script sitting before me to find Johnny Johnston sitting down directly to my right. “I’m Johnny,” he greets, and a soft smile moves across his lips.
“Birdie,” I say and reach out my hand to shake his. I’ve seen him star in several movies and I’ve seen his face on more than a few magazine covers, and just like Andrew, he’s even more attractive in person. Which, with the way things are photoshopped these days, is saying a lot. The way the news spins it, all of these guys should be half-Martian in person.
“It’s nice to finally meet you, Birdie,” he says, and his mesmerizing blue eyes are kind and serene—a welcome distraction from the petrified energy running through my veins.
“Likewise.”
“This is your first big movie, right?” he asks, and I nod.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Unfortunately?” His striking face morphs into confusion, and a soft chuckle leaves his full lips. “Why do you say it like that?”
“Because I’m nervous as hell.”
He grins at that and offers a friendly pat to my hand that now rests on the table. “Don’t worry, everyone feels that way with not just their first movie, but every movie. It might get less and less over time, but there’s always at least a small amount of nervous energy when starting a new project.”
I appreciate his kind words, but it’s easy to make that statement when you’re well established in this business and have been around the movie block a time or two. I mean, Johnny Johnston has starred in all sorts of famous films. He’s basically one of Hollywood’s Golden Boys.
“I really hope you’re right,” I respond with a hesitant smile, and his grin grows wider.
“Trust me, you’re going to be great,” he says. “And if you ever feel uncertain about something or want some advice, don’t hesitate to find me. I’m more than happy to help.”
“Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
And God, I do hope he’s right. I hope I will be great in Grass Roots because the scenarios of me ruining this film that are currently rolling around inside my brain are freaking terrifying.
Horrible movie reviews.
Lackluster box office sales.
My entire career going up in flames.
You name it, and I’m thinking about it.
“Good morning, everyone,” Howie announces with a large smile on his face as he settles into the seat at the head of the table, drawing everyone’s attention. Short dark hair, a kind face, and tranquil green eyes, Howie King is what I would call classically handsome. He’s not quite superhuman like my male costars, but in the real world, he’d be considered a dang good catch. “Is it just me, or is today a fan-fucking-tastic day?” he asks, and everyone around the table chuckles softly.
“This movie means a lot to me,” he continues, and his smile turns cheeky. “So, if you fuck it up, I’m going to be pissed. No pressure, though.”
Serena, our producer, laughs and shakes her head. “Nice, Howie.”
He just keeps on grinning. “Shall we get started?”
“I think getting started sounds like a grand idea, How,” Andrew chimes in, and my eyes move toward the other end of the table, where the devil himself sits. “I mean, I didn’t wake up at five in the fucking morning to listen to you ramble.”
“God forbid we interrupt your beauty sleep schedule. My apologies,” Howie taunts back, and Andrew smirks.
“Apology accepted.”
I roll my eyes. My short chat with Johnny in combination with my damn nerves had me blissfully unaware of Andrew’s presence in this room, but now, it’s impossible to miss him. He sits in his seat all kicked-back, relaxed, and cool. His dark hair is slightly disheveled in an appealing “sex hair” kind of way, his teeth are still as white as ever when he flashes them in the form of a megawatt smile at Howie, and his eyes are bright and mischievous.
I would say he looks really fucking good, but I’ve sworn in a new policy in my Mental Health Company handbook that prohibits the use of positive adjectives about him.
Ever since he texted me a week ago about a flower delivery, he’s been sending me random messages every damn day. Pictures of the stupid flowers I didn’t send, letting me know they’re still alive—even though I couldn’t care less. Selfies of his big stupid face, showing me that the bruising is almost gone or asking me if I like his new haircut. And one time, he even sent me a message about being stuck in traffic, to which I responded, I don’t care.
To which he