even if it appeared as if he were on drugs at times. Plus, it didn’t hurt our college was relatively small.

  Sam laughed and he took a sip of sparkling water. For a second I imagined it was wine as he poured the liquid into a glass with sure, steady hands. Then I remembered that even though I was of the legal drinking age, I’d decided against the practice. Alcoholism ran in the Richmond blood—something I never wanted to experience. Yet it seemed befitting on Sam, which made me question my whole belief system. He noticed my watching him and asked, “Want some?”

  “No, no,” I said. “I hate sparkling water.” I washed my hands in the sink and took salad plates to the small dining table in the corner of the living room. The TV was playing a faint thrum of music, giving the ambiance a slightly romantic feel. It was some jazzy beat, perfect for a Christmas setting under the mistletoe with ice droplets gleaming down red noses. Yet in the somewhat stuffy apartment in a heated, summery Los Angeles, I felt heat flare up my pores. Sam carried bread to the table, and his close proximity made me jump.

  “Did I scare you?” he whispered, but it felt like a loud boom.

  “Absolutely not,” I said, regaining my composure. I stared at his profile in the dim light of the apartment glow, and settled on, “So, is it true that you support democratic socialism?”

  He burst out laughing, which made me frown. After a few moments of his loudness and my silence, he looked down at me seriously, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve read what the magazines say about me?”

  “I pay attention, since I’m a casting assistant and all.”

  “Or you are interested in the business.”

  “Am not. That’s what all my friends do. Stare at the rags and say, ‘Golly, I wish I had that kinda life!’ And I say, ‘I just wish I had a cat that doesn’t bite me when I try to rub her back.’”

  “As you said earlier,” he said with a casual smirk, “stimulating philosophy. For your information, I don’t discuss my political views with anyone, let alone a tabloid journalist.” He reached down right beside me and picked a small tomato from a salad plate, sticking it into his mouth. Usually, I’d have a brouhaha over the rude mannerism, but he did it with such class that I was gobstopped.

  We walked back into the kitchen, where Jamie presented us with warm steaks and to-the-brim baked potatoes. My eyes watered, especially after my work-out. Steaks aren’t probably the best after-exercise snack, but I was appalled at the idea of not tasting some homemade Southern steaks. (Or as Californians call it, tri-tip.) I also questioned why Jamie, a self-diagnosed health nut, was eating a steak. I decided that he was trying to network with Sam.

  A few minutes later, we sat down, a trio I’d never envisioned in my whole life, considering the fact of Sam’s popularity, Jamie’s eccentricity, and my stubborn personality. Yet with the first bite of somehow delicious meat, I was in a better mood, especially with Sam’s gorgeous eyes occasionally locking with my own. Angrily I realized they were the color of springtime bluebonnets.

  “So, Sam, what movie are you working on?” I asked, my tone too bright. I actually didn’t know the current film he was working on, though Jamie tilted his head as if I were lying.

  “It’s a psychological thriller set in Oxnard. We’re in LA doing the last few weeks of shooting, and then I’m off for a little while. Auditions and such.”

  “That’s cool,” I said, again shoving the jealousy down my throat. While he was off frolicking at Joshua Tree National Park for fun, I dealt with crabby agents and actors—along with a PMS-prone Becki and anxiety-ridden Megg. I repented immediately and remembered I was blessed to have a job at all. “So, James, how did you and Sam meet?”

  “Just recently, actually,” Jamie began. “We were auditioning for a film, same role actually. We got to talking, and now here we are.”

  “Ah,” I said, smiling. You didn’t tell me at all you made personal contact with a famous individual? “Cool.” My limited vocabulary was shining brighter than the sun in the summer solstice. Ugh.

  Jamie and Sam began discussing something I didn’t pay attention to, although I offered the necessary laughter at the appropriate times, and bit my tongue from saying anything too disconcerting or foolish to Sam. When it wasn’t obvious, I watched him as the potato dissolved on my tongue. He seemed down-to-earth as I listened to his rambling about his eco-friendly apartment in the Hollywood Hills. Inwardly I decided he did support democratic socialism.

  When the plates were cleaned of all food, I jumped up to take care of the dishes, needing a respite from the growing accumulation of nerves because of one guy. He appeared behind me a few minutes later, putting things up in cupboards and bringing leftover items for me to wash. I noticed Jamie’s absence.

  “He said he left something in the car.”

  “Did he now?” I turned around and rolled my eyes. I knew what he was up to. “There should be some ice cream in the freezer.”

  “Really? Ice cream? If my agent finds out…”

  “Please tell me you are joking.”

  “Even if she did put that restriction on me, do you think I’d follow the rule?”

  “Since I don’t know you, I’m not sure.”

  “Sharp,” he whispered. Then there was the sound of rummaging from the freezer. “You know, people aren’t like this when they’re around me.”

  “What do you mean?” I wiped off the slop of soapy water from my hands. He was shoveling a giant bite of vanilla ice cream into his mouth.

  “Everyone is different. They treat me as a celebrity, not as who I really am—Sam.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Sam.”

  He moved closer to me, just an inch or so, but it felt like a leap. He raised his eyebrow in my direction. “I mean this as a compliment, Emma. Even if you think I’m just rambling.”

  “Well, if you’re being sincere, thank you. For Jamie’s sake, I will say that it was nice having someone over for dinner, so I don’t have to hear a continuous gaggle over Galaxy Wars rumors.”

  “You see, that’s just part of being an American.”

&
nbsp; “I’m not American, Sam. I’m Texan. There is a big difference.” He seemed to take me seriously, and I rolled my eyes. “Joking. That was a joke.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know how to take you. Hot one moment, cool as ice the next.”

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “Maybe,” he said, turning from me and heading to where Jamie had just entered. He was toying with me, and I narrowed my eyes in his direction.

  “WHAT WAS THAT?” I asked the next morning as I scarfed down a plate of scrambled cheesy eggs, a recipe I’d learned from my dad. It had run through the generations like a dowry. I gazed in disgust at Jamie’s suckling of chocolate berry yogurt.

  “Well, this is chocolate berry…”

  “No, idiot. What was last night? You bring Sam Woodshaw for a casual dinner?”

  “Oh, that. Well, yes. The opportunity was presented to invite a friend over. I can’t help it if you’re so infected with love termites that you treat him like he is the termite. Don’t even begin to roll your eyes at me, Emma.”

  “Don’t give me that motherly lecture voice.”

  “Deal with it. Get used to Sam. I like him, and I think he likes me. So, don’t be surprised if you see him at the apartment. He needs some kind of normalcy in a life like that.”

  “Oh, yeah, money through his ears and Lamborghinis just don’t seem to offer any sense of happiness.”

  “Be nice.”

  “I’m trying.”

  “You’re always mean to people you like. It is a weird disorder called the Emma Richmond Syndrome. Don’t overthink this—get to work, get on with your life.” He tried to hide the smile forming on his lips, but no amount of acting could hide it.