“Sounds like the kind of movie that gets Oscar buzz.”
“That’s the hope. The Academy hates musician crossovers. But a guy can dream.”
“Everyone needs a dream.”
He studies me for a moment, expression unreadable.
“You know,” he says slowly, “a role like this would be a good transition for you.”
I blink at him. “What?”
“The female lead. They haven’t cast her yet.” He turns the laptop back toward himself, scrolling to a different section. “Working-class girl who gets discovered singing in a nightclub. Her talent is enough to break through the musician’s self-indulgent haze. He launches her career, falls in love with her in the process, but it all ends tragically. This is the kind of role that reminds people you can actually act and you wouldn’t have to be dolled up or in a bikini the entire time.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Atticus, no one is going to cast me in an Oscar-bait musical drama.”
“Why not?”
“Because I sang on a kids’ sitcom fifteen years ago and I’m not exactly the prestige actress type.”
“You can sing.” It’s not a question. “I’ve heard the recordings from your show. Your voice was incredible even as a kid.”
“That was a lifetime ago.”
“Jesus, Phoenix. You’re twenty-seven, not two hundred.”
“For Hollywood actresses, that’s pretty much the same thing and you know it,Atticus.”
“Look,” he continues, “I’m sending you the script. Read it. Think about it. Maybe have your agent make a call. Doing whatever you want is what you’re best at so I’ll leave it up to you.”
I’m not necessarily happy with the implied censure in his tone, but he says it so sincerely that I struggle to hang onto my annoyance.
I stare over his shoulder at the laptop screen, at the dense blocks of text that represent someone’s vision of a story worth telling that doesn’t require me to debase myself.
It doesn’t feel safe to acknowledge how much I want it.
“I’ll think about it,” I say finally.
Atticus shrugs like it doesn’t matter to him either way, but I don’t miss the hint of a smile that twists his lips as he turns his attention back to the screen.
TWENTY-FIVE
PHOENIX
My heat has mostly waned.Some symptoms are still there, simmering beneath my skin like embers, but no longer the all-consuming inferno that had me clawing at Atticus like a woman possessed. I can actually think again without wanting to climb the nearest alpha like a tree.
Which is exactly why I need to find Mason.
Because apparently my brain decided that the moment it regained full functionality, the first thing it should do is obsess over the man who kissed me senseless and then handed me off to someone else like a package being redirected to a different address.
I pad down the hallway in borrowed socks—Mabie’s, I think, covered in tiny cartoon lobsters—and try to remember which doors lead where. I end up in the quiet foyer, old wood creaking under my feet.
The front door unexpectedly swings open and I’m unexpectedly face-to-chest with Judah Daniels.
He is dressed in a pair of waders and an oversized jacket that looks like it might be older than I am.
“Phoenix.” He says my name like a statement rather than a question, neither surprised nor bothered by finding me lurking in his hallway at—I check the grandfather clock at the end of the hall—seven in the morning.
“Oh, hi,” I say lamely.
