I was wondering how someone so skittish-looking could become so famous when Jeremy Irons made his way to the table.
Holy hell; this man is like a walking poster child for “successful actor.” Seeing him in person was quite intimidating.
I knew Ryan was nervous about working with such seasoned actors, especially since he had the lead role in this film. He was forever fearing his own acting skills might be inadequate. I had a small taste of how cynical and critical people in this business could be at the Reparation after-party, when I accidentally overheard some derogatory comments made about Ryan’s lack of acting skills. Thankfully Ryan didn’t hear them; he would have gone into a downward spiral if he had.
Still, he knew he was the new kid on the block and hadn’t fully earned his place. Ry-an’s good looks combined with one successful movie role had garnered a lot of attention, but he’d have to prove his worth to his peers if he wanted their respect.
And I was sure that fear of failure was his biggest worry, though he’d never admit that out loud. Sure enough, his insecurities mani-fested just after midnight last night. He’d been tossing and turning and wrestling with his pillows, punching and kneading them in-to submission, like they had angered him.
We had just had amazing, energy-zapping sex, so I knew it was his mind that kept him from passing out.
“Can’t sleep?” I asked, hoping to get him to talk it out so he’d curl back around me.
He tugged at the covers again. “Just restless. Close your eyes, babe.” Yeah, his mind was working overtime.
“Want to talk about it?”
“No. Go to sleep.”
I rolled to face him. “Worried about tomorrow?”
He sighed, frowned, and then said, “No.” Yeah, that was an obvious little lie.
“You’re already there, you know. Just takes time for the rest of them to realize it.” Ryan dipped his chin to look at me, brushing my hair back. “Where’s that?”
“To where you think the rest of them are in their careers and where you think you aren’t.”
He made a small, noncommittal noise.
“You’re working with two men who have been in this business the same amount of years you’ve been alive. I know you worry about it.”
Ryan wrapped his other arm over me, resting his chin on the top of my head. His tiny, pained sigh was confirmation enough.
“You’re just as brilliant and talented as they are, Ryan. You just don’t see it yet, but you will and they will, too.” I waited for a reply, but he remained silent.
“Besides,” I added, nuzzling deeper into his chest, “you have something they’ll never, ever have.”
“What’s that?”
I closed my eyes and felt myself slip for a moment. Blessed sleep was grasping at me hard. “Eighty million screaming fans,” I mumbled.
Ryan snickered and kissed my head. “I love you. Go to sleep.”
The last thing I remember saying was “I love you more.”
Ryan stood immediately to shake Jeremy’s hand, awkwardly dropping his cloth napkin to the floor. Even someone as famous as Ryan had his own celebrity gush-ing moments.
Fortunately Parker Shay joined them and eased some of the awkwardness.
After breakfast, Anna and I were placed inside a chauffer-driven Lexus for our day of shopping. I could smell the credit cards burning a hole in her purse.
It was going to be a long day.
I used this opportunity to pick her brain, learning as much as I could about what it meant to be a film producer, as Ryan had also signed on to be an executive producer of Slipknot. She was like my own private tutor, filling me in on all the sordid details and nu-ances of the film industry and introducing me to the wonders of shopping as if things didn’t have price tags.
Over the following days she gave me guided tours of the sets, introducing me to the different film crews, set designers, wardrobe assistants, and boom operators, explaining as best she could what everyone’s job was.
During a break, I called my answering machine, weeding through numerous requests for interviews and questions about who was representing me. Like what the hell does that mean? Do I need a freaking agent now that I’m engaged to Ryan? Delete, delete, delete.
“Hello, Miss Mitchell, this is Sharon Palmer from United Fidelity Bank. I’m calling regarding the safe-deposit box rental fee for Daniel Mitchell, which is now sixty days past due. Please contact me at your earliest convenience.” I fumbled with my phone, making sure I didn’t delete that one since I didn’t have a pen to write her number down.
Would this nonsense with my parents’ estates ever be done? I had gone through all of mom and dad’s files; how the hell did I miss this one? I wondered if I still had copies of his death certificate . . . My thumb clicked for the next message.
“Taryn.”
I froze. Just hearing my name in that voice sent a shock through my body. Suddenly it became hard to swallow.
“Listen, it’s Thomas. I stopped into the bar the other day but I hear you’re out of town. Shit. Um . . . listen, I really need to talk to you. It’s important. Call my cell. My number is . . .”
My mind raced. What the hell could he possibly need to talk to me about? A hundred different scenarios ripped through my mind, including him possibly having nude photos of me and having been hacked or something stupid like that.
Is he going to try to get me back into his life? It’s way too late for that to happen. After witnessing his unbridled ass-pumping into that skank, and even if there were no Ryan in my life, I wouldn’t take him back.
Jonathan Follweiler yelled for me, hailing me over with his hand. I shoved my cell in my pocket, wondering if I should tell Ryan that Thomas called me.
“Ah, Taryn dear, we’re in a bit of a pinch,” he said, somewhat flustered and breathless.
“Would you mind standing over there on that mark? We need to check lighting.”
“Mark?” I questioned, pointing to the X
that was taped on the ground a few yards away, and beating down the echo of Thomas’s voice in my head.
Jonathan and the three other men surrounding him appeared stressed, while another man, who said he was the grip, raised some sort of handheld device near my face.
The uncertainty of whether I was doing this properly had me frozen in place while enormous cameras and large lights were adjusted around me.
The first assistant director, a man I had come to know by the name of Denny, trotted to my side. “Where? Here?” he asked, wrapping his rough, paw-like hand around my upper arm to relocate me.