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Hell, I wasn’t sure what to call this. Leaning his head back, he smiled up at me.
That. That right there. He made me feel something I couldn’t label yet also couldn’t ignore. All tight and hot in the chest and floppy in my joints and soft in the brain. I’d thought I’d known what a crush was—something a little more than lust, a want to get to know someone or spend time around them. Not this. This was running the grinder course in the blazing sun, a weak-kneed dehydrated gut-punched feeling. A crush could be put off, forgotten for a time. This, whatever this was, was so much more than a crush, the difference between having heat stroke and being mildly sweaty.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Me? I’m fine.” Could he tell? Was it that obvious that I was floundering in unfamiliar feelings?
“Sit down before you fall over,” he ordered, voice sterner than I’d heard it in a while. This was the showrunner, Mr. Bigshot, the guy used to being listened to, and strangely enough, it settled me. I sat down next to him, and he handed me one of the water bottles I’d brought up with the tools. “Drink.”
“Yes, boss.” I loved how the nickname always made him smile, a small secret sort of smile. It was something of an inside joke at this point, but the nickname was also the truth. I might look all big and scary, and I enjoyed being in control on missions, but around him, I was a swimmer far out of my depth, trying hard not to drown as I followed his lead.
“Don’t scare me like that again.”
You terrify me all the time. I thought it but couldn’t quite find the courage to voice the confession.
“Sorry. Not gonna fall overboard,” I said instead. “Promise. I was just lost in thought.”
“Penny for your thoughts. Wait, that’s a low bid. I’ll do the dinner dishes.”
“It’s nothing. Just…” Hell. Could I tell him something I couldn’t even fully explain to myself?
“Yeah?”
“A lot of times on missions, we need to climb to see where we are, get a lay of the land, scout possible dangers and routes.” I lacked the right words to say how it felt like I was seeing him for the first time, but falling back on military talk was somewhat easier.
“Perspective.” Ambrose nodded slowly.
“Exactly. For a moment, it felt like I could see forever.”
“Oh.” His eyes widened. “That’s beautiful. Oh man. Can I steal that line?”
“If it makes any sense, sure.” I probably should have added with you to the line, but there was a limit to even my courage.
“It makes perfect sense. There’s a certain clarity up here. Something about the view seems to invite big thoughts.”
“You having your own thinky thoughts?” Maybe if he were thinking the same sort of things as me, this would be less scary. Maybe he could explain it better, give it a proper label, and I could—
“I’m going to have to go back,” he said with a chilling finality that made me damn glad I was already sitting.
Chapter Thirty
Ambrose
A strange certainty had come over me, a calmness that hadn’t been there prior. I stared out over the horizon, the endless acres of evergreen trees, the craggy mountains dominating everything, making me feel small. But not powerless. Rather, I felt in tune with the landscape, able to harness eons of courage and audacity.
“I’m not giving up on the show without a fight. I want to fight to save it, not simply wait passively for the cancellation to come.”
“Good. Good for you.” He nodded sharply. But there was something wooden about his tone that hadn’t been there before. He’d been talking about perspective and clarity, and I’d thought he’d meant generically, but perhaps I’d missed some subtext.
“Are you all right? I didn’t mean to change the subject. If there was more you wanted to share…”
“Nah. I’m good. Tell me more about how you’re going to fight.” He smiled, but his eyes didn’t crinkle as much as usual. Heck.
“Later, I’ll get you to talk more, but I realized I’ve been leaving all the negotiating and arguing to Cressida, thinking she’s better suited for it. In reality, though, no one can defend this show as well as I can.”
“That’s a fact.” Reaching over, Harley squeezed my knee. Below us, Hercules cavorted in the animal paddock, and a breeze rippled the scrubby grass. Up here, my certainty felt less like an inflated ego and more like a truth I’d been avoiding.
“I have to try. I have to present my case for them to keep the show. I can’t rely on Cressida’s secondhand emails. That’s what I meant by going back. I need to ask…no, demand an in-person meeting. And I’m sorry if that means cutting our stay here short. I’ll email the powers that be, try to get a meeting set up at a convenient—”
