Four
FOUR
“Defeat is just an opportunity to get up and kick even more ass next time.”
Lys Amarga, The Quantum Wraith
D amn, the sun came up early—and far too bright—when one stayed up all night staring at a computer screen.
Xavier blinked and raised his head from where he had put it on his desk, only for a second, he’d sworn. The brilliant light caused him to squint, but his eyes were so dry and scratchy,
The momentary pressure of his eyelids was painful. He turned to Luisa, sitting in the guest chair opposite him. She looked as tired as he felt. “Coffee me.”
“We’re out. We need to go to the dining room in the other building,” she said, her tone as dire as if she’d said, “The building is on fire and there’s little chance of escape.”
“How do the numbers look now?” He, Luisa and her team had combed through the budget, looking for cuts while ensuring Xavier could still make the film he had in mind. They took a big swing for the fences and put together a new proposal. The question was whether Sutton would listen.
He still couldn’t reconcile the poised, polished woman who calmly told him with dead eyes that she was killing his film with the Sutton of his memory. The warm, caring woman with audacious creativity and even bolder dreams, whose shining presence in his classroom challenged him in all the best ways—while torturing his nights knowing she was off-limits. Until graduation…
The sharp pain in his chest reminded him that was a path he never, ever revisited. He let her know where he stood, what he wanted. And then he left the ball in her court, letting her know what happened next was entirely up to her.
She never tossed the ball back over the net to him. Nothing but radio silence, until she walked onto his set.
“I think this is about the best shape we’re going to get the budget into without knowing the full extent of what Pauley siphoned off,” Luisa said, thankfully snapping Xavier out of memories better left unvisited, gathering dust and cobwebs. “Do you think it’s enough?”
“We’ll see.” He had no idea. He couldn’t read the current Sutton. The only impression he got from her was their history was a debit on her personal ledger.
He’d been so blind. Or rather, if he was being honest with himself, he so needed his first studio film to succeed so his life could attain some stability that he threw out the instincts that had served him so well on his smaller independent productions. Everything was so much bigger on a studio film—bigger sets, bigger explosions, bigger budgets—and he let his head be turned by Pauley’s air of supreme confidence, of his reassurances that he had all the financial details in hand and all Xavier need to do was concentrate on making the film.
Pauley played him more expertly than a concert pianist on a Steinway at Carnegie Hall.
After Sutton bounced out of his office last night, he called his agent, who confirmed they’d received a call from Monument, and the studio was, indeed, pulling the plug on production. No, his agent didn’t know if he would be able to secure another directorial assignment for Xavier anytime soon.
His dreams of having his pick of his next project—much less his ability to take care of others in his life and give them the stability they deserve—were all in danger of being extinguished. And Sutton Spencer, of all people, was the angel of death come to punish him for not paying enough attention for letting a slick producer run away with the production. Literally.
Luisa handed him a stack of papers. “I’ve printed out the new budget and the new schedule. My eyes are too tired to look at a screen.”
“Same.” He ensured the documents were neatly aligned, not a corner out of place, before asking in what he hoped was a casual manner, “Has anyone heard from Ms. Spencer this morning?”
“The suit?” Luisa shook her head. “Not yet, but it’s pretty early.”
“If you see her, ask if she’s available for a meeting this afternoon. I’m going for a walk.” He should return to the residence that was assigned to him for the duration of the location shoot, check in to make sure all was running smoothly on the home front. But the household was probably still sleeping. He’d catch up with them later.
“Walking is too ambitious for me. But if you can bring some fresh air back, that would be appreciated.” Luisa waved as he exited.
The morning temperature was still temperate, but the sun was even more annoying without windows or curtains to diffuse its glow. Xavier reached for his sunglasses but realized he was so tired he’d left them in his office. He turned to retrace his steps and then stopped.
Sutton was on the same path, mere feet behind him, her gaze focused on the ground in front of her.
The tightly wound professional who upended his world yesterday was less in evidence, replaced by a Sutton who more matched the woman in his memory. Her hair no longer fell in controlled waves to her shoulders but was worn in a ponytail, escaped red-gold strands waving and curling around her face. She was dressed more casually, too, wearing an oversized T-shirt that said “Meet Me at the Pronghorn Ranch” and black yoga pants that clung to her thighs. But what caused a sudden sharp jab in his heart was how tired she appeared. Apparently she, too, didn’t have a restful night.
He raised a hand in greeting. “Hi.”
She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise. “Hey.”
“Out for a walk?” He had too much to say and couldn’t choose where to start. He settled on the smallest of small talk.
She rubbed her neck. “Rough night. I thought exercise might help.”
“Same.”
Silence built between them. Sutton shifted from foot to foot. Xavier still couldn’t decide how to best open a conversation, his mind churning with options but no actual words. Finally, he stepped aside to let her pass. “After you.”
She moved in his direction, but instead of brushing by, she stopped just short of his position. Her gaze glowed a soft grassy green in the clear morning light. “I don’t want to interrupt anything you’re doing, but can we talk?”
He looked at her shoes. Sneakers, perfectly fine for what he was going to suggest. He’d have to forego his sunglasses, but whatever had annoyed him earlier about the day now didn’t seem to matter. “I was going to take a quick hike. Want to join me?”
“Sure.” She fell in beside him and they started down the path, eventually reaching the dirt trail that led into the nearby hills. Despite Sutton asking if they could talk, they continued in silence, but a much more companionable one than earlier. She kept up with his pace regardless of the incline, and in fifteen or so minutes they reached his favorite spot, a flat area carved into a small canyon that overlooked the surrounding area.
“Wow,” she finally said, taking in the vista before them. The desert spread out below them, the landscape a mixture of ochres and oranges and yellows with greenish-brown sagebrush and mesquite adding punctuation. Tall saguaro cacti stuck their arms far into the sky, which was turning from the light blue of early morning into a deep aquamarine. Hidden birds sang while wind rustled through the nearby rocks. And in the near distance, the white trucks and trailers that marked the set easily stood out, as did the crashed starship wrapped in its protective tarps.
He glanced at Sutton. Rosy color filled her formerly pale checks. Her eyes sparkled as her gaze darted from one view to another.
“Wow,” he echoed, then tore his gaze away.
“So,” she said.
“So,” he replied.
She turned to face him. “About yesterday. I have a plan for the best road forward.”
There went all the relaxation the hike might have brought him. His shoulders tensed, the knots tighter than the night before. “We also have a plan. Why don’t we meet in my office in an hour—”
Her head began to shake as soon as he started talking. “Xavier, a meeting isn’t necessary.”
“The least you could do is hear us out.”
“I don’t want to waste everyone’s time.”
“Let me finish.” His words echoed off the canyon walls.
Sutton blinked at him. “Okay. Finish.”
“Luisa and her team worked very hard to account for the stolen money and readjust the budget. You can’t make a final decision without looking at the result.”
She waved off his words. “I appreciate their dedication, but after several phone calls and more emails, it’s become clear to me and my bosses at Monument—”
The Quantum Wraith was slipping through his fingers. And nothing he said was getting through to her. A hopeless panic he hadn’t felt in years started to swamp his system. “Damn it, Sutton! Stop being a suit and be a human for once.”
“I am!” She met him halfway, her cutting gaze emerald bright. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I made a lot of phone calls last night and—”
“I’m not giving up,” he gritted through his teeth, taking another half step forward. “I’m not letting you or anyone at Monument stop production of The Quantum Wraith without a fair fight.”
“You don’t have to fight!” She invaded his space, her chin high, her fists balled on her hips. “You won’t let me finish. I can persuade the studio to keep the film in production.”
They stood toe to toe, gaze battling gaze. With a start, he realized barely a handbreadth separated them, standing so close he could see the freckles beneath the angry flush coloring her skin. Her gaze dropped first, and he watched with intense interest as the pink tip of her tongue came out to wet her lips before he caught himself and stepped back to give her room.
“Okay,” he said.
“Okay,” she echoed, and she took her own step back. “So. I was up all night—”
“That makes two of us. More if you count Luisa and her team.”
“You do look a little worse for wear,” she said, a small smile appearing and disappearing.
He had no doubt he did. But while he could see faint purplish shadow below her eyes, testifying to her lack of sleep, he would be hard-pressed to call her looking worse for anything. “Go on.”
She pushed an escaped tendril of hair behind her left ear. “My phone has been on fire all night. The studio is now certain Pauley and Chester were running a scheme to defraud Monument by cutting checks to dummy companies that were owned by them. The Quantum Wraith is not the only film that was affected, but it is the production where they stole the most money.”
Oof. Pauley’s betrayal slammed him square in the solar plexus, all over again. “Luisa and her team found dozens of payments to vendors we’ve never dealt with.”
“That would be helpful evidence.”
“So, you’ll take a look at their work?” He couldn’t help a small grin.
She huffed, but there was no animosity in her expression. “I was only trying to save time. But I should have heard you out.”
“And I apologize for talking over you. I’m not at my best when I haven’t slept.”
“Oh, I don’t know, I remember—” She stopped, and then shook her head. “Never mind. Look, here’s the deal. Monument still believes in the film. In fact, because of the new information about Chester and Pauley, they’re giving you a week of stay—”
That sounded like good news. But he wasn’t taking anything at face value. “What does that mean?”
“They’re not stopping production until after next week. They want time to investigate how much of the budget overruns are due to Pauley and Chester.”
“But only a week.” His stomach, already sour from too much coffee and not enough solid food, threatened to erupt.
“Monument thinks the Empyreal Chronicles could be the next Star Wars. But because the film was bleeding money and no one noticed, they’re still thinking of shutting down and removing you as the director. They’re wondering if you’re too inexperienced and don’t have the gravitas to handle a project of this magnitude.” She gave him an apologetic half shrug.
“If that’s the consensus and word gets out around town, I might not get another job.” His skin prickled with cold despite the rising heat of the day.
“You might not get another assignment from a studio, no. Well, not until your next indie success and people have enough time to forget you were fired off this film.” Her gaze skittered away from his. “But that’s not my concern.”
Ah, he wondered when the suit version of her would make another appearance. “Of course not.”
“What is my concern is Monument’s well-being,” she continued.
“Dollars and cents. You’ve made that clear.” He folded his arms and gazed at the set in the distance. His chest constricted at the thought of watching everyone’s blood, sweat and tears be torn down like so much abandoned refuse.
“Scoff all you like. But it’s the overall financial argument will keep production going.”
Xavier narrowed his eyes. He wouldn’t allow himself to feel hope. Not yet. “Explain.”
She stifled a yawn. She still covered her mouth with the back of her hand instead of her palm, her nose scrunched as if she were about to sneeze. Odd how the images came flooding back, of early morning meetings over coffee, Sutton’s cheeks still creased from sleep but her brain working a mile a minute. “Yesterday, I watched you direct the scene of the ship exploding.”
“Not seeing how that changes the decision that was previously out of your hands.”
“I saw how you managed the set. Then I examined the storyboards in your office when you decided you needed to warehouse me for a while—”
“We weren’t expecting you. There were more urgent matters—”
She raised a hand. “It’s fine. I didn’t really know much about the movie before I got on the plane, so going through the storyboards was helpful. Then last night I read your script, which led to staying up all night to watch dailies on my laptop. And…”
His brow furrowed. “And?”
“Not that your ego needs this—”
“My ego?” He didn’t have an ego.
“But—” her gaze finally met his again “this is going to be an amazing film. Perhaps a spectacular one. I don’t know for sure, because my script was missing the final act.”
Maybe he had an ego after all, as hearing her praise made his chest swell. “The ending is under lock and key. To avoid spoilers getting out to the public.”
“But I’m the production executive— Y’know, I’m too tired to argue this.” She started pacing around the flat area, making a figure eight with her steps that brought her tantalizing close to him, then veered away. Xavier watched her, still unsure where she was going with her line of thinking. Although part of him was deeply gratified to hear her compliments. The Sutton he remembered had a discerning eye and she’d been the toughest but fairest critic in the screenwriting seminar class he taught. Not for the first time, he wondered why she took a left turn into production. She should be making her own films, not project-managing other people’s.
But he had no right to question her choices. They weren’t anything to each other. No matter how much he thought they had connected. No matter the passion he thought they’d shared at the end.
But she didn’t contact him after that night and he could not, would not, ask why. If she had wanted a relationship, he’d made it clear how to tell him. Not that he would have been in any shape to pursue a relationship at that time, as it was. His world had turned upside down in a heartbeat soon after their last encounter.
That’s all the time toppling a life took. A blink of an eye and the universe shifted on its axis.
“Pulling this film leaves a hole in Monument’s release schedule for next summer.” She had continued to pace while his thoughts went down paths best left forgotten. “But the studio decided the cost overruns outweighed the potential loss of box office revenue.”
He opened his mouth to object, but she cut him off before he could form words. “However, because of the pressure from Wall Street, the new films being greenlit are safe, familiar, appear to be safe bets. Between us, they’re boring.”
“But The Quantum Wraith isn’t.” He was sure of that.
“No.” She stopped pacing and turned to face him. “Reading the script, seeing the dailies—yes, the footage is still in a rough stage, but the potential is there. The Quantum Wraith is exciting. Fresh. The film could really break out. It’s exactly the shot in the arm the studio needs.” Her mouth twisted into a mock frown. “I hate to say it, but… I see your vision. It’s good.”
“Thanks. I think.” He couldn’t help the left-sided smirk. “So. All it took was exposure to my work.”
She sighed. “Your work was never in question. Only your management.”
That felt like another dig at him. When this matter was settled, he and Sutton needed to have a long, illuminating conversation about what exactly happened that semester. “Cut to the chase. Will Monument shut us down or not?”
She visibly took a deep breath and pushed away the strands of hair threatening to fall in her eyes. “We’re positive Pauley and Chester committed fraud. But my bosses still have questions. Such as, why was Pauley allowed to get away with cutting large dummy checks on this production, and what measures will be put into place to make sure that doesn’t happen again?”
Yeah. He’d been asking himself the same things over the past twenty-four hours. “You have an answer?”
“The film needs a new producer.”
He nodded. “Obviously.”
“And you need one now. The budget remains overstretched. We may know where the money went, but it’s still gone.” She rubbed her thumb over her lips. She would do that in class when deep in thought and formulating her response to a question. That gesture used to drive him to distraction. “And you need someone who understands what Monument will approve or not approve in a timely manner to avoid costly delays.” She gave him a swift grin. “I can’t believe you let your leading actor go to Los Angeles.”
“Very funny.”
“Sorry.” Her half smile was rueful. “But I know a producer who satisfies both the needs of the production and Monument.”
“You do? Can I speak to them today?” He tried to tamp the rising hope down. The ground could still quake under his feet.
“Oh, speaking to them won’t be an issue. And they’re available, as long as the studio signs off on their hiring.”
“Great. What’s their number? Or email?” He took out his phone, ready to take notes. “I’ll reach out immediately and start the ball rolling while you speak to Monument.”
“I have both of those, but you don’t need them.”
He looked up from his phone. “Why? Do you want to be the one to reach out?”
“Don’t have to. Because I’m the solution, Xavier. I’m going to take over as producer.” She lifted her chin and stared him down with the cool, disconnected gaze of the day before.
Sutton? Producing his film? A close, almost symbiotic partnership, on call for each other twenty-four hours, seven days a week?
This cold, dismissive Sutton who spoke of films made with blood and soul as nothing but commodities, pieces of property? Did he want to work so intimately with her?
Could he handle being in such close proximity to her?
Xavier learned a long time ago that work and pleasure do not mix. His first, most painful lesson stood before him. That semester at LAU would be forever seared across his memory for multiple reasons, not the least learning when he played with fire—like falling head over heels for the brilliant, witty, challenging Sutton as soon as she set foot in his seminar—the result was his heart in ashes. And he could take the pain. But it was one thing to turn his life into a crisped wasteland when he only had to worry about himself, quite another now that he had people dependent on him.
He could take the blistering heat of a failed relationship. He was used to rejection, even expected it by now. But he refused to let his loved ones be the collateral damage. Not again.
“Why do you want to be the producer?” The wind had picked up and she didn’t seem to hear him. He closed half the distance between them. “Yesterday you were dead set on shutting this production down. If you intend to come on board to find new excuses to pull the plug—”
“What? No! That’s not my intent.”
“Then what is?” His gaze searched hers. But those opaque shutters were still in place.
“I’m not trying to sabotage your job. I’m not trying to save it, either.” She shifted her feet. “I want Monument to succeed, and I think The Quantum Wraith will perform well at the box office. But the production needs to be put back on the rails.”
“And you’re the one to do that? No offense, Sutton, but you don’t have the résumé for this.”
“I produced Pinecones and Holly Berries for Crowing Films and The Tree in the Grand Hotel for SnoringCat Productions—”
“Made-for-television Christmas flicks.”
Sparks lit her gaze, the first sign of animated emotion he’d seen that morning. “Do you know how popular those films are? Pinecones was the most streamed title across all services the month of release—”
He couldn’t help it. He laughed, stifling the sound at the last second. Not because of her credits, but because he’d finally glimpsed the Sutton he remembered, passionately defending her work.
She balled those hands on her hips. “Holiday movies aren’t something to laugh at. People love them. The stories are fun. They provide comfort and inspiration.”
“I’m aware there’s a very appreciative audience—”
“You snorted.”
“You’re mistaken.”
“You did. Like a bull with a deviated septum.”
“That’s an oddly specific description. I’m not knocking your experience producing Pine Trees and Cranberries —”
“ Pinecones and Holly Berries .”
“My bad. Obviously, that would be a vastly different movie.” Her lips pressed into a dangerously thin line, and he decided to stop any further discussion of her job history. “But when it comes to The Quantum Wraith , the film isn’t…” He chose his next words carefully. “Made for the small screen.”
“Snob about television, are we?”
“Not at all. But as you reminded me earlier, the scope of this production is bigger than anything I’ve done before. Or anything you’ve done. Would Monument agree to your plan?”
“I’ve worked for the studio these last three years. I know what the executive suite wants. How they think. What they are looking for. This is the path with the least risk.” She shifted, and her foot rolled on a rock.
Xavier caught her upper shoulder and held her steady. Her startled gaze flew up to meet his, and for a moment he was lost in the green-gold depths before she gently pulled her arm free.
“Thanks,” she breathed, then cleared her throat. “Thank you,” she repeated in a firmer voice.
“You’ll need shoes with a better tread than these if you want to work on this production. Those are fine for soundstages and short hikes, but conditions are more unpredictable out here.”
“Does that mean you agree?” The cool, professional veneer had returned. But there was a warmth to her words that hadn’t been present before.
“If that’s what it takes to continue filming.” He focused on the trailers and trucks of the set visible below them. In the end, only one thing mattered: The Quantum Wraith . “If Monument says yes—”
“They will.”
He faced her. The sun was to her back, and the light turned the red-gold locks curling around her face into a fiery corona. Earlier he’d thought of her as an angel of death. But maybe together they could keep The Quantum Wraith alive.
He held out his right hand. After a second, she joined the handshake. If she, too, felt the sharp spark at the glide of his skin against hers, her expression gave no indication.
He firmly pushed the sensation out of his brain. To save his film, he would survive whatever was thrown at him. Even her.
“Welcome to the crew, Sutton Spencer.”