14. Chapter 14
The script landed in my lap as we pulled out. One hundred five pages—thin for a period feature.
I flipped through the script. “So what’s the emergency?”
“An actor bailed. He played a general. Now we have to rewrite the whole thing.”
I scanned the pages. “The general in act one? There were two of them.”
“Exactly.”
“Cut to one general. Problem solved.”
Max sighed. “Not that simple. They had this whole back-and-forth that explained the backstory.”
“Can’t you just promote an extra to a speaking role?”
“Working on it.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “There’s also the Fairy Glen scene.”
I turned toward him. “What about it?”
“Studio doesn’t think it works for a war film.” He couldn’t quite hide his irritation.
“Why not scrap—”
“Abby.” His voice softened. “You’ve seen that place. It’s breathtaking. Perfect poster material. I need those shots.”
We drove along the narrow, winding roads and talked about the script changes, his tone calm and controlled.
As we neared the glen, another call came through on his phone.
“Go for Max.”
“Yeah… yeah.” He glanced at the navigation screen. “Ten minutes out, tops.”
“What? You can’t—how long will it—no, absolutely not. We’re already down one actor, and the schedule’s tight as it is.”
I thumbed through scene forty-two while he listened, his jaw tightening.
“Fine. I’ll handle it,” he finally said, and ended the call.
The car rolled to a gentle stop in the gravel lot at the edge of the cliffs.
Max hopped out and made a beeline for the folding table craft services was setting up.
“Good morning, sir!” said a young production assistant.
“Just Max.” He accepted a cup of coffee. “Thanks for coming early. Those croissants look amazing. This is Abby. She’ll be on set with me today.”
The PA nodded. “Welcome, Abby.”
“Thanks!” I scanned the spread appreciatively. Scones, croissants, oat cakes, fruit, coffee, tea, and an assortment of juices. “Almond croissants and oat cakes. Someone did their research.”
I settled into a director’s chair, flipping through the script and marking possible changes in the margins.
Max darted from crew member to crew member, gesturing and pointing as grips and locations crew set up base camp and hauled in lighting gear. I watched him for a beat—how he moved, how the crew responded to him.
The generators kicked on with a low rumble just as I spotted a woolly intruder ambling across the field. The gate must have been left open. Framed against the rising sun and the dramatic cliffs beyond, the sheep looked almost staged.
I couldn’t help myself—I grabbed my phone for a quick shot.
A locations assistant caught my eye and pointed toward a low grassy mound at the edge of the field. “Mind the fairy mound,” she said quietly. “We've been working around it all morning.”
“Of course you have,” I said earnestly.
Then a second sheep appeared. A third followed.
I lowered my phone. The sheep were wandering perilously close to the cliff edge.
Dropping my script, I sprinted toward them, only scattering the animals farther. I’d never dealt with livestock before. Would instinct keep them from the edge? Images of lemmings plunging to their deaths flashed through my head.
“Help!” I called, like some little old lady.
Max shot me a panicked look, then saw the sheep. “They’re just sheep.”
“They might wander off the cliff!”
“They won’t—will they?” He shrugged and moved on.
I caught his eye as he walked past. Just a second.
But long enough to feel the quiet understanding that used to pass between us—me, clutching a clipboard, trying frantically to outthink every disaster before it happened, while Max was out there enjoying life without worrying about any of the things that I found paralyzing.
And yet, my pre-planning was usually what kept things from falling apart.
Maybe I didn’t know sheep very well—but I still knew Max.
Hair, makeup, and wardrobe arrived moments later. Two stylists lugged racks of costumes into a hastily pitched tent—no trailers at a site like this.
I turned my attention back to the sheep. This was not what I pictured when I’d offered to be Max’s assistant for the day.
For the next hour, I did little but shoo sheep. I eventually recruited a few extras to try and corral them, until I started thinking about union rules.
Max shook his head, chuckling. “Honestly, I love having sheep in the scene. It’s perfect.”
A few minutes later, the actors emerged from wardrobe and gathered near the set.
Max lifted his megaphone. “Okay, everyone—PICTURE’S UP!”
Actors took their marks.
“QUIET ON SET!”
“ROLL SOUND!”
“Speed!” came the response.
“ROLL CAMERA!”
“Rolling!” the cinematographer called.
“BACKGROUND ACTION!”
Extras began milling through the field.
“MARKER!”
Clap
“And… ACTION!”
I didn’t move.
They nearly made it through—until a sheep wandered between the two leads.
“CUT!” Max barked. “Locations, get that sheep out of frame!”
“Reset. Back to one.”
They rolled again. Another sheep appeared.
“CUT! Going again real quick.”
For the next few takes, sheep entered the frame with increasingly impeccable timing—just out of focus, then directly behind the actors, then brazenly center stage.
The locations crew transformed into reluctant shepherds, lunging and retreating as the second assistant camera gleefully captured every fumbling second for behind-the-scenes footage.
On the final attempt, Max pushed the cameras in tight, trusting he could crop the rest in post. Sheep still grazed in the background—more than before—but he gave a nod, close enough.
That’s when a local crofter came charging across the field, shouting at his flock.
“CUT!”
Max started toward him, but I caught his arm. “They’re his sheep. We left the gate open. We can’t exactly eject him from your ‘closed set’ if this is our fault.”
He sighed and lowered the megaphone. “Alright, everyone—take five.”
Maybe thirty.
The flustered farmer led a ragtag parade of locations crew and extras across the field, all of them waving arms and shouting as they herded sheep back toward the gate.
Behind them, the behind-the-scenes camera operator circled like a nature documentarian, zooming in on their desperate expressions. Max watched him, grimly amused.
The chaos might have been manageable if Cameron Sinclair hadn’t chosen that moment to storm off set.
The lead actor’s string of obscenities carried across the field as he slammed the door of his makeshift trailer.
Ava, the producer, hurried after him. From where we stood, we saw her foot sink into a mud patch with a sickening squelch. She yelped as she stumbled, her ankle twisting at an unnatural angle.
“My ankle,” she gasped as Max rushed to her side.
I reached them in time to hear Max murmur, “Nearest hospital’s an hour from here according to the call sheet.”
“I just need to walk it off,” Ava insisted, though her grimace said otherwise.
Max unclipped his walkie and spoke into it. “Need someone local who knows the roads. Evan, bring your car around for Ava—hospital run.”
“On my way,” crackled Evan’s voice. In the background, Cameron Sinclair said, “Bloody hell, are you serious?”
Max’s eyes widened. “Damn it.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
Max rubbed his temples. “Cameron’s going to lose it. Evan’s his personal assistant. We borrowed him as a PA until we found local crew. Now Cameron’s heard we’re sending his guy away.”
I looked at Ava, cradling her ankle as a PA applied an ice pack. “But this is a medical emergency.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Max said, “He’s barricaded himself in that trailer.”
“Wait, I thought there weren’t any trailers here.”
“There aren’t supposed to be. He insisted.” He huffed out a breath. “And Ava’s the only one who knows how to handle him when he gets like this.”
“He’s contractually obligated—”
“I direct,” Max said quietly. “Ava handles talent tantrums and investor relations.”
Just then, Evan pulled up. Max was helping Ava into the car when his phone rang.
Max steadied himself before answering. “Go for Max.”
“Yes, absolutely. Everything’s fantastic at Kilt Rock. Gorgeous footage.”
He shifted his weight and scratched his jaw.
“Ava? She’s with Cameron right now, working through a scene.”
Looking out across the set, Max raised his eyebrows.
“Tomorrow? From London? Of course—we’d love to have you on set.” His face did not reflect that sentiment. At all.
He paused. “Right. See you tomorrow.”
Max ended the call and pocketed his phone.
A moment later, Evan’s car disappeared down the road.
Neither of us spoke. “Investors?” I finally asked.
“Flying in tomorrow. They specifically want Ava.”
I frowned slightly. “Well, hopefully her ankle isn’t—”
“You don't get it,” Max said, dragging his hands down his face. “Ava and Cameron were together. She ended it last night.”
I went still. “She was dating her lead actor.”
“I know.”
“On location.”
“I know.”
“And now—”
He cut me off with a look. “I know, Abby.”
We watched the farmer continue shooing sheep away from the cliff.
“We’re already a small crew,” Max said. “Without Ava—”
“It’ll be fine,” I said. “You’re the director. Show them the dailies. Tease a trailer moment.”
“Ava was doing that.”
I placed a hand on his arm. “I’ll step in. Talk to Cameron. Handle the investors.”
“Abby—”
“You know I’m good at this.”
The problem was, so did I.
I hesitated, then added, “In exchange, you give me the MacAlister Inn the weekend of June eighteenth. All of it. Thursday through Tuesday.”
“Through Monday,” Max countered.
“Deal.”
He hadn’t flinched at the date. I wasn’t sure whether that was better or worse.
Our hands met and lingered, his palm warm against mine. Something tightened in my chest. This was Max. Brilliant, impossible Max. And I was volunteering to clean up his mess once again.