"I write Vince on the bottom of mine," he continues, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "As of today, I have yet to lose a shoe."
In the periphery of my vision, I can see Vince turn toward me, his gaze like a physical weight on the side of my face. He's watching for my reaction, waiting for me to crack under the pressure of his ridiculous joke. I might have shot him a glarewithout fully turning my head, a brief flash of defiance that probably goes unnoticed in the harsh studio lights, but I quickly redirect my gaze back to the camera lens, my jaw tight.
"Not joking, Andy," Vince says, and I can still feel his eyes on me, practically pleading for me to respond, begging me to look at him. The name lands like another punch to the gut, but this time I refuse to flinch. His voice is smooth, practiced, but there's something beneath it—a hint of desperation, maybe, a need for validation that he's actually being funny.
"Not even one."
His desperate need for my attention sends an unexpected thrill through me. I bite my bottom lip to suppress a smile, maintaining my focus on the camera despite the urge to turn. There's something about Vince's humor that's starting to get under my skin. It's the stark contrast between his polished appearance and his childish antics.
I wonder if that's his thing, his character. The handsome, professional-looking man who's secretly an overgrown child. I'd never heard of him before this. I don't do social media, and I certainly hadn't researched this project before arriving. I had no idea I was auditioning for a comedy role. The ad simply said they needed a co-host for a reality show. Easy money, no experience required.
Vince takes over leading the script from there, my silence following his second Toy Story jab leaving him no choice.
In the last forty-five minutes, I've been confused, horrified, and, if I'm being honest with myself, slightly amused by this unexpected turn of events.
That's when it hits me—why they're struggling to fill this "easy" role. Vince has probably run off every other candidate. He makes them slip up, grow self-conscious, and ultimately fail the audition. That must be why Gary was so specific about how tointeract with him. Vince is like the final boss in a video game, appearing out of nowhere when you think you've already won.
"And that's essentially how we'll be narrowing down contestants for the next round. Groundbreaking game, right Andy? I'd almost say this is better than hockey, but that's near impossible."
I stay silent.
"Andy..." Vince tries again, his voice softer this time, more insistent. "Hey... Andy..."
I'm intentionally ignoring his attempts, keeping my gaze locked on the camera lens like it's my lifeline in this storm of manufactured chaos. The silence stretches, thin and taut, until I feel it—a sudden pressure on my leg, just above my knee.
His hand, warm and firm, squeezes the flesh where my thigh meets my leg, a quick, deliberate grip that sends a jolt through my entire body. Then, just as suddenly as it appeared, it's gone.
Oh.
Chapter 2
Under the Table
Andrew
Mybreathcatchesinmy throat, the air suddenly thick and heavy. If his goal was to capture my undivided attention, mission accomplished.
My spine snaps straight as if electrified, every nerve ending suddenly alive and humming. I turn toward him, the motion swift and jerky, faster than he seems prepared for. The quick, unguarded look that flashes across his face vanishes before I can fully process it.
He doesn't speak.
The space between us crackles with unspoken words, with the weight of what just happened under the table, invisible to thecameras and crew. I don't speak either, my mouth suddenly dry, the script forgotten in my hands. In this moment, the studio lights fade to background noise, the murmuring of the crew becomes distant static. There's only him, me, and the ghost of his touch still burning against my skin.
My face remains a blank canvas, the muscles frozen in a neutral expression that probably reads as utter bewilderment to anyone watching. I should be reacting, playing along with whatever game Vince has initiated, but my brain has short-circuited.
Vince leans back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over me from head to toe, a slow, deliberate appraisal that feels both invasive and strangely intimate. Then it happens again—that genuine smile, the one that actually reaches his light brown eyes, crinkling the corners in a way that makes my breath catch.
My mind races, trying to make sense of what just happened under the table, away from prying eyes and camera lenses. That touch—it was deliberate, calculated, a deliberate breach of professional boundaries that sent electricity coursing through my veins. Was it just another one of Vince's childish antics, another way to get under my skin and throw me off balance? Or was it something else entirely?
The thought hangs in the air, dangerous and intoxicating.
Is he flirting with me? Here, now, under the harsh studio lights, in front of a crew of strangers who are probably all too familiar with his particular brand of performance? The possibility sends a thrill through me, followed by a wave of self-doubt so intense it nearly knocks me sideways.
"Andy, did I ever tell you about when I used to play street hockey with an empty tuna can back in Minnesota?"
"No, Vince," I sigh, the words escaping before I can stop them, "we just met about half an hour ago." Improv is not my strongsuit, never has been, and in this moment I feel like a fraud playing a role I never auditioned for.
A ripple of laughter ripples through the studio, unexpected and unwelcome. The sound hits me like a physical blow, each chuckle a tiny needle pricking at my skin. I curse myself internally, the words sharp and bitter in my mind. I'm not supposed to be the one making jokes, not the one getting laughs. Gary made that crystal clear—I'm the secondary character, the human laugh track, the prop for Vince's effortless wit. This isn't my moment, but somehow, in this bizarre twist of fate, it's become mine anyway.
