Page 49 of Beneath the Fame

“You’re serious?”

“Uh, yeah.” She nodded. “At least…that’s how it is for me. If I had to come up with everything about the story ahead of time, I’d never get started.”

“I’ve never started without those things,” I told her, shaking my head. “Just the thought of not having that stuff down first is making me feel itchy.”

Vee laughed. “Wow…I knew every writer had their own little process, but…damn.”

“Damn is right,” I chuckled. “You just out here…raw-dogging the script, and still managed to pull off what you did? That’s talent, Vee.”

“Don’t start…”

“I already have,” I teased, tightening my arm around her waist.

“Okay, well stop—this is about you andyourscript right now. So…you said you had scenes, right?”

“That’s pretty much all I have, really.”

“Let’s hear some. I bet at the very least I can help with names.”

She helped with more than names.

By the time we dragged ourselves to the kitchen to eat the takeout we’d had delivered, we had an outline for the whole front half of a full season.

I was quietly tucking into my food, plotting on exactly how I was going to get her tangible credit—not just symbolic—for the way she’d helped me today when I realized she wasn’t eating at all.

“Babe,” I called across the counter to her. “Everything okay?”

She visibly startled when I spoke, letting me know she’d been fully immersed in whatever she was thinking. “Huh? I mean…shit. Yeah, everything is fine. Great, actually.”

My eyes narrowed at her. “You sure? You seemed pretty out of it for a minute there.”

“Just thinking,” she assured. “Well…not exactly thinking, just…musing.”

“About?”

“Us.”

My eyes went wide. “Okay. What about us?” I asked.

“Well…the fact that thereisan us, and despite everything I told myself to squash the possibility…I don’t mind.”

“Exactly what every man wants to hear.”

“Stop!” She laughed, holding up a hand. “That came out wrong. I mean…I was very,veryconvinced that any attempt at anything more than friends, coworkers…I thought it would fail. Because we’re so different.”

“We’re not that different.”

“Which I knownow,” she explained. “Back then?—”

“A month and a half ago?”

“Yes, the ancient day.” She giggled. “I was kinda sorta…guilty of exactly what I hate folks doing to me.”

“Which is what?”

“Putting me in a box. Using my past, my public persona, to decide whoIactually am. I was kinda doing that to you.”

I nodded. “In your defense…I can admit to being a real life cornball from time to time.” I shrugged, and she laughed.

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