“We’ll be shooting the homecoming scenes here tomorrow,” Marcus explains as we walk. “The crew’s been working around the clock to get everything ready over the past couple of weeks.”
“It shows,” I reply, genuinely impressed. I’ve been on plenty of sets over the years, but there’s something special about seeing your own story come to life right before your eyes.
When we finally make it to the production trailer, the rest of the team is already assembled. Jennifer, the lead producer, greets me with a warm hug.
“There he is! Our star and screenwriter,” she announces to the room.
I shake hands with everyone, trying to remember all thenames and faces. Some I recognize from previous projects, others are new to me. The energy in the room is electric, holding a unique combination of nervous anticipation and creative excitement that always precedes the first day of filming.
After the introductions, Jennifer pulls up a chair next to mine. “Let’s talk about the treehouse scene. I know it’s important to you, and it’s the heart of the story, but we’re a bit concerned about the lighting challenges when it comes to filming at the actual location…”
For the next two hours, we go through the shooting schedule, scene by scene. I get caught up in the technical details, creative discussions, and the collaborative problem-solving that makes filmmaking such an addictive process. It’s a welcome distraction.
By the time the meeting wraps up, the sun is starting to set. I step outside the trailer, taking a moment to appreciate the golden light washing over everything.
Tomorrow, this quiet space will be filled with actors, extras, and the controlled chaos of film production. But right now, in this moment of calm before the storm, I can’t help thinking about what—or rather who—inspired it all.
twenty
The loud bangof a door slamming jerks me out of a dead sleep. The first couple days of filming have been brutal. I’ve had to revisit emotions and memories I haven’t thought about since I wrote the script months ago.
Grumbling to myself, I push out of bed and shuffle into the kitchen. A good dose of caffeine should do the trick.
But when I open the cupboard, it’s only to discover an empty coffee pod container mocking me from its place on the shelf. Great.
I check the time. It’s early, just past seven. Pretty sure Bean & Co. opens at six. If I hurry, I can grab a cup before heading to set.
Five minutes later, I’m out the door dressed in a pair of grey sweatpants I probably should’ve tossed in the laundry a couple of days ago, a wrinkled T-shirt and sunglasses. My hair’s a mess, but I don’t give a shit. No one’s going to recognize me at this hour anyway, and if they do… oh, well.
The morning air is crisp as I jog down the back stairs and around to the front of the building. My stomach growls as I duckunder the coffee shop’s green awning. Guess a breakfast sandwich is in order as well.
I’m so focused on my mission I fail to notice the door swinging open until it’s too late.
The impact sends me and whoever I barged into stumbling back as I hear a startled gasp followed by a sharp “Shit!” which sounds awfully familiar.
When I regain my balance and look up, my heart stops. Of course it’s Lizzy.
But that’s not the only thing that has me frozen in shock.
Contents of what used to fill her coffee cup are now not only soaking the front of her top, but her chest, too.
For what seems like an eternity, but is probably only a few seconds, I’m distracted by the dark liquid as it trickles down between her breasts. Her full. Succulent. Firm, but soft. Tits.
Lizzy clears her throat, jerking out of my daze.
“Fuck, I’m so sorry!” I blurt, panic setting in when I see her wincing in pain. Shit. That coffee had to be hot.
Without thinking, I dash to the nearest table, grab a handful of napkins, and rush back over to her. “Here, let me?—”
The next thing I know, I’m wiping and dabbing at her chest. It takes approximately three seconds for my brain to catch up with my hands before I realize exactly what I’m doing.
Essentially fondling Lizzy’s breasts. In public.
My hands freeze mid-dab as our eyes lock. Shrewd, green eyes are narrowed in on me, one eyebrow arching in question.
“What thehelldo you think you’re doing?”
Heat floods my face as I snatch my hands away, soggy napkins clutched in my fists. “I—I was just trying to help. The coffee—it had to be hot and I thought?—”
