She flung the rag she was using to wipe the counter at Clover Moon into the hamper in the back, unclenched her jaw. Okay, somaybe she’d been a little crabby these last three days, but it was only because she wanted to get things going with her life.
Her sad-sack, pathetic, small-town life.
She sighed and glanced at her watch—10:32 a.m. Close enough to her lunch, if you asked her.
“Owen, I’m taking my sixty!” she yelled toward the office, then didn’t even wait for him to respond. She simply grabbed her bag from the break room and bolted out the back door, consequences be damned. Owen let her do whatever she wanted anyway, mostly because she was so damn reliable and steady.
Translation: sad sack and pathetic.
Outside, it was cloudy, the swollen sky threatening rain. She wasn’t hungry for lunch yet, so she hoped the weather would hold off long enough for her to get over herself. She curved around the buildings, then hit Lake Street’s busy summer sidewalk. She smiled and waved when people called her name but noticed most Cloverians’ attention was on the town square.
Didn’t take long to see why—the area was full of cameras and mics and people wearing black scurrying around like ants. Ramona rolled her shoulders back, then headed straight for the gazebo. She wasn’t sure what she planned on doing when she got there. She assumed security was pretty tight, but she just had tomove.
Forward.
Toward something.
As expected, there were security guards set up around the square, preventing anyone from setting foot on the grass. Still, Ramona spotted the action immediately—Dylan and Blair Emmanuel sitting in the gazebo, pressed close, looking cozy and cute and…very uncomfortable.
At least Dylan did as Blair pressed her palm to Dylan’s shoulder and a woman in black jeans yelled “Cut!”
Actually, she yelled, “Cut, goddammit!”
Ramona got as close as she could, a large man with a tattoo of a Christmas tree on his huge pale arm keeping her about fifty feet away from the action. Still, she could see Dylan, see the panicked expression on her face, hear the not-great feedback the director—the incredible Gia Santos—was lobbing in her direction.
“Three days. Three days for the simplest scene on the planet,” Gia was saying, “and you can’t manage an ounce of emotion?”
Dylan opened her mouth. Closed it.
“You know how much money we’ve wasted already?” Gia said. “Time? Sanity?”
“I’m sorry,” Dylan said. “I’m trying to get it right.”
“Stop trying and do it,” Gia said. “Or I’m pulling you.”
Dylan blinked. “You’re pulling—”
“Pulling you, yes. I didn’t even want—” The director put up a hand. Took a deep breath. “Take your lunch. When you come back, you’re Oscar worthy, or this is done.”
The director stomped off while Dylan sat there with her sweet pink top and stained apron. Ramona’s heart squeezed, but she told it in no uncertain terms to cut that shit out. In fact, she looked away from Dylan, scanning the set instead for Noelle Yang.
But her eyes seemed to have a mind of their own, drifting back to the gazebo. Blair was still there too, leaning her elbows on her knees. She said something to Dylan, too quiet for Ramona to hear, but whatever it was made Dylan’s jaw tighten. Dylan stood up and jogged down the gazebo steps, closing her eyes briefly as she walked across the grass.
And when she opened them, her gaze landed squarely on Ramona.
Dylan stopped abruptly. Ramona lifted a hand, her heart picking up speed as Dylan waved back. Still, Dylan just stood there for a second before finally deciding to walk over. Ramona exhaled, straightened her posture, told herself to focus.
LA.
Noelle Yang.
Sad sack.
“Hey,” Dylan said as she reached Ramona.
“Hey,” Ramona said back. “How’s it going?”
Dylan laughed bitterly. “I think you can see it’s going badly.”
