17. Chapter 17
Our cottage. I’d started thinking of it that way without noticing.
Max flipped open his computer and pulled up the day’s footage.
I pointed at the screen. “See that clip—the extreme close-up of the fear in his eyes? And look at this one where he turns and his friend has already fallen.” I leaned forward.
“You don’t need explosions. With the right music, the right shots, maybe a little backstory about who these men were before the battle—their hopes, their families—shooting this small would actually make it bigger. ”
Max was quiet for a moment, watching the footage.
“It’s already there,” he said finally. “We just have to let it be what it is.”
Neither of us said anything after that. The footage kept playing. At some point I became very aware of how close we were sitting, both of us leaning toward the screen, our shoulders touching. He turned to say something and stopped, his face only inches from mine.
The moment stretched between us.
He kissed me softly, like a question.
A question I wanted to answer but didn’t have the words yet.
For a second, we both just froze.
Somehow that didn’t stop us from talking at the same time.
“Do you think it’ll work—?” I asked, just as Max said, “We need to call a lawyer—”
I leaned back against the cushions. “Yeah, we need to see if we have any legal rights left to make the movie—who wrote the script?”
“I wrote the original one, and now the two of us are doing the rewrite.” He paused. “I don’t know. The rights are complicated.”
Max’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “DGA gives me the right to finish shooting and direct through post. Unless I was fired for cause.” He looked up. “Was I?”
We both searched in silence for a few minutes.
“There’s something here about the financier acting as producer,” I offered.
“Not the case for us.” He rubbed his temples. “Bottom line—I need to call the studio, explain everything, and pray they still want me.”
I frowned. “What about my visa situation?”
Max kept typing. I waited. Three. Two. One. “Oh, damn.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Your wedding planning visa won’t cover film production. I can’t even put you on payroll.” He was already scrolling through his contacts. “Let me call my agent about expediting a work visa.”
I nodded, though part of me wanted to scream.
I made a pot of tea with shaking hands, dropping a biscuit on the floor in the process, then settled on a deck chair. The book in my lap remained unopened as I stared at the water, the tea growing cold beside me.
The ginger biscuits beside me disappeared as I sipped my tea and scrolled through Angus and Caitlin’s engagement photos.
We could post them around the inn for the wedding.
In fact, they were so beautiful I decided to make them into a photo book as a wedding present.
I pulled out my laptop and set to work inserting and arranging photos.
I had no idea how much time had passed when I realized I’d designed an entire keepsake book for a wedding that hadn’t happened yet. Probably best to hold off on getting it printed until after the ceremony.
Max appeared on the deck with a glass bottle and two small glasses, amber liquid catching the endless evening light. “Fancy a dram?”
He poured a glass and held it out toward me. I leaned forward and breathed it in. It smelled of the ocean, heather, peat, and smoke. “Wow. That’s… something.”
“Want some?” he asked as he settled into the chair next to me.
I shook my head a little too vehemently, and he laughed.
“I mean, it smells interesting, but I think I’ll stick with tea tonight.”
“Fair enough,” he said, taking a sip.
“So, what’d you find out?” I asked, setting aside my laptop.
“It's 1:30 in the afternoon in LA, so I was actually able to get ahold of my agent. She said to let her talk to the studio first and not to give too many details when they call.”
“So what will you say?”
He leaned back in his chair, thinking. “I’ll be incredibly upbeat about the shoot, pitch your ideas—which I may have to present as mine at first—and then sell them on your experience, your talent…” He grinned. “Your laugh and your eyes.”
I batted my eyelashes at him.
“And it just so happens that the studio head is Shane.”
“No way! Shane? From our intern days?”
“Yup!”
I wiggled in my seat. “Wow, I wanna talk to him.”
Max shook his head, chuckling. “Nope. You’ll get him sidetracked on all the stories about the good old days.”
He paused before adding, “If we play our cards right, we should be fine. Shane’s a good guy. He knows both of us.”
“That’s why you weren’t that worried.”
“I mean, nobody likes getting fired. But yeah.”
I leaned my head back against the chair and closed my eyes. “Cool.”
A moment later, his lips brushed my forehead, soft and quick. “You should hit the hay.”
“‘Hit the hay’? What are you, a 1950s farmhand? I should ‘hit the hay,’ my midwestern friend. Maybe we can go cow tipping later.” I pushed myself to standing.
Max grinned up at me. “Don’t have a cow, man!”
He held out his hand, and I pulled him up.
“That’s don’t have a coo, lad,” I said in my best attempt at a Scottish accent. I reached up and lifted his baseball cap away, holding it between us for a moment before leaning in to press my lips against his cheek.
We stood there, neither of us pulling away.
He bent toward me—and then his phone rang.
Max blinked, then looked down at the caller ID. He hesitated, his thumb hovering over the screen.
I waited. His eyes met mine again, apologetic and torn.
I caught the name on the screen before he swiped.
Cat.
I stepped toward the house. “Take it,” I said quietly.
I went straight to my bedroom and shut the door behind me with a soft click. I stood there in the dark for a moment, my forehead resting against the wood.