Cougar (Chauvinist Stories #2) - Elise Faber

One

Artemis, Five Years Before

He didn’t know I was a woman.

That was wont to happen with a name like—

“Artie?”

I didn’t hold it against the young male director for staring around the room—devoid of people except for the two of us—in confusion for several long moments. With a name like Artie, I was often confused for a man. Especially considering that I was in the movie business, and specifically production, which was a male-dominated field.

Though I had to give it to him, he recovered quickly.

His smile was charming, his looks even more so, but . . . I was going to give him bad news.

I couldn’t stand his films.

Any of them.

He was talented, an up-and-coming young director who could barely grow a beard, but he had vision, he was smart, and he could shoot a movie.

They just weren’t for me.

And so, I was going to pass on this project.

Probably stupid, considering he was going to be the next hot thing in Hollywood, but also . . . that was me—not the stupid part, but the going with my heart and gut and never working on a film that I wasn’t passionate about.

I’d promised myself that before getting back into the industry, after spending way too much of my childhood in the limelight, and I’d kept that promise for the last sixteen years.

My films showcased women in strong, fulfilling roles. They featured talented female comedians and people of all colors, genders, and sexual orientations.

I made films that weren’t Hollywood. Insert the air quotes here. But it was true. They weren’t what Hollywood typically made—huge budgets, lots of action and explosions. Not that there was anything wrong with those movies. I loved a good shoot-em-up.

But I wasn’t passionate about making them.

It wasn’t pandering, me producing these kinds of films. Audiences understood when they were being played.

They also understood genuine.

I’d built my career on that notion, and I’d become successful. But it had taken a solid ten years of working and hustling—and did I mention hustling—before I’d become well-known enough for producing and not simply being part of a infamous family and that I’d actually made some money.

And also four Oscars, but I didn’t need to brag.

Snorting to myself, I lifted my brows and raised my glass to my lips.

“You’re Artie.” Pierce Daniels, the aforementioned handsome, young director, answered his own question and sat in the chair opposite me.

It was late-afternoon in L.A., the restaurant we were in was one of my favorites, and I’d become fancy and important enough—ha—that they’d let me come in before they opened. Fancy and important had its perks, though this particular perk was mostly because I liked the chef—female, insanely good with all things carb-related (which was a feat sometimes in the land of Hollywood), and driven—and so I’d become a silent partner in the restaurant.

“I’m Artie,” I confirmed. “Nice to meet you, Pierce.”

He pulled out a laptop and I laughed internally. God, I loved energetic new blood, loved he was so excited about this project that he’d brought materials to go over. I’d been in the industry long enough to be jaded and cynical.

Pierce had exactly the kind of enthusiasm we needed in this town.

“Thanks for meeting with me,” he said, powering up the computer. “I loved In For a Penny”—the first film I’d produced that had made its way to the awards circuit and also had garnered me my first Oscar—“but I think my favorite is actually Into the Fire.”

I smiled. “Thanks for saying that.” I set my glass on the table. “I was able to screen your most recent film. It’s going to be a hit.”

Notice I didn’t subscribe to false flattery.

Objectively, I didn’t like his movies.

However, that didn’t mean I was immune to the knowledge that he was supremely talented.

He froze for a minute, studying me closely, and I was locked in place by a pair of the prettiest eyes I’d ever seen. Stormy gray with indigo bisecting their depths. Those irises darkened, understanding clouding his expression.

Click.

The laptop shut.

“It’s a no,” he announced, sitting back in his chair almost haphazardly.

I frowned.

“You’re a no on the film.”

My fingers circled the stem of my water glass. “It’s a no,” I agreed. “Probably the stupidest no I’ll ever give, considering how successful you’ll be in the next year or two.” I lifted the cup to my lips, took a sip. “But the script just isn’t something I’ll ever make.”

A lock of brown hair drifted over his forehead, giving the twenty-something-year-old director the appearance of someone even younger.

He brushed it