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“I appreciate the consideration, but if we’re going to get through these scripts today, I need this.” I kick off my shoes and curl up in my favorite oversized chair, coffee and script in hand.
“Fair enough. Let’s do this.” He opens the first script, glances at the title page, and tosses it on the table.
“That was quick.”
“I read it last month. It’s decent, but nothing to write home about. If you want a blockbuster, we need to find something better.” He looks through the rest of the stack I’ve compiled over the two months, discarding most of the scripts.
“I’m guessing those are the ones you like,” I say, looking at the two remaining scripts he put on the seat next to himself.
“Not sure yet. These I haven’t read. Do you have a favorite?” He picks them up and holds them out to me.
“The Serpent’s Kiss,” I say without hesitation. I hadn’t been able to put it down, and the book had been on the bestseller lists for months.
“Alright, let’s see if it can beat Radiant. It’s on top of your pile." He motions with his coffee to the papers in my lap.
We spend the next hour skimming the scripts, each of us leaving the other’s favorite until last.
“It’s got a good hook, I’ll give you that,” Joe says, trying to hide another yawn behind the pages he's holding up to his face.
“It only gets better from here,” I promise. “I can get Cara to make a fresh pot of coffee if you need a refill.” I almost feel sorry for the man. Between the lack of caffeine and jet lag, he’s struggling to keep his eyes open. At least, I hope that’s it and not my favorite script of the bunch.
“That’s okay. I’ll go grab a donut, though. Want one?” He stands and stretches his arms, lifting the linen shirt, leaving enough that I get a glimpse at his abdomen. From the look of it, he still spent plenty of time at the gym, and he has a better tan than I do.
“Fiona? Do you want a donut?”
“Sure. Whatever’s left is fine.” I bury my face in the script, scanning the last few pages.
By the time he returns, I’ve regained my composure and had a stern chat with my heart, or hormones, or whatever is causing the butterflies in my stomach to spring to life anytime Joe so much as looks at me.
“Is Boston Cream still your favorite?” he asks, handing me a donut covered in chocolate ganache.
I set it beside me. “You remember?” It’s been what? Eight years since we graduated high school and went our separate ways to go to college?”
“Of course. After that night, we stayed up to watch the lunar eclipse. How could I ever forget?”
“Don’t.” It was the night he told me he loved me. I couldn’t go there. Too much heartache lay down that road.
“Fiona.” His tone was soft, and he was much too close, still a mere step away from my chair.
“Don’t. Sit. Let’s get back to work.” I wave in the general direction of the couch and let out a small sigh of relief when he does as asked.
“How do you want to do this?” Joe asks, his eyes guarded.
“Why don’t we each eliminate one and then give the other two a more careful read?”
“That’s not what I was talking about,” he says.
“I know.” I secure the binder clip on the papers and toss the bundle with the rest of the discarded screenplays before biting into my donut.
“Alright, but we should talk about this sometime.”
We read quietly, Joe hiding more and more yawns before finally giving up and barely covering his mouth. It’s all I can do not to join in. The sugar and coffee are helping.
“Fiona, there’s a call for you. Something about the next season of Horton’s Cove,” Cara says when she pokes her head into the room.
“I’ll be right back.”
By the time I return to the room, he’s stretched out on the couch, snoring softly, a page of the script I love laying on his face. The piece of paper moves gently with each breath he takes.
