“Aww, you’ll get used to it soon,” I squeeze her arm. “Think of it like a vacation.”
Hazel gives me a wry look. “You’ve clearly never worked on a movie before.”
I glance around, noting the grand scale. “They’re really going all out for this, huh?”
“That’s not always a good thing,” Hazel makes a face, but before I can ask what she means, the meeting breaks up, and Reeve heads over. He’s every inch the tortured artist: Tall and slim in dark jeans and a hoodie, with a pair of massive headphones looped around his neck, radiating a wiry, intense energy.
“I was thinking, about the ball scene at Netherfield—” he begins, and Hazel snorts, and gives him a good-natured smack on the arm.
“’Welcome, JJ, so glad you could make it,’” she says, exaggerated. “How was your trip? Is there anything you need?”
“I was going to get to that,” Reeve grumbles. He’s already got shadows under his eyes, and his dark hair is sticking out at wild angles. “But really, about this scene…”
“Give me the pages, and I’ll take a look,” I promise—and then let out a massive yawn. “Sorry, guys, I thought I’d sleep on the flight, but… That didn’t happen.”
Because I was too busy quaffing champagne and watching movies from my fully reclining seat. Whoops.
“Anna!” Reeve yells, and a second later, she materializes. “Can you take JJ back to the hotel for a nap before rehearsal?”
“Please.” Both Hazel and I add at the same time.
Reeve sighs, running a hand through his hair. “The ‘Please’ is implied!”
We’re interrupted by one of the tech guys. “Can you come check the boards for tomorrow?” he asks, and Reeve turns on his heel and leaves without another word.
“He seems… Stressed,” I note with a wince. “On day one?”
“Technically, it’s day eighty-five for him,” Anna corrects me, as I say goodbye to Hazel and follow Anna through the maze of hallways, and back out of the house. “Pre-production has been a bit of a battle with the movie studio bosses, they’re all still fighting over the budget.”
So that’s what Hazel meant about more money, more problems.
“But Reeve will win, right?” I ask. “You can’t do a period production on the cheap. It needs to be lush, and lavish and… Expensive.”
“That’s what he keeps telling them,” Anna agrees. “But the suits have other ideas. They’re even sending some corporate bean-counter down to set to look over his shoulder,” she adds grimly.
“Because that’ll help Reeve’s nerves,” I crack.
Anna stops by an electric golf cart. “Your chariot awaits,” she says, gesturing.
“No way!” I laugh, delighted.
“With the hotel so close, it’s the easiest way to get around,” she explains, hopping on behind the wheel. I settle beside her, and we whoosh off with a whir. “Plus, since the speed of these things tops out at fifteen miles an hour, there’s way less chance of a sleep-deprived late-night crash!”
The cart takes us back down the winding driveway, and then off a side road, until we reach a sprawling country house-style hotel. “We bought out the whole place,” Anna explains. We reclaim my baggage from the front desk and wrangle it up to my room. “Guy and the other stars are in the big suites, and the rest of us… Well, the place has historic charm,” she warns me, “But also historic plumbing.”
“How historic are we talking?” I cringe, remembering my study abroad experience and the ice-cold morning showers.
“Your ensuite is having issues,” she clarifies. “But the front desk assured me their handyman has it next on his list. In the meantime, the hall bath is nice and functional.”
I sigh with relief. “I’ll take functional any day.”
“You’re a peach,” Anna beams, leading me off the elevator and down a crooked attic hallway with faded floral wallpaper. “You’re at the end there. Number fourteen. You’ve got my number if you need anything. Read-through is at four. Remember those pages for Reeve!”
I turn the old-fashioned key in the lock and let out a sigh of pleasure as I take in the small, charming space. My room is buried under the eaves, with a view over the countryside, and a clutter of quirky antique furniture to go with the mismatched floral bedspread. I flop down on the bed, and let out an almighty yawn…
RING. RING.
I lift my head, groggy, as the ringing sound echoes through my room. What the hell..?
The noise continues, until I realize it’s coming from the room phone. I fumble with the handset, still half-asleep. What time is it?
“Hello?” I mumble. It’s still light outside. Or did I just sleep through until tomorrow morning? Or is that, today?
“Miss Jameson?” a chirpy voice is on the other end. “This is your wakeup call. Anna says a cart will collect you in thirty minutes for the afternoon read-through.”
“Thank you,” I manage with a sigh of relief. I drop the handset, and sit up, rubbing my eyes. Apparently, I’ve just slept for the past two hours, but I feel like I’ve been dragged backwards through a hedge, as the English like to say.
And, according to the mirror, I look like it, too.
I find a Diet Coke in the minibar fridge, and guzzle it down, before grabbing my bath stuff and heading to the bathroom down the hall.
“Hello?” I call, politely tapping the door. There’s no reply, so I scoot inside, relieved to find it’s a renovated shower with gleaming marble and plenty of hot water. Soon, I’m under the jets, letting the water pummel my tired limbs and bring me back to life again before my first big work meeting.
I’ve got my work cut out for me; I can already tell. Reeve seems like he’s under pressure, and we haven’t even started the cameras rolling yet. But his script is beautiful, a real faithful adaptation of the book, and I like to think that my advice has had more than a little to do with that. I mean, the first time we talked, he wondered if we even needed all the Bennett sisters, or if a few of them could be combined! Not to mention his idea that Darcy and Wickham could have a dramatic duel, swords and all.
You can bet I set him straight on that soon enough.
I’m just stepping out of the shower, reaching for my towel, when suddenly, the bathroom door swings open.
I let out a shriek, stark naked and dripping wet in the middle of the room.
“Shit, sorry!” A looming, bearded man exclaims, as I dive for the nearest piece of fabric. Which happens to be a hand towel. Dammit. I clutch it to me anyway, and just about cover my breasts and crotch with the tiny square.
“What are you doing?” I yelp, realizing the towering stranger is still frozen there, getting an eyeful of, well, pretty much everything. “Get out!”
“Aye, of course.” He mumbles. “Sorry Jolene.”
The door slams behind him, and I grab my robe, belting it tightly around me—
Jolene.
I stop dead, my brain finally catching up with my eyes—and ears. The glimpse of a tall, broad-shouldered frame. Tawny hair. That familiar Scottish burr.