Chapter 16
1 6
Sophie
S hould I have let him kiss me?
This is the question I’ve asked myself a thousand times since the night August fake-lassoed me off the tide pools. And it’s the same question I’m still asking, more than two weeks later, even while I banter with another man about the correct usage of the term mistletoe in August’s studio.
Elliot Sanderson, the award-winning voice actor and my official male counterpart in Mistletoe Matrimony , a Fog Harbor Audio original, showed up three days ago with a marked-up script in hand. The first day was spent discussing production notes with our executive producer, who also happens to be the man whose lips I’ve daydreamed about each and every time I’ve sat in this booth.
Which is pretty much the only perk since starting this project.
“ Cut .” August’s voice breaks into our headphones.
Elliot halts mid-sentence and, not for the first time, peers over his right shoulder at said executive producer. I shrink in my seat. Not again , I think.
“Yo ur pace on that punchline is too sluggish,” August asserts.
Elliot, a twenty-something dark academia type, pulls his trendy reading glasses from his face, which I interpret to be the equivalent of a cowboy’s hand on his holster. “So first, you accuse me of jumping her line, and now I’m too sluggish?”
August stares him down through the glass. “That’s correct.”
Seemingly exasperated from all the starts and stops, Elliot looks to me for backup, only August isn’t wrong in his assessment. Despite his less-than-tactful delivery method, August sees what I’ve been trying to overcompensate for. The chemistry between Elliot and me is all kinds of off. Which means the timing and delivery of our dialogue is off, too.
Elliot has tried to blame the awkward flow on the script, but I think the script is exactly as it should be: funny, romantic, and full of holiday hijinks. And while the man-child sitting opposite me may have a trained voice with solid inflection and tone, his execution falls flat on every page. A critique August has made more than once in the last two hours.
“I’m reading these lines exactly as they’re written,” Elliot argues. “What more do you want from me?”
“Believability,” August counters coolly.
I groan.
“You’re saying I’m not believable ?” Elliot’s chilly laugh echoes in the tiny space we share. “I have almost a decade of experience in voice acting—I’ve worked with Pixar and Disney!” He locks eyes with me then, as if to ask, Is this guy for real? Only, August Tate might be the realest person I’ve ever known. A fact I’ve been failing to edit from my heart since the moment I rejected him on that beach. And for all the moments since, when he’s given me space as if that’s what I want when all I really want is to protect us both from the heartache of starting something we can’t finish.
August can’t leave California, and I have no desire to stay in a place that has more bad memories than good. I don’t wish to stay at the winery a day longer than absolutely necessary. Which is why I’ve been job hunting again. Not for another fill-in job, but one that will use my background in the arts.
I’v e applied to several school districts and theater programs across the nation. Perhaps if I can’t act on stage, it might be time for me to teach others how to.
“Show me you actually care about what you’re saying to her .” August delivers the challenge from the opposite side of the glass. “Because right now you sound like you’re delivering these lines to a random stranger in the produce section. Not like someone you have a vested interest in. Not like someone you’ve been pining after since you first met.”
Despite the clammy atmosphere inside this closet-like space, goosebumps race down my arms at his words. It’s impossible not to recall the imprinted memory of August with the ocean at his back—the way his eyes studied my mouth, the way his voice grew husky with want, the way he leaned in—
“Fine,” Elliot spats. “You think you can do it better? Be my guest.” He jerks his arms wide open as if he’s just pushed all his chips to the center of the poker table and expects his opponent to fold in intimidation. But I know August well enough to know there’s no way he’ll back down. Not now.
The instant his gaze finds mine, I feel it bubble up inside me all over again: the hope, the want, the desperation. He gives me a nod, and instinctively, I interpret his unasked question.
And then, August begins to read into his two-way mic.
“‘You ever wonder why the most iconic representatives for love during the romance holidays could star in a True Crimes plot?’” August asks in a voice that is both a hundred percent him and a hundred percent the sarcastic groomsman he’s reading for.
“‘Are you trying to get on my nerves, Blake? If so, it’s working. I don’t have time for your cynical trivia today,’” I say with the impatient tone of Noelle Barnes, the renowned wedding coordinator who must rely on her best friend’s kid brother after she returns to her hometown, tasked with coordinating her most extravagant Christmas Eve wedding yet. “‘But I would very much appreciate if you would apply all that mental energy of yours to the task at hand. Our bride’s mother will be here in less than an hour to approve what I’ve done here, and there are still at least a dozen mistletoe left to hang in the reception hall.’”
Blake—August—replies with perfect timing. “‘Think about it, Noelle. Cupid carries a weapon that would be borderline illegal in most states, and mistletoe is poisonous when ingested ... so tell me why anybody would want these things on display during a wedding ceremony? You should be more concerned about this.’”
“‘What I’m concerned about,’” I say tersely, “‘is creating the kissable environment my paying bride and groom have requested for their reception hall.’”
August waits a beat, then two, and when I glance up from the iPad to catch his eye through the window, he reads, “‘If any man needs the permission of a dead, poisonous shrub to kiss the woman he loves, he shouldn’t be allowed to marry her in the first place.’”
“‘It’s not about permission, Blake,’” I—I mean my character says a bit shakily. “‘It’s about the romance.’”
“‘No, it’s about canned commercialism. Romance is spontaneous and desperate and all-consuming. It simultaneously hollows you out and fills you up. And it always, always leaves you wanting more. Another glance. Another touch. Another chance to share the same time and space with the one person you can’t seem to live without no matter how much you’ve tried.’”
Though I’ve heard Elliot deliver these same lines at least three times now, none of them have been spoken with this much conviction. None of them have caused my stomach to clench and somersault. None of them have been anywhere close to this ... believable .
August holds my gaze through the glass, and I wish for the thousandth time since that night on the beach that I could break through this barrier and pretend that kissing him wouldn’t be the most reckless thing I could do. August has lost too much for me to suggest something casual between us. Three months isn’t long enough for what I know I could feel for him. For what I feel for him even now.
And by the avalanche that crumbles inside my chest every time he looks at me, I know he must feel it, too.
This wordless exchange rebels against the careful boundaries we’ ve been operating in for weeks. Since the moment I placed that saltwater taffy in the palm of his hand, the two of us have remained in an emotional quarantine.
The sound of Elliot kicking back his recording stool nearly jolts me from my own, and I watch August’s shoulders stiffen and tense.
“I don’t know what’s going on here”—Elliot looks between the two of us—“but I have three other productions waiting on me to respond. I’m not about to waste my time or my talent where it’s not appreciated.”
Before either of us can think to argue, Elliot has yanked the booth door open and is marching through the studio toward the exit. At the hard slam of the door, the walls shudder, causing one of August’s framed awards to crash to the floor.
When he makes no effort to go after the guy, I watch and wait for the consequences of Elliot’s desertion to fully register on August’s face.
And . . . there it is.
This isn’t good. We’re already behind schedule. And based on the way August has yet to give me a straight answer regarding the music he’s supposed to be composing for the project, we’re likely further behind than I even realize.
I step into the hallway and round the corner to where August hunches over his soundboard, head in his hands, fingers threaded through his butterscotch waves. I drink in the sight of him. And then I chastise myself for doing so.
Put him first, Sophie. This isn’t about you or your feelings.
“I’m going to have to call Chip,” he confesses in a volume that tells me he’s tracked my presence. “He’ll need to send over a replacement ASAP or...”
Or we won’t make the October 1st deadline.
I narrow my eyes in thought. If I was a casting director for this project, I wouldn’t want another professional like Elliot. Not after hearing what this scene could sound like; not after hearing August read it. An idea forms quickly, snapping together like a 3-D puzzle in my mind.
“Wh at if we already have a replacement?”
He lifts his head and gives me a side-eye that makes me want to reach out and tame his crazy surfer hair. I restrain myself.
“You could do it,” I say easily.
He laughs without humor. “No way.”
“ Yes way. You have a great speaking voice, and your delivery was a thousand times stronger than Elliot’s.” I push what looks to be two manuals about the science of sound to the back of his desk and then plop myself down across from him. His gaze drifts to my crossed legs before he leans back in his chair and presses the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
“That’s not exactly a compliment. I’ve had better chemistry with a block of cheese than what was happening between the two of you in that booth.”
“My point exactly.” I swing my foot until the toe of my sandal connects with his knee. “You and I already know each other.”
“I’m not an actor.”
“You don’t need to be. This part might as well be written for you. Blake is sarcastic and intelligent and a bit of a moody smart aleck.”
August lowers his hands and hikes a brow at me in challenge.
Not to mention thoughtful and kind and incredibly attractive is what I finish in my head silently. “Don’t act like you don’t know it’s true.”
“So then what?” He stares at me incredulously. “You’re suggesting I just call Chip and tell him I’m the new Blake? You forget he’s known me since we were fifteen. He knows all my hidden talents, and acting isn’t one of them.”
“So don’t call him—not yet. Wait and send him a sample clip from whatever we manage to record today and then offer to save him the money of finding a local voice actor by playing the part yourself. Maybe you can even negotiate a higher rate as they’ll be saving whatever money they were paying Elliot, right?” I pause, studying the crease between his brows. “It’s more money that can go toward Gabby’s procedure.”
This is the moment his expression slips from incredulity to possibility. “And what happens if I ruin the whole performance because I d on’t have a clue what I’m doing? I don’t want to be the reason this project fails. There’s a reason people audition for things like this.”
I push myself off his desk and plant my feet on the ground in front of him. I expect him to roll backward at my nearness, seeing as he’s offered me a wide berth since the beach, but he holds steady. Watching. Waiting.
“I know theater, August. It was my whole life for close to a decade. If I didn’t think you could do this, I would say so. But you’ve had this script for weeks now. You’ve been taking production notes, figuring out sound effects, and composing the theme music. At this point, you know it better than any potential hire sitting in an audition queue ever could.” My pulse picks up speed as he stares at me with none of the filters he’s been using these past few weeks. “And you know me,” I say softly. “And together ... together, we’re believable.”
August is locked inside his head for so long I’m certain he’s about to give me a list of every reason why he thinks this idea is terrible. “I’ll give it two hours. If we can’t get a decent cut for Chip by the time you leave today, then I’ll call him and tell him he needs to find us a new hero.”
I nod in agreement, although I know I’ve already found him.
Not five minutes into reading our first chapter together do I realize the gargantuan error in judgment I’ve made by suggesting this arrangement. And though that error has nothing to do with August’s talent or capability, it does have everything to do with the two of us smashed together in a teeny tiny space. Not only for the next two hours. But for what will likely be the better part of the next two weeks after edits and polishing.
When August exits the booth to adjust something on the soundboard, I close my eyes and try to recall what Bible passage I’ve been studying with Portia and Gabby in our time before ASL class. I’m pretty sure it has something to do with the mind—on thinking goo d thoughts? Or was it noble thoughts? Lovely thoughts? Boring thoughts? At the moment, the last one feels the safest. Maybe if I could imagine August as a sniveling, dark academia type like Elliot, I’d be able to fight my attraction for him. I’m a good enough actress to pull off narrating this script and visualizing August as an overgrown Harry Potter, right?
“Okay, sorry,” he says, strolling back inside and closing the door. “It’s weird being on this side of the glass.” He sits on the stool across from me, and our knees bump, shooting a jolt of electricity up my spine. What is wrong with me? I’ve been in far more up-close-and-personal scenarios than this with my onstage counterparts. I’ve danced, embraced, and sang directly into the faces of my pretend Romeos without feeling half of what one look from August makes me feel. So why can’t I shake this?
The answer comes swiftly: because this isn’t pretend.
He adjusts his microphone and wakes his iPad screen. “Before we start again, do you have any critiques for me?”
I shake my head dumbly.
He looks doubtful. “Sophie, if this arrangement is going to work, you have to be honest with me.”
I can’t be honest with you, August, that’s the problem. “I will be.” I nod overenthusiastically. “You’re doing great.”
“Let the record show, this is a continent away from my comfort zone,” he says with a sort of kiddish frown that makes my insides constrict.
When he scrolls to find his place on the digital script, I squint, trying to visualize what he’d look like in a pair of obnoxious nerd glasses. Only that doesn’t work. Because on August, those glasses would make him look like a sexy scholar.
He preemptively hands me my water bottle. “We’re already rolling. Your lines are first. You ready?”
I take a big swig of the lukewarm lemon water I prepared this morning and lie through my teeth. “Absolutely.”
The next seventy-four minutes are some sort of twisted math problem. August bumps my knee accidentally seven times. He smiles thr ee times during our back-and-forth banter. And he actually winks at me once, after I miss my cue and have to restart a paragraph because I was too busy watching him read.
This might be the longest two weeks of my life to date.
As soon as Blake and Noelle are forced together at the fictional wedding venue, working to reconcile their differing personalities and opinions with the job at hand, I’m completely absorbed in the plot again, and with these characters and their specific goals and challenges. Their banter is lively and addicting and laugh-out-loud funny at times, and nearly every page has at least one stand-out quip that makes my lips quirk into a grin. It’s what I’m focused on more than anything else right now—the disconnection of the here and now.
Only it doesn’t work, because no matter how invested I am in this script, I can’t forget what August shared with me on the beach that night. I can’t unhear his dedication to his family. I can’t unlearn the kind of son, brother, or man he is. Or how I’ve rarely met his equal.
My mind snaps to attention when August finishes a paragraph of narrative and jumps into his next line of dialogue.
“‘What on earth is this giant bubble maker thing for?’” August, as Blake, asks as he riffles through Noelle’s inventory of wedding supplies without permission. “‘Wait, is this for some kind of circus-themed wedding? Do you break out a red-and-white striped tent and spin cotton candy for that one? Gotta say, I think that’s an improvement on this mistletoe-obsessed thing you have going on inside here.’”
“‘That’s not a bubble maker, it’s a snow machine,’” I say as Noelle. “‘It’s actually the highest-rated model on the market today.’”
“ ‘That might be the most embarrassing thing you’ve said yet.’”
“‘It is not. That happens to be my secret weapon for creating my signature winter wonderlands,’” she says defensively. “‘It only takes soap, and it comes with a remote start.’”
“‘Nope. I was wrong,’” Blake deadpans. “‘That right there is the most embarrassing thing you’ve ever said. How ’bout we take that same remote and skip this conversation back a few so you have time to reassess your freaky devotion to a glorified soap belcher, huh ?’” August raises his hand as if he’s about to engage said remote. “‘Ready, set, go.’”
A tickle of hysteria crawls up my throat as soon as he speaks his final word, and soon my girlish giggle turns into a full-bodied guffaw.
“I’m s-s-s-orry,” I say, trying to get ahold of myself. “Just a sec.”
When I hear the low rumble of his laugh and see the bounce of his shoulders, any ground I’ve gained is gone. It’s all over now. My dignity, my professionalism, my hope of finishing out this chapter within the next fifteen minutes before I have to head back to the winery for work.
“And here I thought you were supposed to be the professional,” August jests, still laughing. “You’d never get away with that during a live performance.”
“Guess it’s a good thing I don’t plan to ever be on stage again, then, huh?” It’s meant as a joke, one that should be easily bypassed by the next clever turn of phrase, but his pause is too long and his eyes are too focused, and suddenly, the humor in the air is charged by something new. Something tangible and raw and real.
Too real.
The seconds tick by like minutes, and the ache in my throat expands to my chest.
“What happened in New York, Sophie?”
Everything in me wants to divert us back to the script, back to the flirty fun of our characters, but how can I do that to him when he’s shared things with me that are ten times more personal than what I’ve shared with him?
“I bombed a pretty big performance on opening night, and there was simply no coming back from it.”
“Bombed how?”
I blink, swallow, and feel the sweat gather at the nape of my neck as I glance over his shoulder at the closed door behind him. August must sense my growing need for air, because without taking his eyes off me, he reaches back for the door handle and breaks the seal, popping it open. The rush of AC offers my claustrophobia immediate relief.
“Ac cording to industry reviews and the official statement from my director, I had a ‘nervous breakdown on stage due to a panic disorder I failed to disclose to my director or fellow cast members before opening night.’” I’d memorized the quote, though every time I think it, the twist in my gut tightens. “Thankfully, my understudy was prepared. They closed the curtain, helped me off stage, and my understudy stepped in and saved the show. There are even rumors her performance will be up for a Tony Award.” I don’t want to be a poor sport, so I keep my grin in place. “It’s hard”— impossible —“to come back from a failure like that in my industry. I was labeled a liability overnight and couldn’t even get a first audition, much less a paying role for months afterward. I moved back to California because I was out of options and time ... and money.”
That’s a lot to process, but I can tell by August’s expression that he’s trying. “Had that ever happened to you before? The panic attack, I mean?”
Few in my life have bothered to ask such a question; fewer still have been close enough to know the truth. I rub my hands down my bare thighs and grip my knees for something solid to hold on to. I blow out a breath, reliving the moment that triggered the end of my professional acting career. “I had a scare the night before the show opened.”
But just as August’s shoulders tense, Gabby peeks her head through the open door, and I jump. She immediately apologizes, using both her voice and her hands.
“Sorry, sorry!” She grimaces. “I was so happy to see the Escalade was still here after Portia dropped me off. She says hi, by the way.”
It’s a tough mental transition, but I do my best to smile as I stand to embrace her. I make sure to pull back all the way before I start to speak again. “We were just finishing up in here.”
Gabby repositions herself, her eyes widening as she takes in her brother. “Are you both recording in here? At the same time?”
August stands, which shrinks the already too-small room. “We’re working on a Christmas project.”
Gab by signs Christmas , and I nod and repeat the sign.
“Like the Christmas movies I watch on TV?” she clarifies. “The romance ones?”
Heat warms my cheeks as I avoid eye contact with her brother. Three is definitely a crowd in this booth. “There is some romance in this story, yes.”
Her gaze bounces between us.
Gabby has many qualities, but subtlety is not one of them.
She taps her chin and grins. “I think you need some Christmas inspiration for your studio, August.”
“No.” August both vocalizes and aggressively signs the word. “Don’t even think about decorating in here.”
Gabby’s expression says this idea is well past the thinking stage and fully in the add-to-cart stage.
I exhale a weary breath and pick up my purse and water bottle, then give Gabby a gentle arm squeeze and tell her I’ll see her at church on Sunday.
She signs that she’ll save me a seat, and I answer back without having to think through my reply.
She cheers. “You’re doing so good! Isn’t she doing good, August? Portia says Sophie’s her most dedicated student in class.”
August gives his sister a distracted nod as he eyes me, and I can tell he’s waiting to walk me to my car so he can ask more about New York. Only I don’t think I’m strong enough to handle giving him more, not with how intently he’s watching me. Not when New York barely scratches the surface of what happened only a handful of miles from where I stand.
Dana is the only soul I’ve trusted that particular tale to—or rather, she’s the only soul who believes me.
So before August can make a break from his sister to walk me to my car, I tell them I’m running late for work and take the coward’s way out.