3
After a deep, fortifying breath of salty ocean air, Peter carefully stepped off the ferry and onto the windswept chunk of
limestone near the western coast of Ireland where he, Maria, and a very small crew would be filming for—years, potentially.
As long as the characters of Cyprian and Cassia remained alive and stranded there.
After slinging his huge duffel over his shoulder, he walked to the end of the pier and waited while everyone else disembarked.
The assistant director, line producer, boom op, camera op, hair and makeup artist, grip, and a handful of other crew members:
one by one, they ventured off the wave-rocked boat and took a moment to look around and get their bearings.
Maria was one of the last to disembark, probably due to her truly absurd number of huge suitcases. To be fair—although fairness
wasn’t generally something he cared all that much about—she did wrestle them onto the pier with a startling amount of vigor
and without complaint, so at least she had that going for her.
Darrell, their production assistant, well-muscled and lean in his low-slung jeans and long-sleeved tee, gave her a big, gleaming
smile and leaned in. Way too close, in Peter’s opinion.
“Need some help with your bags, Maria?” the PA asked.
Did the kid even have enough experience to participate in such an important shoot? He looked like he was twenty-five, max. Barely old enough to rent a—
Wait. Wasn’t Maria twenty-five too?
Peter scowled. Then immediately cleared his expression in order to prevent further wrinkling across his forehead and at the
corners of his eyes.
Dammit, thirty-six was not old.
“I wouldn’t say I need help.” Her wide grin plumped her cheeks and lit the cloudy afternoon. “But I’ll certainly accept some, especially when it’s
offered so kindly. Thank you, Darrell.”
After she rolled two of her suitcases closer to him, she briefly touched his shoulder in seeming gratitude. Within seconds,
he was capably wheeling those bags alongside his own suitcase and matching his stride to hers as they easily chatted about...
whatever other people chatted about.
The colony of twenty-odd seals they might spot on shore, evidently. Also a cranky local dolphin known, for whatever bizarre
reason, as Dolphy McBlowholeface. Not that Peter was listening that closely.
“She apparently slaps away overfamiliar tourists with her fins,” Darrell noted with another obnoxiously bright smile. “Or
sprays blowhole water in their faces.”
Maria’s snort was audible, even over the constant swoosh of wind. “I’ve met actors like that.”
Peter refused to check whether she glanced in his direction after saying that. Refused .
“Anyway, I’ll bet the island’s year-round residents enjoy the show,” she said as she easily rolled her remaining bags off
the pier and onto the flat, fissured, pavement-like slabs of limestone that covered much of the island.
Clints, those grass-edged slabs were called.
Freaking Darrell wasn’t the only one who’d done his damn research.
“Yup.” The PA nodded. “Especially since visitors are warned to leave her alone. If they get slapped around by a disgruntled
dolphin, they’re just getting what they deserve for disturbing local wildlife.”
“So what you’re saying is that she beats up importunate, handsy admirers and drives them away without mercy or consequence.”
She tapped her chin thoughtfully, her lips twitching. “I think Dolphy McBlowholeface should be my new life coach. Or possibly
my future waterlogged wife.”
When Maria and Darrell chortled together, Peter turned away to hide his frown before hurrying toward one of several horse-drawn
carts waiting by the harbor—jaunties, the locals called them. Passenger cars weren’t allowed on the hilly, startlingly green
island’s few roads. The production had received special dispensation to use transport vehicles for necessary equipment, but
otherwise, everyone would be walking, riding a bike, or taking a jaunty wherever they went.
Unlike his agile triathlete of a father, Peter didn’t have a great sense of balance, and he couldn’t see himself forcing beleaguered
equines to cart him everywhere, so he figured he’d mostly be hoofing it. Which he didn’t mind, honestly. He enjoyed walking,
and exploring the sparsely inhabited island on foot might distract him from potential boredom and... other issues.
When Maria’s voice came from too close behind him—“I’m issuing a seaweed-eating challenge to you and the entire crew, Darrell,
because if I’m dying of iodine poisoning as we film this season, I’m taking all you bastards out with me”—he quickly picked
up his pace.
Very soon, though, avoiding her would require more effort than turning his back and breaking into a near-jog. Even more effort than he’d expended during their initial stints filming in the production’s Canadian studio and that huge, high-tech Belgian water tank.
Almost every remaining scene in the second season featuring Maria and Peter featured only Maria and Peter. Always together. Just the two of them.
Amber certainly wouldn’t be replacing her, despite all his bravado and his idiotic taunts.
Yeah. He was shit out of luck, and deservedly so.
When he was a kid, his mom had called him a champion grudge-holder, and not much had changed since then. Other than, of course,
her presence in his life, since she’d died while he was in middle school, and he missed her every fucking day. But apart from
that crucial difference, over two decades after her death, he was still her same sturdy, surly son, more than capable of remaining
pissed at someone indefinitely.
Even when, upon further reflection, maybe he didn’t have all that much actual cause to be pissed.
Maria might be a television amateur, but she was game and she was good .
Alongside two dozen other actors, they’d first spent endless days in the studio surrounded by green screens. Their reconstructed
knarr, a Viking cargo transport ship, had been mounted on a gimbal, and everyone hung on for dear life and attempted to remember
their lines as the hydraulic system tossed them from side to side and up and down as if they’d been caught in a terrible storm,
while water sprayed in their faces.
Some of the extras had eventually vomited. Others had quietly bitched about staying cold and wet for hours at a time. Peter had kept his mouth grimly shut and huddled under a blanket near a space heater during halts in the filming.
Maria had treated that bucking boat like a goddamn roller coaster, eyes bright with enjoyment whenever she didn’t need to
look scared or fiercely determined. Between takes, she’d laughed with the crew and extras, and when the camera was rolling,
she’d acted her delectable ass off.
Then they’d all flown to Belgium and filmed at an enormous water tank, where high-tech equipment created vicious waves to
buffet all the actors. Everyone except Peter and Maria pretended to drown horribly, and Cyprian and Cassia had their first
on-camera fight. And sure, they’d had safety equipment, stunt actors, and various professionals ensuring their well-being,
but that fucking tank was over thirty feet deep, and those waves were frightening as shit.
He knew for a fact she’d never faced anything like that on a Swedish stage. Hell, during his fifteen years in Hollywood, he
hadn’t experienced anything remotely comparable either. To say the conditions were challenging was a vast understatement.
Somehow, though, she’d managed to convincingly convey absolute devastation at the death of her lover and teeming rage at Cyprian,
the man she blamed for Erik’s drowning. All while coughing up mouthfuls of water whenever a wave surprised her. All while
looking hot as hell as she struggled in his protective hold and fought to discard her wet clothing, piece by piece, before
the added weight dragged her to the ocean floor.
All while remaining pleasant and civil to him between takes, even though he barely said a word to her or looked at her off
camera. At least, not when she could see him looking.
Suffice it to say, he wasn’t too worried anymore about her ruining his biggest, best chance at fame and professional recognition. He might not like her, but he could definitely work with her. At this point, he was avoiding her mostly out of habit and partly out of shame,
because he’d been a real dick to her in that LA parking lot. And, yeah, partly out of some lingering animosity too, because
he’d admit it: She’d hurt his stupid fee-fees by not wanting more than a single night with him, especially when he’d been
so damn hungry for as much of her as he could get.
Sighing, he slung his duffel in the nearest horse-drawn cart as their line producer, Nava Stephens, indicated he should, and
tried not to grit his teeth at the sound of Maria’s cackling laughter behind him.
Right now, the crew probably thought his reserve in her company was due to method acting or some shit like that. Eventually,
though, they were going to realize his behavior toward her could in no way be considered professional. Which was ironic, since
he’d derided Maria for her ostensible inability to meet his own lofty standards of professionalism.
Again, he was thirty-six years old. He should be better than this.
Maybe after a few more weeks of filming, he would be.
When he’d been told he would be staying in a local hotel, Peter had pictured something like a typical American chain. Nothing
too fancy, but a building with two or three floors of rooms. Lots of guests, and lots of space to avoid anyone—cough Maria cough—he might be avoiding out of sheer obstinacy.