Page 9 of Sidelined By Love

Rats.

I snake my hand out from under the covers and jerk the phone to my face. One text message. From Caro. Who knows me well enough to start with an apology.

I’m sorry. I know it’s stupid early there, but you need

That’s all my lock screen shows, and I punch at it until the crazy thing opens up. I have not one but five texts from my best friend.

I’m sorry. I know it’s stupid early there, but you need to get your hands on this script.

I’m serious. The buzz on set is crazy. I guess the script leaked, and it’s got Oscar-bait written all over it.

I heard Jen Lawrence is going for it.

Margot too.

But this role is made for you.

I have absolutely no idea what she’s talking about, and I don’t care. She, of all people, should know that my career is over. Down the toilet. Fully flushed.

I’m not hiding out in Colorado Springs for my health.

Not the way Nan serves up pasta and garlic bread. And dessert.

Though I’m not complaining.

But I can’t keep my thumbs from starting a quick question in response. Because I used to work in the industry. It’s natural that I’d be a little bit curious about a script that everyone’s talking about.

Before I get more than a couple letters typed onto my phone, a bowling ball jumps on my stomach. “Oof!” I jerk upright and swing my blanket down so I can stare into droopy eyes.

“Morning to you too, Bronco.”

He gives a little wiggle, dancing from one of my thighs to the other, his pointy little paws announcing that it is clearly time for a trip outside.

“We are not making a habit out of this,” I grumble as I wrap a blanket around my shoulders and slide into my conveniently located slippers. I’m not going to make that mistake again.

I’m pretty sure the chances of running into Grant Reddington and Fluffy two days in a row are as good as me winning the Lombardi Trophy. And since I’ve forgotten Bronco’s leash in the kitchen again, I let him out into the yard, promising myself I’ll stay close.

But the dog only has one move. And it’s sniffing everything.

He sets off for the same bushes he had to inspect yesterday morning, and I give in to the insistent question about the script pounding in my brain.

When I call Caro, she answers on the first ring. “Did I wake you up?”

“Yes.” I conveniently leave out Bronco’s role in getting me out of bed. She’ll pretend to be sorry, but I know she’ll actually be pleased with herself.

“Well, it’s gonna be worth it. Don’t you think?”

“Don’t I think what?”

Caro sighs dramatically like no one has ever vexed her as I do. “The script! Everyone on set is talking about it. Ev. Ree. One.”

We met on the set of my first film. I was seventeen. Caro de la Cruz was twenty-one. My dad owns a football team. Hers worked nights to put her through cosmetology school. And there’s no one else I trust with my hair and makeup on set. After that first film, I asked for her on my second. It didn’t take long for us to become a package deal.

After three blockbusters, four indies, two psychological thrillers, and countless hours in her chair, we can almost read each other’s minds.

But not this morning.

“Are you trying to be obtuse?”

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