The way he said it told me exactly what he thought about it.
"Don't." I pointed at him.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were thinking it very loudly."
He took a sip of his coffee, the picture of innocence. "I think it's a great name."
"Sawyer."
"Very Hollywood." He tilted his head. "Very...not Daniela."
"That's the point." I crossed my arms, which was difficult in the corset. "It's a stage name. Lots of actors have them. It's not a big deal."
"Okay."
"It gets me in rooms I wouldn't otherwise get into."
"I believe you."
"It's working," I said. "I'm here, aren't I?"
He looked around—at the production trailers, the equipment, the flat gold landscape baking under the June sun—and nodded slowly.
"You are definitely here," he said.
"So don't give me a hard time about it."
"I'm not giving you a hard time." The corner of his mouth pulled. "Daphne."
I pointed at him again. He raised his free hand in surrender, still smiling, and something loosened in my chest that I hadn't realized was tight.
That was the thing about Sawyer. He gave you shit but it never had any edge to it. It was the kind of teasing that meantI see you rather thanI'm better than you, and I'd had enough of the second kind in this industry to know the difference.
"Fine," I said. "You can call me Daniela. When no one's around."
He looked at me for a beat too long.
"Deal," he said.
Someone called his name from off behind him, and he turned his head and waved. My eyes darted toward the distraction, then back to him—and I realized with a start that I wasn't ready to be done with this conversation.
With him.
With being Daniela again.
“I gotta go,” he said, “but I think we're working together later—chase scene.”
“Oh…yeah, that's me,” I laughed. “Damsel in distress.”
"That's you." His eyes moved over the duster, the corset, the hat that still sat slightly wrong. "You ride?"
"I grew up in San Antonio, not on a ranch."
"So no."
"I can sit on a horse."
