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She stopped at an open door with a silver plaque bearing Sady’s name. The showrunner saw her immediately and waved her in.
“An early bird,” she said. “I love it.”
Everly shrugged. “You can never trust Boston traffic.” Plus, she had been up since six, her nerves buzzing too much for sleep.
“Grab a seat.” Sady gestured to one of two chairs opposite her desk. “My assistant’s out today, but I can order you some coffee if you’d like.”
“I’m okay.” Everly brushed away some lint on her knee in an effort to avoid fussing with her outfit. “The large cold brew I had on the drive up was probably enough caffeine for the rest of the year, but thank you.”
“That stuff’s a gift. It’s gotten me through more than one night shoot.”
Everly wanted to ask if any of those were in her future, but a loud knock interrupted them, and she turned to see Logan shadowed in the doorframe.
The front of his shirt was drenched in water, more of it glistening in his dark hair. All of the highlighting powder was gone, except for a stain of gold in the shell of his left ear.
“Did you swim here?” Sady asked.
He grunted as he shoved a tablet under his arm and closed the door behind him. “One of yourstarsambushed me with her face paint.”
Sady arched an eyebrow. “I heard you volunteered.”
“Are you kidding? She was brandishing that stuff like a weapon.” Shaking his head, Logan dropped into the seat next to Everly. “Can we make this quick? Alan and Ravioli need their walks.”
Everly’s eyes widened. Ravioli? What an amazing name for a pet. Assuming, of course, that was what he meant, and not that he preferred to take his pasta for a jaunt around the block before eating it. “Um… who?”
Sady cracked a grin. “Logan adopts dogs—”
“It’s not important,” he broke in.
Everly cut her eyes to him, only to find him already staring at her. They were close enough for her to see that his blue eyes had streaks of gray, like lightning. “Dogs are always important,” she said.
He grunted (again). “I have two.”
That cleared things right up. But Everly didn’t press him. It might have been kindergarten logic, but if he didn’t want to tell her about his dogs, then she didn’t want to hear about them. Even if, in her head, she was already trying to guess what breed Ravioli was. She mentally cataloged the various kinds of dogs she’d met at her grandmother’s animal sanctuary when she was younger. Which seemed most likely to be a Ravioli? A puggle? A sheepadoodle? An English mastiff?
“So are you… the director?” Everly asked instead. He’d been present when Jazzy and Stanton had surprised her at Matten-Waverly, and here he was again. But this time they weren’t filming.
“No. I’m barely the cameraman.”
Sady snorted. “He says, like he’s not the unofficial DP.”
DP, Everly knew, was short for director of photography. They were in charge of the camera work and lighting, or so she had learned on one of her many Google spirals into TV production over the past few weeks. “Unofficial?”
“Dan McKay is our actual DP,” Sady says, “but he’s—”
“A hack.”
“No—”
“Unreliable.”
“Logan.”
“A complete donkey.”
Everly’s laugh was loud enough that she slapped a hand over her mouth. Her shoulders tensed, and her cheeks burned, and she glanced at Sady and Logan, expecting them to be staring at her in shock or at least looking mildly uncomfortable, but beyond Logan’s arched brow, neither of them reacted. “Sorry. I’ve just never heard anyone say the word ‘donkey’ with such gravity.”
“Is ass better? I was trying to be professional.” His beard moved a little, like he might be fighting off a smile.
