Page 1 of Best Friends for Never

Chapter One

Noel

“I love you. Don’t you see that, Josette? I love you, but I can’t wait forever. So tell me you love me, too, or this is over.”

“I ...” She rolls her tongue over her bottom lip, her baby-blue eyes boring into me. Her honey-blond hair doesn’t move an inch as she shakes her head. “It’s not that simple, Riley.”

“It is.” I slide my palm over her cheek, cupping her face as she nuzzles into my touch. “Itisthat simple, Josette. Love me back.Please.”

Her lips part, those words I want her to say sitting on the tip of her tongue.

But they never come.

No, it’s something far more jarring.

“Cut!”

Like a rubber band being snapped against a wrist, the world is brought back into focus, and the set buzzes to life around me.

You’d think I’d be used to it after spending the last ten years on various movie and TV show sets, but getting lost in the world of make-believe is easier than some people think.

“Bridget, that was amazing!” The director shoves his headphones off, letting them fall around his neck, then rises from his chair and crosses over to me and my costar. His eyes are big, bright, and excitedas he stares down at the woman next to me. “You were flawless. The emotion ... It was breathtaking. Heartfelt. Gut-wrenchingly perfect. Everything I was looking for. I have no notes. Just give me that same thing for the next take.”

He pauses, then sucks in a deep breath before turning to me. That sheen of excitement? It’s gone, and I know I won’t like what I hear next.

Just like I haven’t liked it the last eleven times he’s come over here. We’ve run this scene repeatedly, and he’s still unhappy. But then again, so am I.

“Noel,” he starts, disappointment lacing each letter of my short name. Seriously, how is it possible he sounds that displeased in just one syllable? “Listen, that was good. Really good. It’s just ...”

Another heavy inhale. Another dramatic pause as he steeples his fingers together, resting them under his chin, his lips falling into a flat line.

I grind my teeth. If my agent could see me right now, he’d smack me upside the head for messing with my moneymaking smile. Then again, he’s not the one having to stand here and get criticized in front of an entire set when you’ve just given the performance your everything.

“I needmore,” he continues, pointing his steepled hands at me. “It’s still coming off a bit stiff. I’m not feeling that ... emotion, thatdepth. We need those to make the audience believe this is real. You need to be on the same level as Bridget here, or else the audience won’t root for you two, and we need them to root for you. Got it?”

He’s talking to me like I’m a child. Like he’s the one in charge. And I guess, technically, he is in charge here. This is his movie. His shit show. I’m just starring in it.

My first instinct is to tell him he’s a fool if he thinks anyone will believe this trash writing is real. That he must be higher than giraffe titties if he thinks this is going to make viewers do anything except laugh or hide behind their hands with secondhand embarrassment.

That wasn’t a heartbreaking scene. It wasn’t a tear-jerking moment. It was a demanding one—a love-me-or-else sort of scene. At this point,Idon’t even want to root for my character.

But I’ve been in the industry long enough to know that my first instinct when it comes to a director is usually not the direction I should be going if I want to keep the peace and remain employed.

Play it safe, Noel. Always play it safe, especially when millions of dollars are on the line.

So that’s what I do.

I nod, then shoot him my best smile—the one I always save for the cameras—and tell him, “You got it, David.”

He seems relieved, squeezing my shoulder. “Thanks, Noel. You’re the best. We’re going again in five.” He marches back to his assistants and the crew, already barking orders.

Our makeup artists rush onto the scene, their brushes poised and ready, as I turn back to my costar and they begin caking on our powder to help cover up the sweat forming at our hairlines.

“You good?” Bridget asks, not even flinching at the brush near her right eye.

“I’m good,” I lie to Bridget, ignoring it as they pat here and there so I’m not shiny from all the sweating I’m doing. Why the hell did we have to film in Georgia again? In the middle of June? It’s humid and hot even with us shooting indoors on the soundstage, all thanks to the unbearable heat outside, and I’m getting increasingly agitated as the day progresses. I’m from the Pacific Northwest. I’m not used to the mugginess the South provides.

She arches a brow. “Are you, though? That was ...” She slides her eyes over to the director, who is now yelling at Darius, a PA who probably hasn’t done a damn thing wrong.

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