Page 27 of Cast to be Mine

“Oh.”

I hoped I didn’t sound too surprised, but I knew who he was. To know he’d been a grunt did surprise me.

He gestured at the set. “I prefer the real thing. Or at least a physical version of the fake thing. Actors do better work when they’ve got something to react to. You can’t give a genuine performance staring at a tennis ball on a stick or running on a walking pad.”

“Some people can.”

“Not well.” He turned to face me fully. “Grab your script. We’ll start on the catwalk scene, work our way through the act two confrontation, and see where we land.”

“I don’t need the script.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I don’t need it.” I set my bag down on a sawhorse. “I memorized it.”

“Your scenes?”

“The whole thing. Everyone’s scenes. Every line of dialogue in the movie.” I shrugged, trying to play it cool, like I hadn’t spent the entire night mainlining coffee and recording myself on my phone like a lunatic. “I figured if I knew what everyone else was going to say before they said it, I’d stop waiting for my turn to talk and actually listen.”

He stared at me for a long moment and then smiled.

Damn, he was attractive. A part of me knew that, but he was my boss. I was so focused on the work I hadn’t allowed myself to really look at him. “Okay. That’s great.” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey, everybody! Take twenty! Grab some food!”

The crew reacted like he’d announced free puppies. Tools powered down. The nail gun went blessedly silent. Within two minutes, fifteen people had filed out through the side door.

And then it was just us.

The silence felt enormous.

“So,” I said.

“So.” He climbed the steps to the catwalk and gestured for me to follow. “Come on up.”

I followed him up the metal stairs, happy that I’d worn my tennis shoes. The catwalk ran the length of the ship’s interior, overlooking the unfinished hold below. Up close, the detail was even more impressive—fake rust streaks, painted condensation stains, and a row of gauges with actual needles.

A fresh wave of self-doubt and terror rolled through me. The details weren’t cheap. There was so much riding on the line.

No pressure.

“Scene forty-one,” Micah said, positioning himself a few feet away from me. “Elena’s escaped her cell. She’s crawling through the ship trying to find a radio, and Jack’s character is coming from the opposite direction. Neither of you knows the other one is here. You round the corner and nearly run into each other.”

I nodded, already running the lines in my head.

“She’s terrified, running on adrenaline, hasn’t slept in two days,” he said. “Ready?”

“Yep.”

He didn’t count us down. He didn’t say action. He just became the character. One second he was Micah, standing there in his jeans and t-shirt. The next, he was a man moving through hostile territory, every sense on high alert.

He came around the corner of the fake bulkhead, and I reacted without thinking.

I swung my imaginary gun up, my breath coming in sharp gasps, my hands shaking just enough to sell it. My voice cracked on the words. Just like I’d practiced at two in the morning in my living room, except it didn’t feel practiced. It felt like it was actually happening.

Micah wasn’t really acting, but I didn’t need him to. I’d rehearsed the scene, knowing it was going to be one of the ones that made or broke the movie.

I held the moment. Let the fear and the exhaustion my character would be feeling after her ordeal bleed into my actions. I let my arms drop, and my whole body sagged. The line came out barely above a whisper.

“Scene,” I said softly after the long gaze written into the script.