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I stare at it in confusion. “What’s this?”
“Well, I’m the director.” His voice carries an air of superiority that has my hackles rising. “I’m giving you a list of tired tropes that I hate—I’d avoid them if you want us to play nice.” He literally sounds like he’s threatening me.
“Lincoln, you’redirectingtheater students who will be acting outmyscript. You’re hardlymydirector.”
He gives me a hard look. “Semantics.”
Just then, the barista walks over and places a steaming mug in front of Lincoln. “Extra hot,” she chirps.
He winks, and she flutters her eyelashes at him.Gag.Apparently, this is Lincoln’s world, and we’re all just living in it.
“You couldn’t give me your notesbeforeI started writing my screenplay?” Not that I would have taken them into consideration.
He just shrugs and takes a tentative sip of his drink. “I didn’t have time to write them up before. I’m really busy.”
“For fuck’s sake.” I mutter.
I straighten the papers in front of me before placing them flat and sliding them across the table. I write to rein in my anxiety. My ideas for this project are very personal, and I hate that he’s the one who will read it first—and, no doubt, judge it based on the list he just shoved down my throat.
Lincoln ignores the stack of papers and blows on his drink as if he has all the time in the world. But my irritation stalls when I look down at the mug, puzzled.
“Is that black tea?” I ask, peering at the little tag on the end of the string.
“Yes,” he says, wrapping his long fingers around the cup. “Why are you staring at it?”
“Well first, you strike me as a coffee drinker.”
“I like both,” he interrupts defensively.
“And second,” I say with a wide grin, “is that Earl Grey? Like Picard’s drink fromStar Trek?”
His eyebrows rise. “Are you making fun of me?”
“Yes,” I quip. “You deserve it.”
He glares at me and taps his nails against the mug pensively. “What doyouknow aboutStar Trek?”
“I’m no Trekkie but I’ve seenStar Trek, Next Gen,” I say. “I suppose I don’t look like the typical demographic though. But neither do you.”
“Fair enough,” he says.
Then his eyes lose focus and he smiles.
Actually smiles.
And I almost stop breathing. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. Under the table, his leg grazes mine. My heart rate kicks up at the contact.
But you hate him. He’s a jerk.
I stare at him, my throat feeling sticky and dry as I swallow. Something about this moment is different, like our conversation triggered a memory. I take a large gulp of my coffee, then sputter when the hot liquid scalds my throat.
Smooth.
Lincoln looks amused.
“I used to watch it with my mom as a kid,” he says, shrugging. “I idolized Picard—he was such a hard-ass, and so calm under pressure, but always loyal to a fault—so I even started drinking his tea of choice.”
My eyes widen. “Did you just disclose something personal?”
