Behind The Scenes (The Backlot #4)

Chapter 1

one

. . .

Stella

Power on a Hollywood studio lot looks a lot like riding around in a golf cart, and today, Blair lets me drive.

The electric hum kicks under my palms, quiet and smug, as we zip past a row of grip trucks and a family of tourists who strain to see if we're anyone famous.

The air smells like fresh paint, hot concrete, and a hint of sweetness coming from the orange trees planted around the edges of the studio's backlot.

Sunlight slices across the facades. New York street to our left, Midwest town square to our right.

A sky that is forever California blue above it all.

Blair Bennett, my boss and mentor, sits beside me in oversized sunglasses, her hand resting casually on the curve of her very obvious baby bump.

Even nine months pregnant, she manages to look like the sharpest person on the lot in a tailored black dress, heels I wouldn't dare attempt, and her one allotted coffee of the day balanced within easy reach.

Blair isn't just my boss; she's the Blair Bennett, a former power player at The Wynn Agency and now the founder of Tangerine Talent and one of the most respected agents in Hollywood.

She's the woman who plucked me out of USC for an internship and showed me what ambition actually looks like.

We glide to a stop outside the bungalow where Ava St. James holds court.

One of those orange trees is artfully planted in a barrel that guards the door, and a PA checks our names like he's protecting state secrets before waving us in.

Ava is an icon, the kind who rose to fame in the mid-2000s, claimed an Oscar and a shelf of other awards, and built her reputation on being part of Hollywood's elite.

But the industry is shifting with every year, and so are the opportunities.

If we're lucky, today might be the day she finally agrees to expand her definition of what success looks like.

Inside, the air is cool, the walls lined with framed black-and-whites of the actors and actresses who built this studio.

“Ladies.” Ava rises from the couch, elegance wrapped in linen and an easy smile. Her eyes drop to Blair's stomach and soften. “Look at you. Glowing. And I say that as someone who loathes that phrase.”

Blair opens her arms. “Trying to make it my brand.”

They hug, and I hang back, trying not to interrupt the moment.

This is Blair's final meeting before her scheduled C-section on Monday.

Yes, Monday, because that woman is only giving herself a weekend break before she goes on maternity leave.

Which means, for the next few months, it'll be me stepping into her shoes.

We sit, and Blair dives right in, giving Ava the news we came to share. “Two offers this week. One's a therapist role, the older-but-wise woman who pushes the protagonist toward her breakthrough. The other is a grandmother in a studio comedy.”

Ava tips her head, her irritation sharp. “I didn't claw my way to an Oscar to be cast in a sitcom as some elderly babysitter.”

Blair leans forward, calm and unbothered. “They're circling you for gravitas. But it's your call. What's your instinct?”

Ava hesitates, then glances at me. “What do you think, Stella? Fresh eyes.”

Heat prickles my collar. I'm just here to observe. But Blair gives me the smallest nod, that silent permission slip that says I'm okay to share my thoughts.

“I think…” I start carefully, weighing each word. “The therapist role has more depth than the grandmother. But I also think your audience would grow if you considered options outside traditional films. Streaming series, prestige TV…it's where some of the most layered roles are happening right now.”

Ava studies me, her lips quirking, not offended but not converted, either. “So, you're telling me to trade the silver screen for someone's laptop.”

“Not trade,” I say quickly. “Expand.”

She smiles kindly, though it doesn't reach her eyes. “You're sharp. I like that. But I'm still a movie actress.”

Blair lets the moment settle. “Then let's say yes to the therapist and pass on the grandmother. Stella will keep things moving while I'm out. You'll be in excellent hands.”

Ava turns to me again, her hands cool and elegant around mine. “Well, Stella, it shouldn't be too hard to manage a client whose career's circling the drain.” The smile she adds makes it sound like a joke, though there's steel underneath.

My throat tightens, but I hold her gaze. “I wouldn't call it that. I think people are still lining up to work with you—and they should be.”

Ava's laugh lingers as she turns away, already signaling to her assistant that we're done here. The meeting ends with polite goodbyes, though the weight of her words presses against my chest long after we step into the sun.

It's not that Ava's wrong. In Hollywood, a man in his forties is just hitting his stride, offered leading roles against women twenty years younger.

A woman the same age? She's fighting for scraps, not because she's any less talented, but because the system decides she's less sellable.

The stories we tell still belong to men.

Blair slips on her sunglasses as we step into the sunlight. “I didn't spell it out for Ava, but here's the deal—she's yours while I'm out. Think of it as a trial run. If you keep things steady, she'll stay with you permanently.”

My pulse jumps. “Wait, seriously?”

Blair takes a measured sip of coffee. “You've been ready for this. All you have to do now is not fuck it up.”

Words tangle in my throat, and she cuts me off with a look. “Don't overthink it, Stella. Just do what you do best. You'll nail this.”

Blair checks her phone, then tucks it away. “I'm heading over to Building A to see Wyatt and steal him for lunch before my next meeting. Can you get the cart back to the return and make it to the office on your own?”

I nod, watching her gather her things. It still feels surreal sometimes, seeing Blair with Wyatt—her high school boyfriend, whom she reconnected with a few years ago through work.

I'd witnessed their awkward reunion firsthand, watching Blair try to stay professional while clearly being affected by seeing him again.

Now they're married and expecting their first child together.

“Of course,” I say quickly. My pulse is still thudding, but I manage a smile. “Actually, I was going to swing by and see Brandon while I'm here. He's shooting on New York Street today.”

Blair's mouth quirks. “Tell him to try not to break his neck before the weekend.”

“I will, and give Wyatt my best.”

She gives my arm a squeeze, then heads off, already dialing Wyatt, leaving me with the cart, the sun, and the kind of news I can't wait to tell Brandon first.

Brandon Grimaldi is a professional stuntman, one of the guys you've likely seen fly through a window or get set on fire in a blockbuster, even if you didn't know it was him. Around here, he's the one directors trust to step in when it gets a little too real for the star of the show.

He also happens to be my across-the-hall neighbor and the honorary guy at our girls' nights.

Perpetually single but never short on dates, he's easygoing and fun, the kind of guy who makes every room feel lighter.

Somehow, he and I have landed on a weekly tradition—takeout and reality TV, with both of us taking turns with color commentary.

Stella

Ava meeting done. I have news. Where are you on the lot?

Brandon

New York Street. North end. Big fake deli. They have real pickles, though. Come steal one.

I bite back a smile I feel all the way down to my toes.

Of all the things Los Angeles has given me, Brandon ranks unreasonably high.

He's older, steady in a way that makes me feel both safe and a little reckless.

Strong in all the obvious ways, the kind of man who looks like he was born knowing how to lift people out of burning buildings.

And unfairly hot—so much so that if we hadn't met as neighbors and friends first, I probably never would've had the nerve to talk to him.

Women notice him everywhere, and for a while, it felt like there was a new face on his arm every other week.

Lately, though…I can't actually remember the last time I saw him with anyone.

The second I press the pedal, the cart gives its usual dramatic bucking launch before settling into a hum.

I weave through the lot, past extras sweating in fake wool coats, past a fountain that, tomorrow, will either host a love confession or a body dump.

New York Street appears like a magic trick, its facades stacked side by side, not a real home in sight.

And there, just like he promised, is the fake deli with the pastrami special no one will ever order.

Brandon leans against the craft services table, a pickle in hand, breaking every heart within a fifty-foot radius.

His T-shirt stretches over his biceps like the fabric's barely keeping up, and his hair—too long, always falling into his eyes—gets pushed back with a casual sweep of his hand.

When his gaze lifts and lands on me, I swear it sharpens, brightens, like I'm the one he was waiting for.

Then comes that easy, devastating smile with perfectly straight white teeth.

He is the poster child for heartbreaker.

He walks over to me, smelling like sunshine and fake deli. “There she is!”

“You promised pickles.”

“That, I did.” He plucks a cup off the craft services table, dropping one inside before handing it over like it's contraband. “Look at that. Dreams really do come true.”

I bite into it, and the crunch echoes in my ears. “Okay, that's better than I expected.”

Brandon grins. “Right?”

I smile around another bite. “How was your morning?”

“Nope, we're not talking about me.” His gaze sharpens, teasing but curious. “Spill.”

I shift the cup in my hands as energy buzzes in my chest. “Blair wants me to manage Ava St. James while she's out on maternity leave. If I do well…” My throat catches. “She could stay my client.”

Brandon doesn't even blink. His grin breaks wide, warm and proud, like he's been expecting this all along. He takes my elbows, steadying me. “Of course she did. Stell, you're gonna crush it. I never doubted it for a second.”

The knot in my chest eases. “You really think so?”

“I know so.”

He gives my arms a quick squeeze, but before I can reply, a set assistant jogs up, her headset slipping down her cheek. “Brandon, they're ready for you on mark.”

He groans good-naturedly, already backing toward the street. “Duty calls. Can you stick around for a bit? Watch me work?”

“Just one scene,” I say, trying to sound firm even as my chest warms at the invitation.

For a breath, it feels almost like I've got everything I've ever wanted.