Would he have to walk all the way to the gate, dressed like this? When would someone realize their mistake? And if they didn’t, who else would notice his absence? He’d given his private security detail the long weekend off, since he was planning not to leave home until Tuesday. His parents were at a film festival in Colorado. The guards in their gated community didn’t keep tabs on the comings and goings of the residents—they were more concerned with keeping fans and paps out. His parents’ staff wouldn’t think anything of his absence, given that he was away shooting most of the time and rented a house near the set during the week. He’d been invited to a few parties and a fundraiser, but no one expected him to show. No one would miss him.
No. One. Would. Miss. Him.
He had an ancient city to himself. He had snacks. He could break into his trailer, watch a film on the wi-fi, read a book. No stalkers. No photographers. Nobody wanting anything from him. Nobody at all. He could hike the wilderness trail behind the ranch. He could hang out on the private beach. In more than a year on set, he hadn’t been down to the water unless they were filming there. He could fall asleep to the crunch and hiss of the waves.
He held out his arms, soaking up the fading warmth of the low sun, then wound back through the columns. As a kid, having one of his parents’ film sets to himself would have been a dream come true, and theirs weren’t as elaborate as this one. Peoplehad called Sofia crazy for insisting on the level of detail in the Troy citadel, with all its working parts and creative liberties. The maze of tunnels under the set had taken Griffin days to get his bearings in. No green screen, no CGI, no AI, hardly any VFX. They shot some scenes on a soundstage in Burbank, and rerecorded dialogue in the studio if the ocean was too loud or the wind was up, but otherwise it was filmed on location. He loved that. It made it easy to get into character and stay there—which was Sofia’s point. As soon as the take was called, hewasAchilles.
But there were always crew around. Always someone dusting you with dirt or mud or blood or powder. Always someone in your face. Always dozens of people staring, if not hundreds.
He stepped through an archway into the hollow within the citadel walls, and caught a flash of movement. He froze. Just some costumes hanging in an alcove, lifted by a waft of sea air. He relaxed a little, but quieted his steps. As he approached, the fabric moved again, and a woman stepped out, dressed in a T-shirt and cargo pants, fiddling with a zipper on a backpack that was slung around to her front.
Disappointment clunked in his chest. He’d created a narrative in which the world had stopped, and it was nauseating to have it lurch into its usual spin. He thought about hiding, but she looked up and clocked him, realization hitting a couple of seconds later. Her gaze did a once-over and she gasped, a blush creeping over her pale skin.
It was the woman who’d accosted him outside his trailer earlier in the week. Usually he let that shit go, but she’d picked a bad moment. The security guard had asked if he wanted her fired, but he didn’t want to go nuclear. Maybe he should have.
Wasn’t she the same woman who’d messed with his eyeline earlier? The way she’d looked at him, it was like she saw right into him. A mixture of attraction and vulnerability, maybe, but with a weight behind her eyes. No way could he have focused onthe scene so late in the day with that striking face in his sightline. Was she a stalker?
“What are you doing here?” he said.
“I uh, I uh … got left behind. I uh … left my necklace here—I forgot to take it off and the wardrobe team put it somewhere for safekeeping—but by the time I… The buses had gone, and…” She whispered something to herself that sounded a lot like “too many details.”
“You’re a bad liar.”
“I know,” she said, as if it were a lifelong disappointment.
So shewaslying. Why was she here? Ironically, his stalkers were the people most likely to miss him when he was gone. She wasn’t one of the regulars on his blacklist. Her clothing coasted down her small frame—no evidence of weapons, though that backpack was well stuffed. Her T-shirt was splashed with the slogan, “Lit happens.”
“Hang on, this is a prank, isn’t it? Getting left behind.” He was such an idiot. “This is Margot getting me back for the prank I pulled on her last year.”
“Margot?” The woman said it like she had no idea who he could be referring to. As if there were two Margots in Hollywood this century. “That’s the second time I’ve been accused of pranking someone in a week. Wait.” She straightened. “Did youactuallyget left behind?”
“Someone’s on their way to get me.” He checked his nonexistent watch. “Should be here any minute.”
“Oh, good. That’s good. Um, someone’s coming to get me, as well.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Okay, no one’s coming to get me, but the honest truth is that I’m not sure anyone’s coming for you, either.” She screwed up her face like she wished it wasn’t her job to share the bad news.
He tipped his head, willing her to go on. Had she orchestrated this?
“I … overheard a conversation about … your transportation arrangements.” She spoke slowly, like she was inventing the words as she went. “There was a mix-up. The guy who was supposed to drive you was told you’d already left.”
“Uh-huh?” he said, unconvinced.
“His name was…” She made a ticking noise with her tongue. “Hugo? Jasper?”
Okay, shewasmaking this up.
“No, something French,” she continued. “Philippe!”
Griffin stilled. Sure, that was his driver’s name. “And who told him I left with someone else? You?”
“No! Why would I do that? It was one of the production assistants, though the message got messed up along the way. An honest mistake, by the sound of it.”
“If you knew it was happening, why didn’t you say something?”
“Extras are silent?” She winced. Even she knew that was weak.
