Page 56 of Bottle Shock
“So…grass.” Lily was right.
He glances up, smirking. “Mostly fruit. Only a little grass.” He winks, rinses another glass, and fills it halfway. “Want some?”
“I prefer my greens covered in butter next to a steak.”
“Live a little.” He slides the glass toward me, his fingers grazing the counter just shy of mine before he turns back to the stove. “Just a sip. For me.”
Not sure how I’m supposed to say no to that. I sniff it. It smells kind of fruity, kind of earthy. One sip and—okay, fine—it’s not awful. “It’s not the worst thing I’ve ever had. But it’s still way too healthy for my taste.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He gives the waffle iron a decisive click and glances over his shoulder. “You good? Sleep okay?”
“Until your daughter went full Exorcist beside my bed.”
He laughs, a low, warm sound that slides right under my ribs. “She used to do that to me, too. Woke up once to her nose touching mine. Nearly threw her across the room.”
“She’s got horror-movie timing. You should be proud.”
“I am.” His eyes crinkle when he smiles. “Sorry for sending her after you. She was supposed to knock.”
Before I can respond, my phone buzzes on the counter where I set it down. My agent’s name flashes across the screen, and my stomach flips.
“Sorry—give me a sec.” I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Scottie! You alive?” Russell’s voice is way too chipper for this hour—but then again, he’s a couple of time zones ahead.
“Barely,” I mumble, stepping toward the window.
“Great. I’ve got good news, which means I get to be loud. Remember the Off Script Collective? Big on sketch and improv hybrids? They saw your reel and loved it.”
Off Script. My old company’s biggest rival.
I stop breathing. “You’re serious?”
“Very. Their feature just booked a TV writers’ room, and they need a sub for eight weeks. They asked for you by name.”
My pulse does a stupid little drum solo. “Oh my God.”
“Rehearsals start in October. Thursdays through Saturdays. Paid. Maybe a few teaching gigs if you want them. They’d like to meet over video conference today or tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow works,” I say automatically, because I’ll need some time to prepare.
He hums, pleased. “Noon good?”
“Noon is perfect.”
“Brush your hair, put on some makeup,” he says. “Or don’t. Just look like someone they’d pay.”
“Copy that.”
“Happy for you, kid. Text me after.”
When I hang up, I’m smiling like an idiot. The words replay in my head, realer each time:They asked for you.
Gavin’s watching me from across the kitchen, spatula in one hand, waffle iron steaming beside him. There’s batter on his forearm and a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “Good news?”
“The best,” I say, laughing under my breath. “I’ve got apotential offer. A short-run show. They actually asked for me.”
His smirk eases, the brightness in his eyes dimming just a little. “That’s incredible, Scottie.”
