Page 43 of Cast to be Mine

“Don’t look at Jack. Don’t react to Jack. Look at me instead. React to me.” I cleared my throat, suddenly aware of how that sounded. “It’s just an experiment. To see if it helps you find what you had in our private rehearsals.”

Grace was quiet for a moment, studying my face like she was trying to figure out if I was serious. I noticed her blue eyes weren’t just a standard blue. They were ringed with a darker shade. Then those baby blues dropped to my mouth.

I knew exactly what she was thinking about.

“You want me to act like you’re my scene partner,” she said slowly. “Even though Jack’s the one on camera with me.”

“Exactly. He gives you nothing anyway. Pretend he doesn’t exist. Play off me.”

“Okay,” she said. “I can do that.”

“Good.” I stepped back, putting professional distance between us. “Let’s get through the rest of today. We’ve got this.”

After lunch, we reset for the next sequence. Jack had emerged from whatever pep talk Chantilly had given him, looking marginally less murderous. He took his position without complaint, though the tension radiating off him was palpable.

“Alright,” I called out. “Same scene, but now we’re getting Jack’s coverage. Grace, remember what we talked about.”

She met my eyes across the set and gave me an almost imperceptible nod.

I positioned myself just behind and to the left of Jack, close enough that Grace could see me without it being obvious to anyone else what we were doing. The camera would capture her looking in Jack’s direction, but her focus would be entirely on me.

Jack delivered his line with his usual movie-star intensity. But Grace looked right through him. Her eyes found mine, locked on, and suddenly she was Elena again. Terrified, desperate, running on fumes but refusing to give up.

The words poured out of her with devastating authenticity. Every beat landed exactly where it should. I watched her and felt my breath catch in my chest. Fuck me. I wanted to be the one to rescue the damsel in distress.

She was great.

“Cut! Moving on!”

We ran the scene again from a different angle. Same result. Grace kept her focus on me, using my reactions to fuel her performance. I checked the playback, making sure it was the shot I was looking for. The footage was electric. Even Jack seemed to pick up on the shift in energy, his own performance sharpening in response to having something real to play against.

By the fifth take, I’d forgotten I was supposed to be directing. I was too busy drowning in those blue eyes.

Every time she looked at me, the way the scene demanded, I felt it like a physical touch. Heat spreading through my chest. My pulse kicking up a notch. The rest of the set fading away until it was just the two of us, connected by something that had nothing to do with the script.

I wanted to kiss her again.

The thought hit me like a freight train. I had to look away to break the spell before someone noticed the director was having an inappropriate reaction to his lead actress.

“That’s a wrap on this setup,” I managed, my voice coming out an octave higher than usual. “Set up the next one.”

The crew moved into action around me, but I stayed rooted to my spot, trying to get my heart rate under control. This was dangerous territory. I knew better than to let personal feelings interfere with a production.

But knowing better and actually doing better were apparently two very different things.

Toby appeared at my elbow with the shot list. My stomach dropped when I realized what scene was next.

The kiss. The scene that had started this whole problem.

Except today, she wouldn’t be kissing me. She’d be kissing Jack.

“Let’s get the lighting set up,” I said.

The crew swarmed the generator room set while I stood there, trying to convince myself that the sick feeling in my gut was just stress. The pressure of a difficult day. Nothing to do with the image of Grace’s lips on Jack Montana’s perfectly chiseled face.

Grace had been whisked away by hair and makeup. When she returned, she looked tousled and stunning. And fuck, the ugly green monster was roaring within.

I knew it was ridiculous. Knew it was her job. Knew that screen kisses meant nothing. They were choreographed moments, technical exercises, about as romantic as filing paperwork. I’d watched hundreds of them over the years and never felt anything but professional detachment.