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  Her stomach rumbled with the invitation. “All of them?”

  Miles laughed, turning his eggs. “Great. All of them it is.”

  “You look about a million times better than yesterday,” Sloane said.

  “Thanks. You too.” Another laugh. “Scheisse, that was rough.”

  Sloane walked over to the cupboard, got a glass, filled it with water from the Brita, then swallowed it in a series of long and uninterrupted gulps. After she set her glass on the counter, she sat on a barstool and rubbed her head. “It might be the dehydration, and it’s definitely not yesterday’s migraine, but I still have a headache and I feel a little confused. You want to help me fill in the blanks?”

  “Sure thing. Like?”

  “Like, no offense, but why are you here?”

  “That one’s easy. I was feeling lousy as merde last night, but in a misery-loves-company sort of mood. I figured you were probably having a time with Jolie and could maybe use some help.”

  “That was thoughtful.”

  “It was only around six or so, but you were already out. And I mean out. Snoring like a juggling team full of chainsaws. You know how—”

  “I get it, Miles. Thanks.”

  “Unfortunately for Connor, he had never seen Castle in the Water before, so Jolie talked him into watching it.”

  “Him or Orson?”

  “Well, Orson. But he was chill about it.”

  “He’s chill about everything.”

  “Yeah.” Miles nodded, sliding freshly scrambled eggs onto a plate then delivering them to Sloane. “Good guy.”

  “He is, but what makes you say that?”

  “Everything.” Miles shrugged and started cracking eggs into a bowl.

  “I’m sure you can be a little more specific than that.”

  “Arbeit ist die beste jacke.”

  “Are you going to do that for the rest of the time we know each other? You know I’m going to ask for the English translation of your pithy little German saying, so why not just skip to that part next time?”

  “You’re right.” He gave her a playful nod. “I should always try to think in only one language. Preferably yours.”

  She laughed, wanting to throw a handful of egg at him. “So, what does that mean?”

  “It means work is the best jacket.”

  “So, the best way to warm oneself is by doing something useful.”

  “Correct.” Miles nodded again. “To my surprise, Orson Beck is a man who seems driven to move in the service of others.”

  “To your surprise?” she repeated.

  “I’m not trying to insult him. But I’ve been on a lot of sets with a lot of actors. Many of them come off as humble and professional during the workday, but really it’s just another role. There was nothing performative about what I saw with him last night.”

  “Tell me more,” Sloane said. “Also, these eggs are great. You mind making me some pancakes?”

  Miles ignored her. “Orson was ready to go around eight or so. Connor’s mother needed something or other. Whatever it was seemed to annoy him, but he didn’t let his kid know and didn’t talk any scheisse about her to me.”

  “So you’re impressed with his character because he didn’t talk shit about his ex?”

  “No, I’m impressed with his character because he took care of you before leaving. Better than I did, and he wasn’t doing it to show me up.”

  “What do you mean? What was he doing?”

  “You were out. Snoring like a—”

  “We covered that.”

  “He picked you up and carried you into the bedroom, then got you all set up in there. Granted, I was sick and sprawled in the armchair, but even if I wasn’t, I’d have just made sure you were covered up before putting Jolie to bed and getting out of here.”

  “Who put Jolie to bed?”

  “Orson did. He read us both a story.” Miles laughed.

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Two different stories?”

  “No.” Miles poured his eggs into the pan. “One story for Jolie. Connor and I were just listening.”

  “What was the story?”

  “Is it serious?” Miles asked, instead of answering her question.

  “There’s nothing there.”

  “There’s something there,” he disagreed.

  “We haven’t slept together, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “That’s not what I’m asking.” Miles shook his head. “I’ve never cared who you sleep with, chérie. Sex is just sex. But I do care about the most intimate relationships each of us invite into our lives because Jolie is exposed to them.”

  “I understand that. But seriously, we’re not even casually dating. There’s nothing there.”

  He shrugged. “Then there will be. And when there is, I want you to know that I approve.”

  “Thank you, Daddy.”

  “You mean baby daddy.” After a beat, he said, “Don’t you want to feel good about the people I’m dating?”

  “Sure. Why are we talking about this? And where are those pancakes?”

  Sloane had zero difficulties understanding the nature of their discussion, but the topic made her uncomfortable for a few reasons, so of course she was deflecting.

  In some ways Miles was the most amazing man she knew. But that occasionally made him infuriating. He was half-French and half-Belgian. He spoke four languages and saw all life as art, which was easy to notice when looking through the lens of his work. In so many ways he seemed fully evolved and had been supportive of Sloane in every iteration of their relationship, from friends, to lovers, to partners, to coparents. Miles had been her rock, all throughout her early twenties, back when she was going through the roughest parts of her therapy and dealing with the realities of what the monster had done to her.

  “We are talking about this because our relationship is founded on honesty,” Miles said.

  “Really? I thought our relationship was founded on good food and wine.”

  “And the occasional orgasme.”

  “I still love how you say that.”

  “Orgasme,” he repeated.

  “Fine. You and me, honesty, I hear you. But we hardly get into the details on whoever you or I might or might not be dating. I get the discussion if a relationship is starting to get serious, but—”

  “It’s a Hollywood relationship,” Miles cut her off.

  “So? What does that have to do with it?”

  He stopped cooking, turned off the stove, then looked at her. “Everything, la mère. Relationships are hard. This industry makes them harder.”

  “It doesn’t have to.” But of course, he was right.

  “But it is.” Miles gave her a patient smile. “Everything is more difficult. Do you remember when I was shooting in Beijing for four months, then in Utah for the next three, before Vancouver for another two? That was hard on you and Jolie, yes?”

  “Yes,” she agreed.

  “Orson is going to go wherever his career takes him, and the same is true for you.”

  “I’m not asking to marry him, so I seriously have no idea why we’re talking about this, other than your occasionally infuriating need to over-plan everything.”

  “Considering the future is not over-planning,” Miles argued.

  “My future or yours?”

  “Aren’t they one and the same?”

  “No, Miles. They’re not.” Sloane felt suddenly agitated. “You seem to have an awful lot of opinions about something that isn’t even happening.”

  “I don’t want to see you get cheated on.”

  “CHEATED ON?” She laughed. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Actors cheat. We both know that. A man like Orson Beck, good as he is, will probably only sleep alone in his hotel room so many times before—”

  “I thought you liked him?”

  “I do. But sex is a—”

  “I’m not in the mood to hear any of your over-enlightene
d theories on the modern lie of monogamy, Miles. Can we please change the subject?”

  “Jolie will be up soon.” He nodded. “I’ll start the pancakes. What would you like to talk about?”

  “How about work?” Sloane sighed. “How do you think today is going to go?”

  Miles gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s going to go great.”

  But, of course, it didn’t.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Sloane

  Sloane had suffered through many long days in her life, but today felt like one of the longest.

  Even with the hardest part now behind her, she couldn’t get her brain to slow down. She had learned to accept that self-doubt and second-guessing were both parts of the creative process. It didn’t matter whether she was writing, editing, or directing, there came a time in every project where she was sure everything she touched would turn to garbage.

  But those feelings had never been so pervasive, especially so early in a project’s timeline.

  Right now, Sloane was uncertain about everything. She didn’t know if was her or the work itself, but everything felt flawed.

  The cast and crew had all mostly gone home, but Sloane was sticking around on set to evaluate the day’s work alone. In peace and quiet without everyone constantly needing something. The burden had been especially heavy since Lila was still out sick. She must have been poisoned something awful — the assistant director wasn’t the type to miss a minute of work, let alone two full days.

  Despite most of the cast and crew being back on set, no one had been at his or her best.

  Except Orson. Apparently he was a Hollywood A-lister for a reason. The dude must never have a bad day. His part of every take was perfect, but that still didn’t mean the scenes were good enough.

  Sloane didn’t know how to make those decisions. It was one thing when she had been making little art films with her micro budgets. She made those cuts fast, and with a confidence born from somewhere deep inside her. But when the budgets were astronomically higher, with livelihoods dependent on her choices, chaos seemed to reign, regardless of how hard she tried to navigate around it. Everything felt wrong, no matter how right it might be.

  She didn’t want to admit it, but Sloane was at least ninety-percent sure that more than half of Cassidy’s work from today would need to be reshot. Her accent had not only returned, it sounded even heavier than before, probably due to her food poisoning and recovery. Worse, her body language now appeared lazy.

  It didn’t help to cast any blame, but that didn’t stop Sloane from spending ample time trying to decide who was at fault more — Cassidy for her shitty performance or her for letting it go without saying anything.

  Sloane had watched the footage four times now and found it harder to get through every time. Cassidy’s parts seemed worse by the viewing, and by contrast Orson’s even better. The actors were in two different movies. Cassidy might as well have been in an after school special while Orson appeared to be angling for his second Oscar.

  “How does it look?”

  For the second it took her to recognize Orson’s voice, Sloane wanted to jump out of her skin. But then she turned with a smile. “Depends who’s asking.”

  “Orson Beck.” He jabbed at thumb at his chest, still smiling.

  “Your parts are great. The rest of the footage …” Sloane sighed. “I admit to being worried.”

  “What about?” He cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  She didn’t at all, but it still felt weird if not altogether inappropriate to shit talk an actor’s performance without that person being around to defend themselves.

  “I’m just not sure I was as on top of things as I should have been today,” Sloane admitted.

  Orson shrugged. “I don’t think anyone was as on top of things as they should have been today.”

  “You were.”

  He shook his head. “Today was hardly my best work.”

  “It was better than anyone else’s,” Sloane said, only feeling the slightest twinge of future regret for her present honesty. “And no offense, but I’m not sure ‘I don’t think anyone was on top of things’ is good enough. There’s a lot of money riding on this.”

  “Of course there is. But you can’t forget it’s still a product, same as any other. The best chef in the world still occasionally leaves their meat a minute too long on the grill.”

  “The Shellys are putting a lot of faith in me.”

  “Sure they are. And don’t think for a second you’re not delivering on your promise. Show me one other film on their roster where the director has to worry about sabotage, or—”

  “Thanks for saying that.” Sloane didn’t need to hear more. She knew how much she had to deal with just fine. “Do you want to see some of what we have?”

  Of course he did.

  But Orson shook his head. “Not even a little.”

  “Why not?”

  “I hate seeing myself on screen.”

  “Why?” She hated it too, but only because she was Sloane Alexander.

  He was Orson Beck.

  “It’s never a good idea.”

  But that wasn’t an answer.

  “Why?” Sloane asked again. “Does it make you uncomfortable?”

  “Not exactly. It’s more that if I see something I don’t like then I can’t get it out of my head. That one sour note gets stuck like a splinter, then that’s all I can think about and my performance gets worse and worse going forward.” He gave her a self-effacing laugh. “Ask me how I know.”

  “Seriously, Orson. You have nothing to worry about.” It was the first time she had ever said his name like that. The familiarity filled her with chills.

  “I’ll tell you what. How about I see what I did today at the premier?” He offered Sloane his red-carpet smile that left her with little choice but to acquiesce and surrender.

  “Okay,” Sloane said in defeat, turning away from the monitor.

  “Mind if I ask you something?”

  “No, but next time just ask and don’t give me a chance to opt out.” She laughed.

  “Fair enough.” He laughed back, light but genuine. “Is it possible that your problems with what you’re seeing on the dailies has nothing to do with the work itself?”

  “Easy to say when you won’t watch them.”

  But he was probably right. Sloane had too many things in her head and she wasn’t thinking straight. She was thinking about that morning’s conversation with Miles and all the many reasons that Orson Beck might be right for her, even if he was also totally wrong.

  “Tell me about the worst of it,” he suggested.

  She shook her head. “It’s one thing if you watch it with me, but another if I’m just talking about someone else behind his or her back.”

  “You’re the director, Sloane. Direct. What’s the worst of it today?”

  “Cassidy’s accent. And her body language.”

  “Makes sense.” He nodded. “But again, today was off for everyone. Are you worried about today’s work or the movie in general?”

  Sloane considered her answer, but Orson wouldn’t allow it.

  “Don’t think, respond. Are you worried about today’s work or the movie in general?”

  “The movie in general,” she replied.

  “Is this a story someone else could tell better than you, or are you the perfect director for this film?”

  A slight smile crossed her face. “I’m the perfect director for this film.”

  Now she had it — Sloane wasn’t even letting his questions sit for a second before she was ready with her answer.

  “Is West Hollywood Sunset an Oscar contender or a box office bomb?”

  Proudly, she cried out, “An Oscar contender!”

  “And is your problem with the production or Liam Wentz?”

  “Wentz,” she replied. The word had left her lips before she realized Orson tricked the monster’s name right out of her.

  “See?”
He took her hand. “Now we can focus on the actual problem.”

  She gave him a reluctant smile, looking into his eyes with an amused strain of defeat. She longed to kiss him, but that wasn’t what this was about.

  Orson Beck was helping her to see through the haze. “Tell me, specifically, what is it you’re worried about Liam Wentz doing to you. Or to this production.”

  “It feels like the calm before the storm.”

  He nodded. “Okay, keep going.”

  “Nothing bad happened today because nothing bad needed to happen today.” She was explaining things to herself as much as she was explaining them to Orson. “We’ve been one step behind him ever since we started, and today we were all dealing with the aftermath of his little food poisoning trick. He didn’t need to do anything else. But it’s only a matter of time before he’s back at it and …” She stopped and swallowed, unable to finish.

  Orson made an attempt on her behalf. “And you’re worried he’s going to yank the rug out from under you again. No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to make the movie in your head because Liam Wentz is like a specter behind—”

  “Can we please not say his name?”

  “You know that only gives him more power, right?”

  “You sound like my therapist.”

  “My bad,” Orson said. “I was quoting Harry Potter.”

  “You can totally call him Voldemort.”

  “Fine. What’s the very worst thing Voldemort could possibly do?”

  Another excellent question.

  “It’s the unknown that gets me. It’s not what he could possibly do so much as the reality that he’s capable of doing just about anything.” Then she added, “And getting away with it.”

  Orson kept talking her through it. “And what do you wish you could do to stop him?”

  “Anything.” And that was her frustration point. “If I could just go to the police or the Academy or … someone. But instead, I’m trapped in silence like I have been ever since I was a little girl.”

  “No one here wants you to be silent. You understand that, right?”

  She nodded.

  Orson continued. “Not me or Dominic or Melinda, or anyone working on—”

  “Except for the people he has inside the—”