“We’ll get her back,” I say, with a confident smile. I’m about to start filming the third season of The Wild World, my adventure/nature docu-series. (If you haven’t seen or heard of it, think Bear Grylls, only much, much better.) As soon as we wrap for the season, I’ll get my danger bonus, and the deal will be as good as done.
“Maybe someday,” Harrison says with a shrug. “If not, life’s pretty damn great, anyway.”
Glancing to my right, I see our sister, Emma, heading our way on her old-timey bicycle. “It was,” I say, pointing down the beach in her direction.
She lives at the far end of the bay with her fiancé—soon to be husband—Pierce Davenport. Emma-the-chef is a strong, fun, capable professional who can run a hectic kitchen without breaking a sweat. Emma-the-bride, however, has a temperament and bite force quotient equivalent to a Tasmanian Devil. According to National Geographic, devils are “notoriously cantankerous and will fly into a maniacal rage when threatened by a predator, fighting for a mate, or defending a meal.” And that’s exactly how I’d describe my sister lately. A terrifying and unpredictable ball of bridal stress that pretty much everyone, including the love of her life, has been avoiding whenever possible over the last two months. “Let's finish up so we can hide before Emma spots us.”
Harrison and I pick up our pace, setting up the last few lounge chairs and umbrellas as Emma’s legs propel her bike quickly down the path that runs along the beach.
“Hey, you two goofballs!” Emma's voice rings out, competing with the sound of the gentle tide and the calls of the seagulls. She hops off her bike. “Glad I caught you. We need to talk.”
“Hi,” I wave and smile, even though my lips have gone instantly dry due to terror.
Narrowing her eyes, Emma says, “Why are you staring at me like that? Are you scared? You look scared.”
I nod instinctively, which negates the fact that I’m simultaneously saying, “No. Not at all. You look lovely this morning. Did you do something different with your hair?”
“Same ponytail I’ve worn since third grade.”
“Oh, well, something’s different.” I chuckle nervously.
“Must be that bridal glow you hear so much about,” Harrison adds.
“That’s not a thing,” she says. “Relax. I’m not going to bite your heads off. I just wanted to give Will his packing list.” She hands me a thick envelope.
“Just for me? Why doesn't he get one?” I ask, gesturing toward Harrison with my head.
“He doesn't need a list. He's got Libby.”
Makes sense. Libby is Harrison’s super-organized wife. Squeezing the envelope, I say, “Must be quite the list.”
“It's also your flight itinerary, and a shaving schedule so you won’t have…” She gestures toward my chin. “Thisgoing on. I’ve also included a daily schedule for our time in Avonia. Any items on the agenda with a star next to them are required, okay? I know you have some meetings while we’re there, but the whole reason for the trip is my wedding, so I expect you to make it to all the important stuff.”
“Of course. Wouldn't miss a moment of it.” I give her a wide grin she could interpret as either sincere or sincerely sarcastic.
The scowl on her face shows me she knew which way I meant it. My mobile phone buzzes in the pocket of my shorts. Yes! I can get out of this conversation before I say something to set her off.Pulling it out of my pocket, I see Dwight Anderson's name across the screen. “Hey, Dwight, how are things?”
“Horrific,” Dwight says, but don't get too alarmed because this is a standard response for my manager/agent. Don't get me wrong, the guy is a terrific manager, but he also suffers from a severe case of Chicken Little Syndrome, and I'm about to find out why the sky is falling today. “Worst news possible.”
“That doesn't sound good.” I take a few steps away from Harrison and Emma, who is now listing topics of conversation that will be unacceptable in front of her fiancé's hoity-toity family.
Dwight pauses for a second, then I hear a crunching sound, which means his heartburn is acting up again. He inhales Tums faster than Scarface inhaled cocaine. But, not through his nose, obviously. “Allan got fired this morning.”
“Fired?” I plunk myself down onto one of the lounge chairs and rub my scruffy beard with one hand. “Oh… Is this about—?”
“—Yes. I tried to tell him shaboinking the new wife of the head of the network wasn't exactly a great career move, but you know him.”
I glance out to the water and the sight of Matilda causes my stomach to tighten. “Shit. Does this mean we have to delay filming?”
“Possibly.” Crunch, crunch, crunch. “But I've heard rumblings ABN found a new showrunner before they fired him.”
“Any idea who?”
“Some guy named Dylan Sinclair. I looked him up and I can’t find him on IMDb.”
“So he’s a total greenhorn?”
“Quite probably, yes. If that’s the case, he’s likely some executive producer’s loser nephew. Frankly, it’s not a great sign, William. It means ABN is giving up on the show.”
