Page 35 of Take Two

“The guy’s standing fifty feet away, Cy. Only you can decide how you want to spend the time you do have.”

I let Cameron’s words sink in as I finish my lunch in contemplative silence, my eyes drifting back to Jamie despite my best efforts at self-control.

One minute I am standing beneath a bank of lights waiting for a camera adjustment that seems to take forever. The next somebody is handing me revised pages with dialogue changes that need to be memorized immediately. Then wardrobe needs me for a fitting. Then makeup needs me for touch-ups. Then Kirk wants another take because he thinks he can get something slightly better out of the scene, pushing us toward perfection one incremental improvement at a time.

By the time the assistant director finally calls the last setup of the day, my feet hurt from hours in skates, my shoulders ache from holding Daniel’s authoritative posture, and I have repeated the same speech to a fictional hockey team so many times that I could probably recite it in my sleep.

“That’s a wrap on scene twenty-three,” the assistant director calls out as a small cheer goes up around the rink from cast and crew alike. I think we are all ready to call it quits this evening after what feels like an exceptionally long day.

Crew members immediately begin moving equipment and breaking down the camera setup near the bench with the efficient haste of people eager to head home.

Actors skate off the ice, ushered by wardrobe toward the costume tents where they’ll trade their hockey gear for street clothes.

I should probably do the same. The last thing I want to do is make anyone wait on me, especially after such a long day. I find I can’t move. Not yet.

Instead, I find myself looking across the ice toward the far boards.

Jamie is talking to Kirk near the bench, their conversation animated and clearly positive. Kirk is smiling and shaking Jamie’s hand with obvious enthusiasm. I’m sure he’s probably singing Jamie’s praises, his presence has been indispensable on set, solving problems before they become disasters and making everyone’s job easier.

Then Jamie looks up and for a second our eyes meet across the rink. The distance between us feels both vast and insignificant. He smiles, a genuine expression that reaches his eyes, and my pulse does something embarrassing before he turns his attention back to Kirk. The smile shouldn’t feel significant, but my pulse spikes anyway. My stomach flutters with actual butterflies, but it does all those things and more.

I hear Cameron’s voice in my head, his words from lunch still floating around like a mantra that won’t be dismissed. “The guy’s standing fifty feet away, Cy. Only you can decide how you want to spend the time you do have.”

Damn him for being right. I blow out a breath, watching it mist slightly in the arena’s chill. The decision feels ridiculous and necessary all at once. Then again, spending the last week finding excuses not to make it feels considerably more ridiculous.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I hand my script to a passing production assistant and walk in his direction.

Every step feels strangely deliberate, like I’m crossing some invisible threshold. Jamie notices me coming before I reach him and meets me halfway, stepping off the ice with the fluid grace that makes everything look effortless. His expression shifts into something curious and he tilts his head at me in question.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” I hear the nervousness in my own voice and hate it.

I stop beside the boards and immediately wonder why I suddenly feel sixteen years old again. This shouldn’t be hard, I’ve performed in front of millions of people, given interviews to hostile journalists, navigated red carpets and award shows. Hell, this man knows me intimately, has seen me at my most vulnerable. Yet here I am, tongue-tied like a teenager.

“Good.” He rests his forearms against the top of the boards, the casual gesture making him seem more approachable. “You looked serious for a second there.”

“I was working up the courage to ask a difficult question,” I reply, aiming for light but probably missing the mark.

One corner of his mouth lifts in amusement. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably not.” I smirk, feeling slightly more like myself.

His smile grows slightly and the sight of it does absolutely nothing useful for my concentration or my ability to form coherent sentences.

I glance toward the arena entrance where people are beginning to filter out into the Seattle evening, then look back at him.

“You busy?”

Jamie studies me for a moment, his brown eyes unreadable in the arena lighting. “Depends.”

“On?” I lift a brow in question, trying to project more confidence than I feel.

“What you’re asking.” He shifts slightly on his skates, the small movement drawing my attention to the easy way he balances.

I rub the back of my neck, the motion feeling embarrassingly uncertain. “I’m tired of only talking to you when somebody puts skates on me.”

That earns a genuine laugh from him, warm and unguarded, and I find myself watching his mouth, enjoying the smile I put there far more than I should.