Over the course of my career, I’ve ridden a ton of horses but never put away or tied one up. That was always the trainer’s job. I fumble to knot the reins. Skye leans over me, her arm brushing mine. Her hair caresses my face, and the scent of lavender is overwhelming. As she moves back, her hip grazes my fingertips. My body is electrified everywhere we’ve made contact.
Skye tosses an apple my way, and it soars past me in my stunned state. She laughs as I grab it off the ground and feed it to Foxy.
“I’m usually a better catch.” Foxy’s greedy lips tickle my hand. “Whoa. Look who’s hungry…”
Skye brushes off her hands and pulls out a buffalo plaid blanket. “I am.”
“Me too. I could eat a horse.” Skye barks out a surprised laugh, and I realize what I just said. I give Foxy an apologetic pat. “Sorry, girl. Not really. It’s just a saying.”
Skye shakes her head. “Foxy may never forgive you.”
She lays the blanket on the grass and sits. Next out of the bag comes two sandwiches, two more apples, a small bag of chips, and two bottles of water.
I clap. “You brought a picnic.”
“Aye. Figured we’d get hungry.”
I sit, and she holds up one of the sandwiches. “Fancy a piece?”
“A piece? There’re two. Can I have the whole thing?”
She stares at me for a frozen moment, then bursts out laughing.
“What? If you want to save some, that’s fine, I guess. I’ll take a piece.”
“A piece is asandwich,” she says that last part in her most American accent.
“Oh.” I take thepieceand unwrap it. “I thought y’all spoke English here.”
“Well, ye heard wrong.” She smiles. “We speak Scottish. It’s like English, only when we blather on, it’s more interesting.”
We eat and enjoy the view. The loch is shimmering in the sunlight that has pushed through the clouds as the day has worn on. In the fardistance, a hazy mist covers the hills, some of the greenest I’ve ever seen, even through the fog, with just the occasional pop of yellow. But the real beauty is Skye. I can’t take my eyes off of her. At the same time, I’m trying really hard not to stare. The light is catching the side of her cheek. Her skin is so fair, it looks drawn on. It’s such a contrast to the red of her hair. And her figure. I can’t say I wasn’t plenty distracted by her on the ride. Her strong legs gripping the horse, her shoulders squared and her?—
“So, what’s this movie called anyway?” Skye asks, interrupting my thoughts. For the best, really. If I’d kept going, I might not be able to get off this blanket without considerable embarrassment.
“The movie? It’s tentatively being calledLove and the Loch Ness Monster.”
Skye smiles. “What’s it about?”
“It’s about…well… It’s about love and the Loch Ness monster.” I laugh.
I tell her the basic story, the one from the new pages. Two brothers living with their old housekeeper until she dies, and they hire a new one, a young, beautiful woman. Both brothers fall madly in love with her, but she doesn’t even really notice because of her obsession with the Loch Ness Monster. Even explaining the new story with my brother sours my mood. Ty Marshall. I can’t believe they cast him for the part. I should walk, except I can’t. Not after the last few flops I’ve made.
This film has bones to it. My character has depth. It could mean awards, for all of us. I sit up and brush off my hands.
I can’t think like that. To make good art, you can’t think of the reception, not during creation. Not for me, anyway, but maybe that’s been part of my problem. Maybe I should give a little more thought to how my films will fit in the market.
“Hmm,” Skye says. “Sounds interesting. Are there any other characters in the film?”
I shake my head. “Not really. A few minor ones. They were hopingto cast some local extras. Want to be in a movie?” I waggle my eyebrows.
“No. Absolutely not.”
She says it so harshly, it takes me by surprise. She must notice my reaction, because she quickly says, “Not that being in the movies isn’t great. It’s fine, that’s your job. It’s just, all that…” She motions with her hand, and I have no idea what she means by all that. “It’s not for me.”
There’s a beat of silence before Skye goes on. “My mom was famous.” She looks away and swallows hard. “She chose a simple life, and I respect that. Not that I wouldn’t love a different job. Just not yours.”
I smile. “What do you want to do? Or, I mean, that sounds silly, likewhat do you want to be when you grow up?You’re already a grown-up.”
