Casting Her Crush: The Charm City Hearts, #4

By M.C. Vaughan

As a teenager, MELINDA COLE underwent life-saving heart surgery. Ever since, the hyper-efficient stage manager has no patience for wasting time. She devotes herself to what matters most—her friends, her parents, and her job. Once upon a time, her boyfriend had a spot on that list. Then he broke up with her out of nowhere. So now? She's diving deep into her work at Baltimore's cutting-edge theater company, with an eye on becoming a director by next season.

 

MAX CAMERON spent his teen years as the heartthrob star of the number one family sitcom in the U.S. But now, years after his wild child lifestyle ended, he'd be lucky to score a spot on bad reality television. ​​To reinvigorate his career, Max and his cameraman buddy have cooked up an idea they hope will turn viral. At the height of his popularity, he'd visited ​his number one fan as part of the Grant-a-Wish program.​ Dropping in on her today would be ratings gold.​

 

Melinda has zero idea why Max Cameron, star of her teenage fantasies, has crashed her theater's auditions. Or why he's bearing flowers, a cameraman, and his trademark platinum smile. Before she can ask, the theater's producer sees a stunt casting opportunity. Her boss cuts her a deal—if Melinda convinces Max to take the lead and coaches him to a Bard-worthy performance, then a directorship is hers. Challenge accepted, but she must keep her crush on lock. No one would take her seriously again if she fell for the leading man

• Language: English
• Publisher: Champagne Book Group
• Release date: May 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781771553537

Book preview

Casting Her

Crush

The Charm City Hearts Series, Book 4

M. C. VAUGHAN

CHAMPAGNE BOOK GROUP

Casting Her Crush

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Champagne Book Group

2373 NE Evergreen Avenue, Albany OR 97321 U.S.A.

~ * ~

eISBN: 978-1-77155-353-7

Copyright © 2021 M.C. Vaughan All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Melody Pond

Champagne Book Group supports copyright which encourages creativity and diverse voices, creates a rich culture, and promotes free speech. Thank you by complying by not scanning, uploading, and distributing this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher. Your purchase of an authorized electronic edition supports the author’s rights and hard work and allows Champagne Book Group to continue to bring readers fiction at its finest.

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Other Books by MC Vaughan

The Charm City Hearts

Casting Her Crush, 4

Divorcing Mr. Right, 3

Pictures of You, 2

The Reluctant Princess, 1

To my girlfriends for always cheering

me on and having my back.

Chapter One

Melinda Cole bit the inside of her lips to keep from losing her ish. For the past hour, the play’s director, Karen, stared at the mosaic of headshots taped to the rehearsal room’s wall. This was ridiculous. The review of tomorrow’s call sheet should have taken twenty minutes, max, and Melinda had fifteen other production tasks to cross off her list. As Karen’s stage manager Melinda’s whole job was to ensure a smooth production, start to finish.

Karen, however, made this impossible.

Are these the only men auditioning? The director’s boho skirt flared as she spun toward Melinda.

Yes. A dozen of the region’s up and coming actors.

Karen parked her chin on her fist. I don’t know.

On a personal level, Melinda liked the older woman. She was smart, kind, and always ready to crack a joke. Professionally though, yikes. They were on opposite sides of the spectrum. Melinda fired off decisions, closing loops and picking up slack, whereas Karen referred to her dithering style as her process.

Melinda called it a vortex of inefficiency.

The hours Karen’s ‘process’ siphoned away made Melinda want to scream. Or cry. Scry? Nope, scrying’s what the augurers do in Act IV, Scene XII. She wished she could predict the future, especially if it confirmed Melinda’s professional compromise and diplomacy would earn her the director’s slot for next season’s winter show.

Eyes on the prize, Cole.

Melinda hugged her tablet device tight to her chest. Since she’d danced with death as a child and fought through a lengthy recovery, she’d developed a raging case of impatience. Spiky blood pressure was a no-go. Slow, meditative breathing techniques allowed her to take back a measure of control.

While you’re considering final changes to the call sheet, she said as she backed toward the door I’ll check with facilities about the boiler.

In recent weeks, Baltimore had shed the heat and humidity of summer. The crisp autumn days were a welcome change. Full winter cold was on the way. Shivering actors don’t emote well. If it were her theater, she’d prioritize replacing the unreliable old clunker higher than the lobby renovation. Donn Gallagher, the Charm City Players’ Executive Producer, decided otherwise.

Karen rose to inspect the glossy pictures. None of them scream Mark Antony to me.

Groan. Escape had been so close.

They’re a good group.

Were they her dream options? No, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. After her ex-boyfriend, Nathan, dropped from the production, she and their freelance casting director had scrambled to scrape this list of actors together.

Irritation flared in her chest. Nathan. Right after he dumped her, he quit the show and left the whole damned production in the lurch. Actors were the worst boyfriends. Unreliable, needy, self-centered, and often outright liars.

Case in point—Nathan’s agent supplied a doctor’s note claiming he had mercury poisoning from eating sushi. Bullshit. Nathan hated sushi. Unless he’d been force-fed ahi, no way was this a legit excuse. Plus, the doctor who’d signed off on the note happened to be Nathan’s aunt. Double bullshit.

Much as his lies plucked her nerves, she hadn’t called him out. Her ex’s absence made her life easier. She’d have the freedom to one hundred percent focus on the work. Every time she and Nathan worked on a show together, the blurry line between her personal and professional life became more difficult to navigate.

"It’s true, they’re good. Karen twisted her ginger and silver hair into a bun. Good isn’t enough. Mark Antony needs to be charming, sexy, commanding. An alpha male willing to be dominated by lust and love like Tom Hardy, Idris Elba, or Javier Bardem."

Melinda bit back a sigh. They’d settled the list, buttoned it up, put it to bed, and here came Karen, wanting the impossible.

They’re unlikely to be available, she said.

No kidding. Karen cackled. I want men with the kind of energy that comes with experience. Men who are confident they can tackle any challenge. Be honest. She gestured to the wall. Do any of these people rev your engine?

No, but it had only been a minute since she and Nathan broke up. She wasn’t in the right headspace for attraction, and never again with a co-worker. Crushing on cast members was pure doom.

They’re handsome, she said.

"So’s a Ken Doll. What we need is for everyone in the audience to want him or want to be him."

Don’t prejudge. Give them a chance to show you their appeal during the auditions.

I’ve worked with most of them before. Karen rocked on her heels with her hands clasped behind her back. None of them convey sex god.

Melinda laughed. Was Antony a sex god?

He must have been to hook Cleopatra. She could’ve had anyone.

Anyone with power. Don’t forget what the dramaturge told us. Their relationship was a balance of love, sex, and power. After the senators assassinated Caesar, Cleopatra tried to secure power again through a relationship with a man who commanded a third of Rome’s armies.

Do any of them have a following? asked a voice from behind them.

Melinda’s back stiffened.

Jesus, Donn. Karen slapped a hand to her chest. Don’t sneak up on us.

Apologies. The thin man with an even thinner mustache sidled toward the headshots. If these gentlemen have a built-in fanbase, we can leverage. Let’s factor that in the casting decision.

As producer, Donn was concerned with the marketability of the production. Theater was a business as much as a craft, and half-empty audiences were a no-go if she wanted to direct here in the future.

Some have a small following. Melinda pointed toward a photo of a sweet-eyed actor with a sharp jaw. "James Jacinto played Horatio in Stratford’s Hamlet, and Dalonte Anderson starred in The Shakespeare Theater’s production of Othello last year."

Will their names sell tickets? he asked.

Karen crossed her arms. Aren’t ticket sales your job, Donn?

You could make it easier.

Are you kidding? Karen leaned into his space. Per your request, I set it in twenty-first century Silicon Valley to allow us to sex up the costumes, do product placement, and make it more accessible.

Melinda pursed her lips. She’d disagreed with the decision to set the historical play in the modern era. The cognitive dissonance of Mark Antony in a hoodie or a three-piece suit and Cleopatra in a Vera Wang ball gown cramped Melinda’s brain.

The past should stay in the past.

Donn smoothed his mustache. This theater is in a precarious financial position due to the unexpected expenses uncovered by the lobby renovation. If this show doesn’t succeed, we should be prepared for difficult conversations. The winter show is first on the chopping block.

Melinda cringed. If he cut the winter show—the most experimental in the season—she’d lose her shot to stage a lighter, romance-centered production by a woman playwright whose work caught her eye two years ago in Edinburgh. If she was being honest with herself, she also hungered for the chance to show Nathan how wrong he’d been when he’d said her career had stagnated.

Donn scanned the pictures. Pick the most handsome man. Pretty people always sell more tickets.

Ah, one of your guiding principles, Karen said.

The rehearsal room door creaked open. The new assistant stage manager, Imani, peeked through the crack.

Um, Melinda? she said. There’s a…situation?

Oof, she’d have to work with Imani on her assertiveness. The most effective stage managers were clear and firm in their instructions and requests. They didn’t phrase every statement like a question.

An actor is here for you?

He must be confused. Tell him we haven’t called to confirm audition times yet.

I did… Imani shifted her weight. He said he’s not here to audition, and he wants to talk to you?

Jesus, was it Nathan? He’d texted her an apology for dropping from the show. She hadn’t responded, too hurt and angry to trust herself to be professional. If he was here and healthy, Donn might be tempted to sue him for breach. As much as her ex-boyfriend might deserve a lawsuit, she didn’t want to ruin him.

I’ll talk to him. She marched toward the door.

Imani twined her arms together. So, one other detail? It’s Max Cameron.

Melinda stumbled. Max Cameron? This made no sense. She hadn’t seen her teenaged celebrity crush in nine years.

Dollar signs danced in Donn’s eyes. The television star?

"Former television star, Karen said. Since his fall from grace, he hasn’t worked much. The more interesting question is, how do you know him, Melinda?"

For reasons she’d never share with work colleagues.

I don’t. Before facing her bosses, she schooled her features. Sorry for the interruption. I’ll be right back.

This had to be an elaborate joke. Why, and by whom? Her little sister was a dedicated prankster. As a recent college graduate, she didn’t have money to waste on impersonators. Maybe she’d called in a favor to celebrate the anniversary of the surgery?

Be right back? Karen asked. I’m coming with you. I want to meet Max Cameron. Even though I’m old enough to be his mother, I think he’s adorable.

Didn’t everyone in America, once upon a time?

You’ll be disappointed. An audience was the last thing Melinda wanted, but Karen, Imani, and Donn stuck to her like gaffer’s tape as she marched down the hall. There’s no way Max Cameron is in our lobby. If he is, I’ll do shots with you on opening night.

"You’ll finally do shots with me?" Karen said.

Karen, I’m telling you, she said as they rounded the corner. Max Cameron is not…

Melinda stopped short. There, in his Hollywood heartthrob glory, stood the older, more handsome, more muscled star of her teenaged dreams.

Max Cameron’s not what? he asked.

~ * ~

Whoa.

This beautiful woman in a fashionable frilled turtleneck, jeans, and oxblood knee-high boots was Melinda Cole? With dark, tight curls gathered in a puff on top of her head, whiskey brown skin, and a purposeful stride, Max would never guess she was the girl in the photo from his Grant-a-Wish files. Back then, she’d been swaddled in hospital blankets and wired to monitors.

Today, she exuded health and vitality.

Hmm. Irritation too, if he read her right. As Melinda raked her bright-eyed gaze over him, he buzzed like forty-seven spotlights were trained on him.

Melinda? he asked.

When she didn’t answer, he continued, You might not remember me. The cellophane wrapped around the enormous bouquet of flowers crinkled as he thrust them toward her. I’m—

Her body-shaking sneeze caught them both by surprise. She twisted her face far enough to the side that he wasn’t in the direct line of fire. He wasn’t a germaphobe, but that was close.

Bless you. He extracted a handkerchief from his jeans pocket. Old-fashioned, yes. His dad insisted gentleman carry a handkerchief, and who was he to argue?

Here. He offered the cloth to Melinda. It’s clean.

Without breaking eye contact, she took it. You’re Max Cameron.

Her voice was like bourbon and honey, smoky and sweet.

In the flesh, he said. "You are Melinda Cole, right?"

Yes. You’re Max Cameron.

Still true. These are for you. He thrust the flowers toward her. She sneezed again, this time into the handkerchief. Do you have a cold?

No, allergies. She angled her head toward the bundle in his arms. To flowers.

Oh, sorry.

Awkward silence fell between them. Behind her, a trio of people whispered to each other. Melinda’s posse comprised an older dude with an immaculate pencil mustache, a hippie lady, and Imani, the shy kid he’d met a few minutes ago.

Melinda scream-sneezed again.

Can I take those? Imani marched the bouquet to the other side of the lobby, outside the allergy trigger zone.

Why are you here? Suspicion threaded Melinda’s voice. She chopped her hand in Spencer’s direction. Why does he have a camera? Is this a prank?

Her obvious annoyance was a total left-turn. Given their history, he’d expected her to laugh, cry happy tears, or faint. After all, he was the Max Cameron. Ninety-three percent of America had crushed on him back in the day. That wasn’t ego talking. People magazine had taken a poll.

Melinda, though, had fire in her eyes.

Not a prank. He jerked a thumb toward Spencer. My buddy Spencer is a documentarian.

She stared into the camera. I don’t consent to being recorded.

Another left turn. The whole point of popping up there in Baltimore was to film her for the concept reel.

What do you want me to do, Max? Spencer asked.

Melinda answered for him. Stop recording. You can’t barge in here to shoot a documentary. What if actors were present? Most of them are in the union. We’d need agreements. Same for the crew.

Time to salvage this situation with the old Max Cameron charm. Five minutes of enthusiastic fan interaction on video, and he’d leave her be. She’d give him five minutes, wouldn’t she? After all, he’d granted her wish once upon a time.

Come on, we don’t need paperwork, do we? he asked. This isn’t a formal documentary. It’s more like a personal video diary.

The people whispering behind Melinda distracted him. Despite growing up on camera, live audiences of any type made him nervous. Real life didn’t allow multiple takes or edits. Nope. Whatever he did in public stuck to his reputation forever.

Can we talk in private? he asked.

She shook her head. I don’t talk in private with strange men.

I’m not a strange man. He flashed his signature, dimpled smirk. Everyone knows who I am.

This is spectacular, keep going, the hippie lady said.

Excuse me, who are you? Max asked.

Karen Hardison, the director. Nice to meet you.

As they shook hands, the mustachioed man next to her spoke. I’m Donn Gallagher, Executive Producer for the Charm City Players Theater Company. Are you auditioning for Mark Antony? We’d love to invite you to do so.

He’d rather swim naked in the L.A. River.

He’s not on the call sheet, Melinda interrupted. So why are you here?

Despite the audience, he’d shoot his shot. With an extra dollop of Max Cameron smirk, of course.

He inched into her personal space. She smelled sweet, like amaretto. I’m here to check in on you. The last time I saw you—

Stop right there. Melinda flashed her palm. You’re right. Private is better.

Boo. Karen pouted.

Sorry not sorry. Come with me, Max Cameron.

Melinda crooked her finger at him, and oh man, he was hooked. A slug of warmth stirred low in his gut, right in the root chakra, according to his guided meditation app. There was no resisting the way she beckoned. Her command to follow suited him fine, since it meant he was treated to a view of her sexy ass.

Midway down the hall, she stopped at a nondescript door.

As she pivoted, she frowned at something—or someone—past Max’s shoulder. Despite her directions in the lobby, Spencer tagged along.

What’s your name again? she asked.

Spencer Sanada.

Spencer, I told you to stay put.

Thing is, I don’t work for you.

It’s fine, Spence. Max waved him off. The best way forward with Melinda was to give her the win. We don’t need this part.

What part? Melinda asked.

Spencer lowered his camera. You’re killing me, dude.

What else is new? Max lifted a shoulder.

Go on now. Your boss and I need to talk. After she entered a code into a cypher lock, she opened the door. Step into my office.

He entered her…office? Shelves, buckets, and brooms surrounded them. The sharp scent of various cleaning products tickled his nose.

A janitor’s closet? he asked.

She shut the door. Up close, she was even prettier…and more obviously annoyed.

People can spy on us everywhere else. It was this or the tech booth, and that’s my sacred space. Now, first thing’s first. No one here knows about my childhood illnesses or surgery. The hospital visit stays a secret. Got it?

The close confines forced them close together. Mere inches apart. Inches that old Max, fueled by booze-soaked courage, would’ve tried to eliminate. Sober Max knew better than to hit on someone while asking for a favor. Instead, he’d double-up on his charm to persuade her to go on camera with him.

I get it. Your journey is personal.

Melinda groaned. It’s not a journey, a path, a battle, or any other hippy metaphor. Unlike you, I don’t leave my business out on the street. Tell me you understand, and we can proceed.

There must be a way to film her without referencing her surgery. He riffled his hair. With Spencer’s careful edits, maybe they’d end up with a compelling five minutes. The set of her stance told Max that Melinda wouldn’t budge.

Yet.

I get it, he said.

Good. She relaxed her shoulders. Now, how did you find me? There must be dozens of Melinda Coles in the United States.

"There aren’t many Davettes. Your mother, and her name, are tough to forget. She called my mother when the Grant-a-Wish program took too long to process the request."

I’m aware, Melinda said. She tells me every anniversary of my surgery.

Her frustration was adorable.

Which is coming up, right? He kinked his knees to stare into her dark-brown eyes. That’s why I’m here. I found your parents’ number. Your mom told me where you worked.

"My mother told you where I worked? Melinda dragged her hands down her face. On God, I need to talk to her about not getting me murdered."

Murdered? Jesus. I’m a pretty normal guy.

She gestured to the shelves. Does this seem normal to you?

Come on, it’s not like I’d murder anyone with cameras around. Wait, he said, as Melinda backed into the industrial shelves laden with lemon-scented wood cleaner. I heard how that sounded as I was saying it. I wouldn’t murder anyone, period.

She furrowed her brow. Back to the original question—why are you here? Don’t you have some fancy celebrity life to lead?

The tight squeeze of the janitor’s closet loaned the situation a confessional vibe. Or maybe he was high on the bouquet of chemical smells. Whatever the cause, the truth poured from him.

Fancy? My career’s in the toilet. The best gigs my agents scrounged up are local commercials, voice-overs, and a competitive dance reality show.

Melinda pursed her lips. "Dancing with the Stars?"

"If only. No, it’s the low-rent version, Like No One’s Watching."

Oh. That one’s not good. She grimaced. Sorry. Did you take it?

Max shook his head. Melinda’s taste was on point. The show wasn’t good, true. More importantly, the idea of a live broadcast made him want to vomit. Guaranteed he’d spin his dance partner right into a cameraman while hurling harder than the kid from The Exorcist.

I declined it. We—my buddy Spencer and I—thought it’d be inspiring to highlight the Grant-a-Wish program. The idea is we make a feel-good series. Around the anniversary of the original visit, I’ll check in with kids whose wish I granted back in the day. It’ll show people I’m sober and haven’t always been an asshole. Maybe then, they’ll give me a second chance.

More like a fifth chance. She raised her eyebrow, a tidy gesture that cut through bullshit, fast.

You follow my press, huh?

She rolled her eyes. Right. Moving on.

I’ve made mistakes and burned a ton of bridges. I’m hoping to repair some of them.

Many people he’d met in rehab, people he held deep in his heart, were convinced they’d fucked up beyond redemption. No one could love them, so there was no point in trying.

There was always a point. Everyone’s worthy.

Well, not Nazis and Klansmen, but now was not the time to list the exceptions. Silence bubbled between them again. Melinda dragged her plump bottom lip between her teeth. He shouldn’t notice her lip, not when it belonged to a woman whose future was hopeful, shiny, and stuffed with optimism.

So, what do you say? he asked.

Melinda nailed him with her gaze. Let me repeat what you said back to you. You visited kids with life-threatening illnesses at the height of your career, without cameras or PR. Now you want to cash in on your past good deeds?

He dropped his shoulders. It’s not quite like that.

"It’s exactly like that! She flung her hands toward the ceiling. I’m lucky I lived. I’d bet lots of the kids you visited didn’t make it. What’s your plan for them? Visit their graves?"

Max scratched the back of his neck. He hadn’t gut-checked this idea with anyone besides Spencer, worried they’d squash his enthusiasm. Not his parents, his sister, his agent… Hell, he hadn’t even told his sponsor he was on the East Coast.

I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

My whole job is thinking ahead. Let me be straight with you. This. Is. A. Bad. Idea. She punctuated each word with a clap. How many people have you done this to?

You’re my first.

Thank Jesus. She let loose a breath. Here’s free professional advice. There’s no shortcut to forgiveness and trust. Both require you to put in the work. What you ought to do is go back home and get your agent to book genre roles. Show up on time, be gracious, stay humble. Repeat until you build back a good reputation. Start with small parts in a sci-fi series with a dedicated fan base, or a lead in a Christmas rom-com. People will fall in love with you again.

Christmas rom-coms? Those things are schmaltzy. He couldn’t picture this woman, in her plum lipstick and sharp fashion, enjoying a fluffy tale centered on a big city woman-turned-small town candle maker falling for a thick-shouldered rancher.

Don’t judge. She waved him off. Most women are addicted to them. Let people like things.

I agree. Take me, for example. Ten years ago crowds of girls lost their minds when I walked past them on a red carpet. Now it’s cool to treat me like a joke.

She cocked her head back. Didn’t you earn that with your antics?

Ouch. No sympathy from his number one fan? That stung.

I did. He palmed her soft shoulder. But I’ve changed.

Heat flickered in her eyes. Maybe he hadn’t lost his touch? Flirting with his former Wisher hadn’t been part of the plan. What was the plan, again? Impossible to remember when the pink tip of her tongue darted between her lips, moistening them.

I’m not sure if I believe you, she said.

You would if you gave me a chance. Spend more than seven minutes with me in this closet.

The heat fizzled as she shook off his hand. The project sounds like a way to manipulate people into liking you again.

What if I tell Spencer to show the truth, warts and all?

She searched his eyes. You do you, Max Cameron. It’s still a hell no from me.

A knock sounded at the door. Donn’s deep baritone cut through the wood. Ah, hello?

Follow my lead, she whispered. Act right and don’t say anything stupid.

Without waiting for his answer, she opened the door.

Chapter Two

Well, this was awkward. Melinda had planned for them to conduct their tête-à-tête in the small storage room where the Charm City Players kept its holiday decorations. In her fluster, she’d miscounted the doors and ended up conducting a heated conversation with the star of her teenage dreams next to a dank mop bucket.

How can I help you, Donn? Melinda asked. Her smooth, professional tone was at odds with the jangled emotions knocking around in her body. She acted as though she hadn’t sequestered herself in the janitor’s closet with a notorious wild child actor. A man who, despite everything, lightened her mood and made her blood pump faster with a tiny twist of his lips.

Infuriating.

In five minutes, he’d reduced her efficient, seven-steps-ahead-of-everything self to a muzzy-headed mess. This would not stand. She’d ordered her life into neat, manageable chunks. His mere presence would ruin her careful work. The sooner she ejected Max Cameron from this theater, from her life, the better.

Wait, hold up. Was Donn…smiling? Gone was his trademark grim slash of a mouth, which spelled trouble for her. A few feet away, uh oh, trouble doubled in the form of the steady amber light of Spencer’s camera.

Donn brushed her aside. To Max, he extended a hand. I’m thrilled you’re auditioning for our production, Mr. Cameron.

Cold coiled around her midsection. Much as she’d adored him, Max Cameron was the worst type of actor to cast in a Shakespearean tragedy. His trademarks were mugging for the camera, breaking the fourth wall, and winking at the audience. Those antics had no place in Antony and Cleopatra.

Please. Max’s deep voice rumbled behind her. Call me Max.

He eased past her, brushing her body like the languorous stroke of a match. Melinda clenched her jaw tight enough to crack a molar. Jesus, he needed to leave before she lost her mind.

He’s not here to audition, she said.

Max winked at her. Her inner sixteen-year-old fainted. Hell, the outer mature Melinda barely kept it together. He was too much. He smelled like the beach, dressed like a casual GQ model, and possessed mesmerizing blue eyes.

Melinda’s right, he said.

Magic words to her ears.

She held in the sigh of relief mixed with a tinge of regret. Thank goodness Max Cameron agreed. As the former star of the family sit-com To the Max and a half-dozen other forgettable films, he wasn’t an actor with the gritty gravitas this production required.

She loved a challenge, but there was already enough on her to-do list.

Because, come on, Max continued. "Do I really need to audition, Donn?"

He did not just say that.

You’re not auditioning. Melinda swiveled toward him and his annoying smirk. She could read him like a script. He figured he could dabble in theater, film his epic failure, and win back a few hearts along the way.

Three birds with one efficient stone.

Not on her watch, and not in her theater. His presence would wreck her plans for a calm, efficient, epic Shakespearean production.

Why not? he asked.

Because you don’t want to do this. Shakespeare isn’t your thing.

He lifted a shoulder. How hard can it be?

Incandescent rage rendered her speechless. Of all the condescending—

I’m sure we can help Max acclimate. Donn waved like he was Jedi-mind-tricking her.

That’s not fair to the other actors. It sounded ridiculous to her ears. Show business was many things. Fair wasn’t one of them. Success in the performing arts was a result of dogged preparation, networking with powerful people, and being in the right place at the right time.

Max tried to hide his snicker by clearing his throat.

She twisted toward him. Do you have something to say?

The dimpled smirk was