5. Heidi
HEIDI
Ispend the morning pacing the control room.
Yesterday, I made a stupid mistake. I gave Max leeway.
I had the crew haul the entire lighting rig off the balcony for him just to accommodate his apparent phobia.
We spent hours prepping the Natal Chart Reading date with Colette for tonight.
And after all that, who does he choose for the one-on-one?
Penelope.
It’s a disaster. We can’t even fake a connection between them.
The only footage we have from their “get-to-know-you” time is Penelope on his lap, grinding on him like they’re in a darkened nightclub rather than a garden.
I hadn’t even called Cut because I assumed the footage was headed straight for the trash.
Now? I’m expected to justify his choice on camera, and I have nothing but softcore content I can’t air.
He did it on purpose. He announced it in front of everyone, knowing I couldn’t shut him down once the name was out of his mouth.
Max might be a lot of things, but he isn’t stupid.
He’s testing the leash. He’s like a golden retriever seeing how many expensive rugs he can ruin before I finally jerk him back.
“It’s just a blip,” Miles says, though he won’t look me in the eye. “We’ll get it back on track.”
“It’s not a blip, Miles. It’s a takeover.”
I don’t know what Vanessa was thinking when she cast him.
How did no one see this coming? And why is he even here?
My guess is that he thought he’d get some easy press and a rotating door of beautiful women to distract him from his boredom.
But now he’s here, surrounded by women who don’t meet his impossible standards, and he’s decided to entertain himself by plotting my professional demise.
He doesn’t seem to understand that I’m the one who writes the script. I’m the one who decides if he’s the hero or the punchline. I’ve tried being honest. I’ve tried working with him. If he wants to play games, we can play.
The idea hits me with the force of a high-wattage studio light. It’s a way to show him exactly how much control he signed over when he signed that contract.
Later that afternoon, I’m in a limo with Max as he heads to his date with Penelope. I’m not taking chances after his stunt with Colette; I’m escorting him personally to ensure he actually does what he’s told. I also want to catch the look on his face when he sees the date I’ve set up for him.
He’s looking quite pleased with himself, but then he’s always had that boyish smirk—the kind that makes him look like he’s getting away with something.
We’ve been sitting in silence for most of the twenty-minute drive, the limo bumping along the narrow, winding road toward the valley.
“I thought you said Penelope,” Max says finally. “I just feel so stupid, you know? Making that mix-up,” he adds, dripping with fake sincerity.
“It’s fine, Max. Mistakes happen.”
He leans back, his grin widening as he realizes he’s gotten under my skin. He looks entirely too pleased with himself.
“You smell nice,” he says, trying that look again, the one he’s convinced is charming.
“It’s laundry detergent. The machine didn’t dissolve it properly,” I reply flatly.
“Suits you.”
I ignore him, turning to the tinted window as we pull into a wide, open meadow. Production trucks are already staged, and the massive, colorful nylon of the balloon lies across the grass.
I check my watch. “We’re on a tight window for the light. Let’s move.”
Max springs out of the car the moment the driver opens the door. I’m right on his heels, waiting for the exact second he realizes what that mix-up actually cost him.
He stops dead ten feet from the hot air balloon.
“I told you, I’m scared of heights,” he says, his eyes fixed on the wicker basket as it begins to right itself under the roar of the burner.
“Did you?” I offer a look of mock-confusion. “I could have sworn you said you loved them.”
“No,” he says, and there’s a flicker of real panic in his eyes now.
“I feel so stupid, you know? Making that mix-up.” I turn to him with a tight smile. “But the show must go on, and you’re a big boy. I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
I head to the monitors where John is checking battery levels and confirming the camera feeds are working. Penelope’s car pulls up behind us, and she hops out in a black dress so short I’m already mentally adding a blur request for the edit.
Max is uncharacteristically quiet, his face turning a shade of grey I didn’t think was possible for him. But when the pilot signals, he and Penelope step into the basket. For once there’s no smirk. Just a long, level stare that makes a knot of guilt tighten in my chest.
Maybe I went too far.
Just as the pilot reaches for the burner, Max hooks a finger, beckoning me over. I lean in until his lips are inches from my ear. “Bit extreme, don’t you think?” he whispers. “If you wanted to punish me, I can think of ways we’d both enjoy a lot more.”
His gaze drifts down and back up in a slow sweep before settling on mine. Then his eyebrows quirk, and I realize exactly what he’s implying. He’s ridiculous. Does he ever quit with the staged flirting?
The guilt vanishes instantly. He’s fine.
I walk back over to John at the main camera.
“Let’s go,” I say.
The burner roars, and the basket lifts off the grass. Max’s face drops. All the cockiness vanishes. He grips the rim of the basket, as he tries to pretend he’s okay.
I duck into the production tent to watch the monitors. The rigged cameras are crystal clear, picking up the wind and the creak of the wicker as Penelope slides in beside him. She’s all over him immediately.
“This is fun,” she says, practically straddling his thigh as the balloon hits a pocket of air and jolts.
Max nods. “Totally,” he says. I lean closer to the screen. He’s blinking hard, his throat working in a frantic, repetitive swallow as he stares at the horizon. Then he starts taking shallow, short sucks of air.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
We’re barely off the ground and not even high enough for the wide shot when the sound hits the speakers. It’s a wet, violent retch.
“Oh my god!” Penelope screams, scrambling to the far side of the basket.
Max heaves again, losing it completely.
“Cut!” I bark into my walkie talkie. “Bring them down. Now.”
It’s a disaster. Vomit is splattered over Penelope’s designer shoes. She’s out of the basket the second the crew secures the lines, scrambling away with her face twisted in pure disgust. Max doesn’t move. He’s still hunched over the wicker, his head hanging low.
John looks at me, his headset pushed up. “Can we try to clean them up? Get a few shots of them holding hands in the field?”
I look at the monitor, at the way Max’s shoulders are shaking.
“I think we’re done.”
“Heidi, we need this,” John says, checking the schedule. “Or we’re short five minutes.”
“We’ll deal with that later. Get Penelope cleaned up and get Max some water.”
“What about a medic?”
“We’re not paying for that. He’ll be fine,” I say.
This is all my fault. I wanted to show him who’s boss, and instead, I wasted an entire afternoon of production.
When we’re all packed up, I try to catch a ride back with the crew, but we’re one seat short. Between Penelope’s hysterics and Max’s sickness, no one is volunteering for limo duty. And between the two of them, Max is—barely—the more tolerable option.
I make a move for the front passenger seat, but Max blocks the door with his arm. He’s pale and his shirt is rumpled, but his eyes have regained their edge.
“In the back, Heidi,” he says. “You don’t get to hide up there.”
Fine.
I slide into the back with him, and the driver pulls away. The silence stretches as the meadow disappears behind us.
“Pan out how you planned?” he says eventually.
“It makes for good TV,” I say. It’s a lie—the footage is garbage—but I’m not giving him the satisfaction.
He lets out a bitter little laugh and leans his head against the window. “Think you’re so clever, don’t you? Putting the talent in his place.”
“I’m just trying to do my job.”
He turns his head, finally looking at me. His face is still a shade of grey, but his stare is steady. “You can’t humiliate me, you know. I’m un-embarrassable. I don’t give a shit what people think of me.”
“Trust me, that’s obvious,” I say. “You might’ve had a nicer time if you’d picked Colette.”
“I don’t like Colette.”
“Well, start pretending. Because it’s going to come down to her and Grace.”
Max barks a laugh. “Grace? You’ve got to be kidding me. No way.”
“It’s a strong angle. Childhood neighbors. Like ships in the night who never quite connected—”
“What do you mean never connected?” he interrupts. “I know Grace. We’ve worked the same circles.”
“What?”
“She’s an influencer. I was a DJ. We’ve been at the same parties for years. She can’t make the top three or the audience will know the whole thing is rigged. I don’t even know why she’s here.”
My stomach drops. If there’s a history, it stops being a romance and starts looking like a setup.
“Give me your phone,” he says.
I reluctantly hand it to him. He scrolls quickly through a tagged-photo feed, clicking an image from a few years ago—an opening for a club called The Red Room. They aren’t arm-in-arm, but they’re in the same frame, laughing. They look comfortable and familiar.
“Shit,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“She hit on two of my brothers that night. Neither of them bit. I’m pretty sure she would’ve tried for Will if he hadn’t brought his wife.” He’s talking more to himself now. “I guess I’m the last Carter standing.”
I don’t know who those people are, but the bitterness in his tone is hard to ignore.
“I find it hard to believe anyone would turn Grace down.” I gesture at the photo on the screen. “Look at her. She looks like a living angel.”
“She’s no angel.” Max shakes his head, that skeptical tilt of his mouth returning. “She’s a vapid, image-obsessed—”
“Don’t insult her,” I say. My voice isn’t loud, but it’s firm.
Max stops, blinking in surprise. “Why?”
“Because she’s on my show and I have a duty of care. And because it’s mean.”
He lets out a dry, huffed breath. “What do you think she says about you? Yesterday, while you were barking orders, she called you a—”
“I don’t care what she called me,” I interrupt.
Max stops, his sharp eyes searching mine. When he finds nothing, he finally turns back to the window.
I turn to my window, my mind already spinning. He’s not into Grace—fine, I can work around that—but how the hell did Vanessa miss that they’ve moved in the same circles for years? That should’ve been flagged in the first five minutes of vetting.
And Grace? She sat through three screen tests and never mentioned she’d partied with the lead? I find this level of incompetence hard to believe.
I scrub a hand down my face, the exhaustion of the day finally catching up.
“Alright,” I say, still staring at the passing trees. “We address it. Casually. We script a line for the next date—something about being at the same events for years but never actually seeing each other until now.”
I can feel Max’s gaze on the side of my face. “That’s it? That’s the big fix? It’s a bit thin.”
“I’m still thinking. My brain is running on three hours of sleep and a single coffee.”
“Well, don’t think too hard because I’m not playing along with your ‘Destiny’ script.”
I turn to look at him, my brow furrowing. “We don’t have a choice. The schedule is already set.”
“Then I guess you’re going to have to do what you told me you were so good at,” he says. “You’re going to have to manipulate me into falling for her. I’m waiting.”
I don’t reply. I can’t. The problem with being a professional puppet-master is that the strings only work when they’re invisible. You can’t exactly run a con on someone who’s watching your hands move.
Max leans in, his eyes locking onto mine as he realizes he’s got me. “You might find out I’m a lot better at this game than you are,” he says.
“It’s hard to take you seriously,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel, “when you smell like a frat house rug.”
Max lets out a short, startled laugh, and the heavy tension snaps. He sinks back into his seat, and to my surprise, I find myself smiling, too—a small, involuntary thing I can’t catch in time.
Max catches it, though. His eyes gleam as he watches the slip.
“See that?” He gestures between us. “I’ve already got you smiling. You’re done for, Freckles. Next thing you know, you’ll be…”
He stops. His gaze drops to my mouth for a fraction of a second too long. I see his throat work as he swallows, the cocky bravado flickering.
“I’ll be what?” I ask.
“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head as if dismissing a thought he doesn’t quite like.
Whatever. I don’t even want to know what he’s thinking.
“It’s Grace and Colette, and you’re going to play along,” I say. “You’re going to be the man the audience expects, whether you like it or not. Just accept it. Okay?”
“Do you ever relax?” he asks. He sounds casual, as if he didn’t hear a word of my lecture.
“I don’t have that luxury,” I snap. I’m already checking my watch and preparing for the next disaster.
Max doesn’t reply. He just studies me for a long moment before leaning back into the seat.
He didn’t argue, though. I’ll count that as a win. I turn away as the limo begins to slow, satisfied that I’ve finally drawn the line.