You Give Me That Feeling

Chapter 1

ONE

Katie

This was one of the worst kisses I’d ever had, and that was saying something, because I had kissed a lot of men.

Charlie Mackle and I were standing in a room filled with party decorations. Streamers dangled, tinsel blinked, and a disco ball rotated where it hung from a special clamp above us. On the riser, the band had stopped playing. The other partygoers were gathered around, watching us. In a moment, they would clap.

Charlie—specifically, his character—had gone solo to his high school reunion, because the mean girl he’d dated in high school stood him up. But then I—my character—had locked eyes with him across the room. My character was the girl he’d never noticed, who had had a crush on him all these years and had tried, in several hilarious sequences, to get his attention. I got his attention in this scene by taking the stage at our high school reunion, declaring my love, and singing “Unchained Melody.” Charlie’s character had then realized he was wrong all along, he’d swept me into his arms, and here we were.

He had chewed some mint gum, I’d give him that. Also, he was very good looking, with his thick, black hair swept back in a stylish cut and his expressive dark eyebrows. He wasn’t a big star yet, but he was hoping for it. They all were. He might get noticed by making this Netflix romcom with me, which meant kissing me.

Wardrobe had put Charlie into a jeans-tee-and-blazer combo that was attractive and cringey at the same time. His hands on my back were icy cold. I had taken a breath mint, and right before the take, the makeup artist had sprayed setting spray directly on my mouth so my gloss wouldn’t smear too much. Then it was action time, and Charlie moved in for the kill.

We’d practiced this. I angled my face just right and flung my arms around his neck. His lips were weirdly unpleasant, hard and clammy. He worked his jaw in a way I couldn’t fathom, like he was chewing something. He breathed hard through his nose, and I expected a nose whistle any moment. I melted into the kiss as if I’d finally gotten the guy I’d loved for years, and he nose-breathed harder.

The tech spun the disco ball above our heads. Someone cued the extras, and they started clapping.

As rehearsed, I lifted a hand and dug it into Charlie’s hair, feeling the waxy texture of layers of hair product. Once I had a grip, I kept my hand still, because it would look bad onscreen for me to muss it too much.

No one called “cut,” so we had to keep going. I could hear the extras’ feet shuffling on the floor.

Charlie worked his jaw some more, and then he plunged his tongue into my mouth, digging around in there like he was looking for something.

“Cut,” the director said.

Charlie pulled back and grinned a wide grin. He didn’t wait for director feedback. “Fantastic, babe,” he said, and walked away.

I silently tamed my gag reflex as the extras stopped clapping and the set came to life around me. One of the PA’s handed me a cup with a straw in it, and I grabbed it and took a gulp without caring what it might be. Diet Coke. Perfect.

The assistant director gave me a thumbs up, which meant the take was good and we didn’t have to do it again. Thank God for middling streaming budgets and rapid shooting schedules that didn’t allow time for a director to be fussy. You got the shot, you moved on. I swigged Diet Coke through my mouth and headed for my dressing room.

High School Reunion was my thirteenth Netflix romcom in five years, earning me the title of Romcom Queen. I had played the city girl stranded in a small town at Christmas, the American girl in England who lands a prince, and the girl who needs a date to her best friend’s wedding and hires a fake boyfriend. I had been the girl who gets stuck with the cute guy at an airport in a snowstorm, and once, memorably, I had been an everyday librarian who goes back in time through a portal to the early nineteenth century, where she has to wear pretty dresses and try not to fall in love with a Regency beau. That movie was wildly popular, but the costume budget was too high, so they wouldn’t let me do period pieces anymore.

I wasn’t star outside of Netflix—yet—but there were Katie Armstrong fan pages and a fan site with a message board where they organized Katie Armstrong watch parties. Fans prescribed to each other which Katie Amrstrong movie to watch after a breakup or a bad day at work. They ran votes on which of my movies had the best clothes, the best hero, the best hair, the best kiss. My fans were amazing, and I didn’t want to let them down, ever.

That was why High School Reunion worried me, and it wasn’t just because of Charlie Mackle and his nose breath.

High School Reunion was about a woman in her thirties. I was a woman in my thirties, but still. I had three potential scripts in play as my next project, and in one of those scripts, for the first time, I would play a mom.

Certain. Death.

To be clear, I had no problems with moms. I believed fully that a woman who is a mom can also be sexy, complicated, and interesting, like a real human being. But Hollywood does not believe that. Mom roles were for women deemed old and sexless, given bad haircuts and high-waisted pants and absolutely no lives to live. Mom roles meant I was no longer fun romcom Katie. I was done. I needed to change direction, and fast.

In my dressing room, I grabbed my phone and sank into a chair, easing out of my high heels. No messages. I dialed my agent, Stella.

“Anything?” I asked when she answered.

“Not yet.” Both of us sounded as tense as if we were counting down a NASA launch. “I’ve left a message, but I can’t push too hard or you’re out.”

“Damn it.”

“We can do this,” Stella said. “We can. But if it doesn’t happen, you’ll have to choose the next project. They’re waiting for your decision before anything gets greenlit.”

“I can’t,” I said dramatically, because I could be dramatic with my agent. “The scripts are all so bad. ”

“I know, I know. But they’re in talks with Jimson Greer to costar in one of them. The one where you’re both teachers at the same high school and you’re coaching the cheer team together.”

“I can’t play a cheer coach!” I protested. “I’ll have to wear gym clothes and a whistle around my neck. It isn’t sexy at all. ”

None of my movies were sexy, in that they didn’t have actual sex in them. Nothing ever went past a kiss. I’d never had to get naked or even show a breast. But my movies were all about chemistry and sexual tension. The kiss I’d just done with Charlie had felt weird, but it would look great onscreen. They all did, because I was a pro.

“Jimson will make it sexy,” Stella said. Jimson Greer was a new up-and-coming It Boy, and by boy I meant he was twenty-seven. He was very pretty and very fit, but he was too young to be a cheer coach, and his name was Jimson. Could I believably make out with a guy named Jimson?

I was Katie Armstrong, so yes. Yes, I could.

“Can’t Jimson do the plumber script instead?” I asked. The third script was about a rich girl (me) who inherits a house and hires a contractor to help her renovate it. The pivotal scene involved a burst sink pipe, which meant I’d get wet, and the hero would take his shirt off to fix it, and we’d almost kiss. My fans would eat it up. I could already picture how pruned and freezing I’d be on that day of shooting.

“Jimson doesn’t want to do the water scene,” Stella said. “He says it’s exploitive. If you don’t want to do the cheer coach, you might have to take the mom script. They’re offering the best money for that one, and it’s only five days of work.”

I closed my eyes, picturing a scene in which I’ve cooked a huge, inexplicable breakfast (why?) and I watch in exasperation as my son rushes past it out the door to catch the school bus. “No,” I groaned. “No. Call them again. He has to make a decision soon. I’ve auditioned three times.”

I had put everyone off because I was waiting to hear about a role— the role. Edgar Pinsent, the Oscar-winning director, was casting for his new movie. I had flown to New York twice to audition, then to London to audition again. They made me audition in person, even though Edgar Pinsent himself wasn’t there. The name of the movie was top secret, the script was under wraps, and no one auditioning was told what role they were being considered for. The whole thing was treated like a CIA black op. When you wanted a role in one of Edgar Pinsent’s movies, you did what they told you and didn’t ask questions.

“Katie, no one rushes Edgar Pinsent,” Stella said. “Getting through to the assistant of his assistant is like getting through to God. I’d sell my kidney to—Oh, my God, his office is calling on the other line. I’ll call you right back.” She hung up.

I sat staring at the phone in my nerve-dead hand, unable to feel my face. This was it—right now. All the preparations I’d done, the auditions I’d flown to, the sleepless nights thinking about the next stage of my career, was for this. Doing this movie with Edgar Pinsent would push me to the next level—in my craft, in my level of fame, and in my finances. I would get better offers from now on if I got this. Better scripts. I would be able to spread my acting wings and do different things. I might even be able to write and produce . That thought was so heady, I couldn’t even think about it too hard, like staring at the sun.

I would be able to get more money per project. I did just fine for myself, but I would be so truly rich that I could be choosy with projects instead of having to take back-to-back scripts. If this movie won Oscars—even if I didn’t get one myself—it would change my life. I would never have to kiss men like Charlie Mackle ever again. I didn’t even know the name of this movie, I hadn’t seen the script, and I didn’t know what role I might play, but I already knew that with one phone call, I would be out of the kissing game forever.

I stared at the phone as my heart pounded and my head throbbed.

There was a knock on my dressing room door. One of the assistants called, “Miss Armstrong? They need you back in makeup and on set to do pick-ups.”

“Five minutes!” I called back.

I heard the assistant hesitate outside the door. He’d been given a job to do, and he was in trouble if he didn’t fish me out of my dressing room. “Miss Armstrong?—”

“Five minutes!” I shouted it this time, almost a bark. I was never this short with people. “Give me five freaking minutes! I have diarrhea!”

That shut him up. I heard his footsteps moving away.

I got up and paced. If I got this role, I promised the universe, I would be a good person. I was already a good person, but I would be even better. I would do even more free appearances to promote animal rescue charities. I already did a few a year, but I would do more, and I would promote other things, too. Cancer charities. The Red Cross. Did they need me to fly somewhere and look pensive while wearing well-tailored fatigues? I could do that. I could?—

My phone buzzed, and I almost dropped it. I juggled it and punched the answer button. “Stella!” I shouted into the phone.

“Okay, honey, calm down,” Stella said. She was only five years older than me, but when she used her motherly energy, it was unmatched. “Everything is under control.”

“What’s going on?” I shouted into the piece of plastic in my hand. Why were phones so small and insignificant? Big moments called for old-fashioned phones with big handsets. It was hard to be dramatic with this thing.

“He’s still undecided,” Stella said. “You aren’t out of the running yet. But, Katie, I’ll be honest. Edgar Pinsent told his assistant—who told his assistant, who told me—that he has doubts.”

I froze in my pacing, trying to process this. “What kind of doubts? I’ll do coaching sessions. Does he need an accent? I’ll master it, even Australian. I’ll lose weight. Or gain weight. I’ll dye my hair. I’ll shave it. Stella, I can do this.”

“I know you can, honey,” Stella said, and for the first time I heard her hesitate. “Edgar says he isn’t sure because you’re too sweet.”

We were both silent for a breath.

“This is fixable,” Stella said into the silence. She sounded confident. “He’s looking at your reel, and all he sees is romcoms. Your auditions are great, but he doesn’t know you like I do. He sees what the public sees, and you’re gorgeous and wonderful, but he’s looking for dark and edgy. You know?”

“I’m too sweet,” I said slowly.

“Yes. But we can fix it. You can pick up some indie roles. We’ll get you booked to some late-night talk shows, and we’ll write raunchy stories to tell to show your other side. I’ll call a stylist to change up your look.”

I shook my head. “A new look? Stella, I’m not Sandy in Grease. A perm and some fake leather pants won’t get me a role with Edgar Pinsent. And taking indie roles will take time. We don’t have time.”

“Yes, we do,” she said. “The funding for the movie is being renegotiated, so the project is on hold for three months. Edgar is going to take a retreat in Romania to revise the script. The casting is on hold. I’m telling you, Katie, you aren’t out of this. Not yet. What did Winston Churchill say?”

I knew the answer, because this was one of Stella’s rallying cries, even though Winston Churchill was talking about a world war, not getting roles in Hollywood. “’Never, ever, ever give up,’” I quoted.

“That’s right. We have three months to prove to Edgar Pinsent that you’re more than just the pretty girl next door. I’ve been thinking about this, anyway—you’ve needed to change your image for a while. I’ve come up with several possible strategies.”

“Wait a minute. You agree with Edgar Pinsent? You think I’m too sweet?”

“Katie,” Stella said in her version of a kind, gentle voice, “the word edgy isn’t one that anyone associates with you. I love you, but you know that.”

I stood straighter. “I’m edgy,” I argued. “I wore a miniskirt in Party of Two. And I showed my bra.”

“It was a bra strap,” Stella corrected me. “You showed a bra strap. Middle school kids have seen more than that. You’ve never even worn a bathing suit onscreen.”

It was true, I hadn’t. I had never seen the need, and my fans weren’t asking for it. But whatever I was doing wasn’t working anymore. Maybe I should start thinking outside of my routine. “Okay, I’m listening. What are your ideas?”

“I could get you an erotic script,” Stella said. “Which would mean nudity.”

My hand flew to my lower belly and instinctively felt the shape of it. I kept fit, but there was a difference between fit and nude scene fit . “I’m not in training,” I hedged. “I’d need two months to be ready for a nude scene, and Edgar Pinsent won’t see the movie in time.”

“A fair point,” she said grudgingly. “You’d have to tone up and drop twenty pounds.”

My face went hot. “Jeez, Stella. Not twenty. Ten.”

“Fifteen,” she shot back, because negotiating was in her blood. “Still, the timeline won’t work. No problem. If you can’t show some tits and ass to look edgy, then I have another idea. One that doesn’t need you to diet, and we can put it in place right away.”

“What is it?” I tried not to sound too eager to do whatever it took to keep my clothes on.

I could hear Stella’s triumphant smile through the phone. “If they want your wild side, we’re going to bring some wild into your life. We’re getting you a boyfriend.”