“I can’t think of anyone—well, what about Laney Boyle? I haven’t seen her in a while, and shehatedyou when you landed that sci-fi thriller. What was it called?Origins Now?Origins Point?”
“Zero Hour: Origins.” She’d hated filming that one. They were always so cold and wet. “Laney married a gazillionaire and is pretending to be a trad wife in the Midwest. She’s got a whole reality, social media thing going on with five kids and a hidden fleet of nannies. She no longer has any interest in our kind ofshow business. That, and I think it was someone else that Laney disliked.”
Abigail nibbled a croissant. “Oh. What about… No. Hmm. Jeez, Jules. People adore you. It’s kinda gross how likable you are.”
“Thanks, Abs.”
“I’m serious.”
“I like the people I work with. I like the work they do. Someday, it won’t always be me on the marquee, and I want to see my friends and coworkers get it too.” She took another bite. “Besides, it’s too much work to be a cunt waffle.”
“I bet it’s not that hard.” Abigail chewed her French toast. “What would you do if you weren’t acting?”
“Like if Retire Guy got his way?”
“No. Fuck that guy. And can we stop calling him that? It’s so stupid. What I mean is if you didn’t have any films that caught your eye.”
“I already told you. I’d be a spy.”
“Who would you even sneak around for? CIA? NSA? The Actors Guild?”
Jules shrugged. “I’d live someplace where everyone knows my name but not because of whatever’s on Netflix. And I’d hang out with my fellow spies, reading romances and drinking lattes with extra foam.”
“Oh, you want to spy in a small town. Maybe for the PTA. Or the neighborhood watch. You could form a posse to discover who doesn’t pick up after their dog. Then you’d be a hero spy.”
“Your spy ideas are awful,” Jules said as she swirled her French toast in syrup. “But I’m serious about the small town. I want to live somewhere with an indie bookstore with a killer romance section and cozy stuffed chairs—and no Retire Guy for miles and miles.”
“Again, we need to retire that name. It’s like a bad moniker penned during a D-list screenwriting camp.”
“Forget I brought him up.” Jules chewed a bite. “How’s work surviving without you? Have you checked in?”
“No. I’m sure they’re selling boats fine without me.”
“Well, you’re not in sales,” Jules pointed out. “So, they probably are.”
“The paperwork will be piled up.” Abigail grinned. “Invoices and spreadsheets are my happy place. Almost as good as a pukey island vacation.”
“You’re not puking now. Want to go snorkeling with us later today?”
“Um, no, thank you. I can’t imagine how you two would snorkel.”
Rhys snorted into his coffee.
“I heard that.” Abigail pointed at the man as silent laughter shook his chest. “Let’s go shopping. It’ll be fun, so long as you two don’t sneak off into a dressing room or something.”
“We’re not sneaking off anywhere.”
“Given how pink your cheeks have been during this entire meal, I don’t believe you.”
Their waitress returned and asked, “Anything else I can get for you?”
“Nope. Just the check,” Abigail said.
The waitress smiled, pivoting to face their table and Rhys’s. “Actually, someone covered your bill. They said to tell you, ‘Happy retirement.’ Congrats. You’re good to go. Have a great day.”
Jules locked eyes with Rhys.
“Thanks,” Abigail said, though her voice faltered.
