He regarded me for a second. “You’re going to make me elaborate on this, aren’t you?”
I suddenly wanted very much to know his opinion. “I am.”
“It’s as good as any pitch RJF has put forward,” he said.
“You mean that?”
“It’s tight,” he said. “The budget is well structured, the timeline logical and the creative treatment hooked me totally.”
“But?” I could tell there was a but.
“Funding,” he said with a wince.
“I knew it would be.” I sighed.
“No talent attached in front or behind screen,” he said. “And, judging by the synopsis, I’d say you’re talking at least sixty million that you need to find. That’s tough without named talent.”
“Nah, fifty,” I said. “It’s totally doable.”
“Permits for filming on open water are a minefield,” Elliot said. “And expensive. The yacht scene alone will be way more extensive than you’ve allowed.”
“I thought of that!” I said. “But the European Arts Grant—”
“That grant is super tricky,” Elliot said gently. “The odds of you getting that without a named cast or director is low. Trust me, RJ tried to qualify for it on one of his early movies and it was a nightmare.”
“Oh.” I hadn’t known that. “Then maybe I could drive a harder sale on the downstream rights. That could make up at least some of the deficit.”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “But, again, how are you going to manage that?”
“I’ll think about it.” I grinned at him. “Thanks.”
“For what?” Elliot blinked in surprise. “I just discredited one of your funding pillars.”
“You gave me actual feedback,” I said. “Like, concrete information that I can use.”
“Huh.” He smiled slowly.
“I know, I’m impressive, aren’t I?” For a second, I worried I’d been too cocky, but then Elliot sighed, laughing softly.
“Yes. You impress me, Lucie Clifton,” he said.
I let his words hang in the air for a moment. “I could say the same for you.”
“Is that right?” Elliot shifted and all of a sudden, his thigh was pressed against mine.
“But why d-do you care what I think about you?” My heart was pounding so loudly it threw my words off. “I’m just a fucking PA, after all.”
Elliot hung his head. “I should never have said that,” he murmured. “Because you’re not just a fucking PA.”
I was frozen in place, feeling as if the smallest movement would only shatter the fragile thing growing between him and I. “What am I?”
Elliot lifted his head, eyes intense on mine. “You’re—”
A bright light flooded the space, and I yelped in shock, shielding my eyes. Elliot made a similar noise, and I heard him jump to his feet. “What the fuck, man?”
Electric blotches danced across my vision. This was it; we were busted. Now I was going to be arrested, probably fined a stupid amount of money that I’d never be able to afford and sent out of the country. I blinked hard to clear my vision and rose to my feet. “Elliot …” I gabbled in panic. “What’s happening—?”
“Lucie,” Elliot chuckled. “It’s all right.” Finally, the splotches cleared, and I saw a parks officer in uniform, brandishing a giant torch. “This is my buddy Mal. He worked security with me on the Coney Island boardwalk back in my college days.”
