Chapter 2
Under the Table
Andrew
My breath catches in my throat, the air suddenly thick and heavy. If his goal was to capture my undivided attention, mission accomplished.
My spine snaps straight as if electrified, every nerve ending suddenly alive and humming. I turn toward him, the motion swift and jerky, faster than he seems prepared for. The quick, unguarded look that flashes across his face vanishes before I can fully process it.
He doesn't speak.
The space between us crackles with unspoken words, with the weight of what just happened under the table, invisible to the cameras and crew.
I don't speak either, my mouth suddenly dry, the script forgotten in my hands.
In this moment, the studio lights fade to background noise, the murmuring of the crew becomes distant static.
There's only him, me, and the ghost of his touch still burning against my skin.
My face remains a blank canvas, the muscles frozen in a neutral expression that probably reads as utter bewilderment to anyone watching. I should be reacting, playing along with whatever game Vince has initiated, but my brain has short-circuited.
Vince leans back in his chair, his gaze sweeping over me from head to toe, a slow, deliberate appraisal that feels both invasive and strangely intimate.
Then it happens again—that genuine smile, the one that actually reaches his light brown eyes, crinkling the corners in a way that makes my breath catch.
My mind races, trying to make sense of what just happened under the table, away from prying eyes and camera lenses.
That touch—it was deliberate, calculated, a deliberate breach of professional boundaries that sent electricity coursing through my veins.
Was it just another one of Vince's childish antics, another way to get under my skin and throw me off balance? Or was it something else entirely?
The thought hangs in the air, dangerous and intoxicating.
Is he flirting with me? Here, now, under the harsh studio lights, in front of a crew of strangers who are probably all too familiar with his particular brand of performance? The possibility sends a thrill through me, followed by a wave of self-doubt so intense it nearly knocks me sideways.
"Andy, did I ever tell you about when I used to play street hockey with an empty tuna can back in Minnesota?"
"No, Vince," I sigh, the words escaping before I can stop them, "we just met about half an hour ago." Improv is not my strong suit, never has been, and in this moment I feel like a fraud playing a role I never auditioned for.
A ripple of laughter ripples through the studio, unexpected and unwelcome.
The sound hits me like a physical blow, each chuckle a tiny needle pricking at my skin.
I curse myself internally, the words sharp and bitter in my mind.
I'm not supposed to be the one making jokes, not the one getting laughs.
Gary made that crystal clear—I'm the secondary character, the human laugh track, the prop for Vince's effortless wit.
This isn't my moment, but somehow, in this bizarre twist of fate, it's become mine anyway.
"That's a lie," Vince challenges. I look over at him quickly, wide-eyed, horrified.
"We met an entire fifty minutes ago, not thirty.
You know it, too. I can't believe you sometimes, Andy.
I feel like this friendship means absolutely nothing to you.
" Vince lets out a dramatic sigh that's so theatrical it could win awards, his body slumping back against the chair like a marionette whose strings have been cut.
His legs cross at the ankle as he directs a glare toward the camera lens that's probably meant to look wounded.
The studio erupts in laughter again, a wave of sound that washes over me.
The tension in my shoulders dissolves, leaving behind a strange, sweet relief.
I've been an idiot, haven't I? All this time, thinking Vince was actually trying to humiliate me, when really—this is just..
. him. This is his thing. The realization washes over me, warm and slightly embarrassing.
My heart, which had been hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird, finally slows to a more reasonable rhythm, the frantic beat settling into something closer to normal.
I can feel the corners of my mouth twitching, fighting against the smile that's threatening to break through.
It's getting harder and harder to resist, especially when Vince is being this ridiculous.
His stupid jokes are starting to get under my skin in a way that has nothing to do with humiliation and everything to do with. .. something else entirely.
"I didn't realize you had the awareness necessary to keep track of time."
"I grew up in rural Minnesota playing hockey with a tuna can...and I also showed up over an hour late to this taping. I don't."
He delivers the line so dryly, so perfectly deadpan, that I'm completely undone.
A laugh bursts out of me, raw and real, and before I can stop myself I'm doubling over, my forehead nearly smacking against the wooden table.
My shoulders shake with it, the sound of my own laughter mingling with the crew's until the entire studio fills with it.
The humor washes over me, warm and cleansing, lifting the weight of anxiety that's been pressing down on my chest for hours.
Vince glances over at me, another one of those genuine smiles spreading across his face—the kind that actually reaches his eyes, crinkling the corners in a way that makes my breath catch.
I see it then, the same flicker of victory in his light brown eyes that I know must be mirrored in my own when I corrected him about my name at the start of this taping.
The knots that have been twisting in my stomach for hours suddenly loosen, transforming into something else entirely—something light and fluttery that rises into my chest. A wave of dread washes over me, cold and sudden.
Oh no. Please, no. I can't have an instant crush on the guy I'm supposed to work with every single day. That would be disastrous.
In the periphery of my vision, I can feel Vince's gaze lingering on me, his attention unwavering even as the crew behind the lights maintains their hushed silence. I keep my eyes locked on the camera lens, pretending not to notice, pretending not to feel the heat creeping up my neck.
"Hey, Andy."
"Yeah?"
"Where are you from?"
My breath catches, eyes widening as they dart between Vince and the camera lens.
That's... personal. We're miles off script now, according to the papers still clutched in my hand.
I should be sharing some contestant's tear-jerker backstory, but Vince's gaze is fixed on me, patient and intense. He wants the truth.
"I'm from Alaska."
Vince scoffs, a sound that seems to fill the entire studio. "I knew it."
An awkward chuckle escapes my lips. "You knew it, huh?"
He's been fighting to keep a straight face, but fails, his smirk widening into something that makes my chest tighten. His smile has this... gravitational pull. I can feel the corners of my own mouth lifting without permission, like a puppet on strings.
I'm so screwed. This isn't just a crush; it's a full-blown, schoolyard infatuation. I'm a goner.
"Sunkissed blonde hair, clean shaven. A classy, subtle tan.
Coming into the studio wearing a down jacket in the middle of spring in Los Angeles.
Clean hands with well trimmed nails, hands that look like they haven't done a single day of physical labor.
Clearly, you are from the great northern state of Alaska. "
The crew is losing it, their laughter echoing around the studio. My grin stays plastered on my face until I catch sight of the clock on the far wall.
This was supposed to be an hour-long test, giving them plenty of footage to make or break me. Suddenly, I understand why they insisted on this length, why Vince had to be here. But our time is up.
"You might want to check your watch there, Vince."
He glances at his wrist, but when his eyes meet mine again, something shifts. The playful smirk remains, but there's something else behind it, something softer. My heart starts pounding against my ribs.
I don't want this to end. Does he feel it too? Is that what's in his eyes?
Every ridiculous, immature joke—even the ones at my expense—has been making me feel giddy in a way I haven't felt in years. None of this is actually funny, this juvenile nonsense passing for television hosting. Yet that's exactly what sent me into this laughing fit.
At the realization of what's happening inside me, I immediately avert my gaze. I restack the papers in front of me, the soft clack of paper on wood grounding me, and turn back to the camera.
"There you have it, folks, our time has come to an end," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "What we have learned, what we have seen... I honestly can't say that I know for sure what's just happened here."
"I can."
My head whips toward Vince, confusion etched on my face.
He doesn't elaborate. Just keeps looking at me, that infuriating, captivating smirk still in place.
Heat floods my cheeks again as I clench my jaw, breaking eye contact to face the camera once more.
I'm pretty sure that while everyone else got a kick out of my audition, in my own gay little reality, I've just spent the last hour flirting with Vince Vickers for everyone else's oblivious amusement. None of this makes sense. Does it? This is all for the tape. It's just a comedy.
Everyone who auditions probably runs through the same jokes. Is Vince even into other men? I mean, he mentioned a kid. Vince seems like a family man. A family man from Minnesota who watches Toy Story with his kids.
I'm twenty-seven years old, and I've been dating men since I was sixteen. I can't say much for certain, but I know when I'm being flirted with.
Vince has been flirting with me, I'm positive about that.