Casting Her Crush

The Charm City Hearts, Book 4

Coming January 2021

 

 

 

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, had stared at the mosaic of headshots taped to the rehearsal room’s wall. This was ridiculous. Reviewing tomorrow’s call sheet should have taken twenty minutes, max, and Melinda still had fifteen other production tasks to cross off her list. As Karen’s new stage manager, her whole job was to ensure a smooth production, start to finish.

Karen, however, made this nearly impossible.

“Are these really all the actors we’re expecting?” The director’s boho skirt flared as she spun toward Melinda.

“Yes. A dozen of the region’s up and coming actors, all right there.”

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 that Karen’s process had siphoned away made Melinda want to scream. Or cry. Scry? Nope, that’s what the augurers do in Act IV, Scene XII. That kind of scrying would be welcome. She would love to know if all of her professional compromise and diplomacy would land 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 long, slow recovery, she’d developed a raging case of impatience. Unfortunately, spiky blood pressure was a no-go, so she employed meditative breathing techniques and took back a measure of control.

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

Baltimore had recently shed the heat and humidity of summer, and the crisp October days were a welcome change. Full winter cold would come soon, though, and actors don’t emote well while shivering. If it were her theater, she would have prioritized the replacing the unreliable old clunker higher than the lobby renovation, but Donn Gallagher, the Charm City Players’ Executive Producer, thought an interior design facelift would be a bigger draw for an audience.

Karen stood to inspect the glossy pictures. “It’s just…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 recently ex-boyfriend, Nathan, unexpectedly pulled out of the production, she and their freelance casting director had scrambled to scrape this list of actors together.

Irritation flared in her chest. Nathan. First he breaks up with her, then he quits the show, leaving not only her but the whole damn production in the lurch. Actors were the worst. Unreliable, needy, always the centers of their own stories, and often outright liars.

Case in point—Nathan’s agent had supplied a doctor’s note claiming he had mercury poisoning from eating too much 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 wouldn’t call him out. Her life would be easier if she wasn’t forced to work with her ex. In fact, this recasting could be the best thing that ever happened to her. She’d have the freedom to be one hundred percent professional, focused on the work, and not blur the lines with her personal life like she had to do every time she and Nathan worked on a show together.

“They’re all good, that’s true.” Karen twisted her ginger and silver hair into a bun. “But is good enough? Mark Antony needs to be charming, sexy, commanding. An alpha male willing to be dominated by lust and love. I’m thinking Tom Hardy, Idris Elba, Javier Bardem.”

Inwardly, Melinda sighed. The list was all settled, buttoned up, put to bed, and here came Karen, wanting the impossible.

“They’re unlikely to be available,” she said evenly.

“No kidding,” Karen said, cackling. “I mean I want that kind of…what do they call it? Big dick energy? Men with experience who are confident they can tackle any challenge. I mean, honestly. Do any of these people rev your engine?”

Well, no, but it had only been a minute since she and Nathan had broken up. She wasn’t in the right headspace for all that and never again with a co-worker. Crushing on cast members was a doomed move.

“They’re all really handsome,” she said.

“So’s a Ken Doll. But we need every member of the audience to either want him or want to be him.”

“Don’t pre-judge. Give them a chance to show you that during the auditions.”

“I will, but I’ve worked with most of them before.” Karen rocked on her heels with her hands clasped behind her back. “According to my recollection, none of them convey sex god.”

Melinda laughed. “Was Antony a sex god?”

“Obviously, to hook Cleopatra. She could’ve had anyone.”

“Anyone with power. Don’t forget what the dramaturge told us. Their relationship was as much about that as it was about sex. After Caesar was murdered, Cleopatra tried to secure power again through a relationship with a man who commanded a third of Rome’s armies.”

“True, true. But I still want Mark Antony to scream sex god.”

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

Melinda’s back stiffened.

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

“Apologies. That wasn’t my intention.” The thin man with an even thinner mustache sidled up to the headshots. “If these gentlemen have a built-in following we can leverage, let’s factor that in the casting decision. It’s vital that this show is a success.”

As producer, Donn was primarily concerned with the marketability of the production. Theater was a business as much as a craft, and they couldn’t afford for the show to play to half-empty houses. Not if she wanted to direct here in the future.

“Some of them have a bit of a following.” Melinda pointed toward a photo of a sweet-eyed actor with a jaw that could cut glass. “James Jacinto played Horatio in Stratford’s Hamlet, and Dalonte Anderson starred in The Shakespeare Theater’s production of Othello last year.”

Before she could offer recent career highlights for the rest of the men, Donn cut her off. “Impressive, but will that sell tickets?”

Karen crossed her arms over her chest. “Aren’t ticket sales your job, Donn?”

“Yes, but 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 because that would allow us to sex up the costumes, do product placement, and make it more accessible to audiences.”

Melinda pursed her lips. She’d argued with Karen and Donn about the time period, but had lost out. Still, the cognitive dissonance of Mark Antony running around in a hoodie or a three-piece suit and Cleopatra in a Vera Wang ball gown cramped her 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 do well, we should be prepared for difficult conversations about the number of productions we stage next season. The winter show would be first on the chopping block.”

Melinda cringed. Cutting the winter show, typically the most experimental in the season, would mean losing her shot to stage a lighter, romance-centered production by a woman playwright whose work caught her eye two years ago in Edinburgh. She hungered for the chance to show Nathan that he’d been wrong. During their break-up, he’d had the audacity to claim her career had stagnated while his was on fire. They were in different tracks, though, and she had to climb the rungs one at a time behind the scenes.

Donn scanned the pictures, and pointed to one. “Just pick this fellow. He’s the most handsome man. Pretty people on the posters always sells 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 to see you?”

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

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

Jesus, what if it was Nathan? He’d texted her an apology for dropping out of the show, but she hadn’t responded. If he was here and looked healthy, Donn might be tempted to sue him for breach. As much as her ex-boyfriend might deserve a lawsuit, she didn’t want him to be ruined financially.

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

Imani twined her arms together. “So, one other detail? You should probably know that it’s Max Cameron.”

Melinda stumbled, but caught herself on the chair. Apparently, she also needed to coach Imani on not burying the lead. Max Cameron? This made no sense. She hadn’t seen her teenaged celebrity crush in nine years, and he had zero business here.

Dollar signs practically 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 a reason she would never share with work colleagues.

“I don’t,” Melinda said. Not really. Before turning back to her bosses, she schooled her features. “Sorry for the interruption. I don’t know what this is about, but I’ll deal with it and be right back.”

This had to be an elaborate joke, but 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, but maybe she’d called in a favor to celebrate the anniversary of Melinda’s surgery.

“Be right back? Are you kidding?” Karen asked. “I’m coming with you. I want to meet Max Cameron. I’m old enough to be his mother but I thought he was absolutely adorable.”

Hadn’t everyone in America?

“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. “That can’t be the real Max Cameron standing out there. If he is I’ll do shots with you on opening night.”

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

“If he’s out there, but 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 star of her teenaged dreams. She’d know him anywhere.

“Max Cameron’s not what?” he asked.

~ * ~

As she stepped out of the shadows, Max stopped pacing.

Whoa. This beautiful woman in a fashionable frilled turtleneck, skinny jeans, and oxblood knee-high boots was Melinda Cole? With dark, lush curls loosely secured on top of her head, tawny skin, and a purposeful stride, he never would have guessed 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 was reading her right.

After snapping down her manicured brows, she raked her bright-eyed gaze over him. His skin buzzed like forty-seven spotlights were trained on him. No telling if that was good or bad, but he’d love to get to know her better. Except, that wasn’t what his one night in Baltimore was about.

Shame.

“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 held it out to her. “But—”

Her body-shaking sneeze caught both of them by surprise. Fortunately, she’d twisted her face far enough to the side he wasn’t in the direct line of fire.

“Bless you.” He extracted a handkerchief from his jeans pocket.

Old-fashioned, yes, but his grandfather insisted all gentleman carry a handkerchief and a pocketknife. The latter was tricky while traveling, but the handkerchief had proved useful more times than he could count.

“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. And you’re Max Cameron.”

“Still true. These are for you.” He thrust the flowers toward her, and she sneezed again. Thankfully, 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 rose between them. Behind her, a trio of people whispered to each other. Melinda’s posse comprised a nattily dressed older dude with an immaculate mustache, a hippie lady with a wide smile, and Imani, the shy kid he’d met a few minutes ago.

Melinda scream-sneezed again.

The kid stepped forward. “Can I just…take those?”

Without waiting for him to agree, Imani grabbed the bouquet and marched to the other side of the lobby, outside of the allergy-triggering zone.

“Why are you here?” Suspicion threaded Melinda’s voice. “And why does that guy 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 possibly faint. After all, he was the Max Cameron. Almost all 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. “That’s my buddy, Spencer. He’s a documentarian.”

Staring into the camera, she said, “I don’t consent to being recorded.”

Another left-turn. The whole point of popping up here in Baltimore and surprising her was to record it 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, so we’d need agreements. Same for some of the crew.”

Time to turn on the Max Cameron charm and salvage this situation. All he needed was five minutes of enthusiastic fan interaction on video, and he’d leave her be. She’d do that for him, wouldn’t she? After all, he’d granted her wish once upon a time.

“Come on, we don’t need all that 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 made him nervous. Real life didn’t allow multiple takes and 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 hooked the corner of his mouth up in his signature, dimpled smirk. “Everyone knows who I am.”

“This is amazing, keep going,” the woman standing in back of Melinda said.

“Excuse me, who are you?” Max asked.

“Karen Hardison.” The woman stepped forward and stuck out her hand. “I’m the director. Nice to meet you.”

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

He would rather swim naked in the L.A. River. “I—”

“He’s not on the call sheet,” Melinda interrupted. “And I still don’t know why you’re here.”

Negotiations were best done without extra eyeballs surrounding them, but that might be the best opening he’d get. Audience or not, he latched on to his shot.

With an extra dollop of Max Cameron smirk, naturally.

He stepped forward, just an inch into her personal space. She smelled sweet, like amaretto. “To say hello, and to check in on you. The last time I saw you—”

“Stop right there.” Melinda flashed her palm. “Now that I think about it, you’re right. Private is better.”

“Boo.” Karen pouted. “This is too much fun.”

“Sorry not sorry. Come with me, Max Cameron.”

She crooked her finger at him, and oh man, he was hooked. A slug of warmth stirred low in his body, right in the root chakra, according to his guided meditation app. Even if he’d wanted to, he couldn’t resist the way she beckoned. Besides, following her suited him just fine, since it meant he was treated to a view of her sexy ass.

Midway down the hall, she stopped at nondescript door.

As she turned, she frowned at something—or someone—just past Max’s shoulder. Despite her direction out in the lobby, Spencer had tagged along.

“What’s your name again?” she asked.

“Spencer Sanada.”

“Spencer, I thought I told you to stay put.”

Smiling, his buddy said, “You did, but I don’t work for you.”

“It’s fine, Spence.” Max waved him off. Clearly, 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 five minutes, then you can have him back.” After entering 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. More obviously annoyed, too.

“People can spy on us everywhere else, so it was this or the tech booth, and that’s my sacred space so no way you’re going in there. First thing’s first. No one I work with knows about the surgery or my sickly childhood, and it stays that way. Got it?”

In the close confines, they stood eye to eye and inches apart. Inches that the old Max would’ve tried to eliminate, fueled by booze-soaked courage. None of that was an option, because he was sober these days, and she was smart, driven woman who wouldn’t put up with his bullshit.

Brass tacks, he needed a huge favor. He’d go along with whatever she said, smooth over her irritation, then double-up on his flirty charm to persuade her to go on camera with him.

“I get it. Your journey is personal, and you—”

Melinda groaned. “It’s not a journey, a path, a battle, or whatever other hippy metaphor you’re tempted to throw out there. I don’t leave my business out on the street. That’s it. No further explanation required. Tell me you get that, and we can move on to the next part.”

There must be a way to film her without explicitly referencing her surgery. He riffled his hair. Tough, but with Spencer’s careful editing, maybe they’d pull off a compelling five minutes. The arch to her eyebrow and set to stance told him that on this issue, Melinda would not budge.

Yet.

“I get it,” he said.

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

“But there aren’t many Davettes. Your mother’s tough to forget. Did you know back then she called my mother when she thought the Grant-a-Wish program was taking too long to process the request?”

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

Her frustration was weirdly adorable.

“Which is coming up, right?” He kinked his knees slightly to stare up into her dark brown eyes. “That’s why I’m here. I found your parents’ number, your mom and I chatted, and she told me where you worked, and said you’re always here.”

“My mother told you where I worked?” Melinda dragged her hands down her face. “She and I need to talk about how not to get me murdered.”

Murdered? Jesus. “I’m actually a pretty normal guy.”

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

“I’ll give you that. But it’s not like I’d murder anyone and with cameras around. Wait,” he said, as Melinda backed up 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. “Good to know. 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 feel. Or maybe he was high on the bouquet of chemical smells. Whatever the cause, the truth poured out of him.

“Hardly. My career’s in the toilet, and money’s running low. The only gigs my agent’s scrounged up are local commercials, voice overs, and competitive dancing 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, which was the excuse he’d given his agent when he passed on the offer. The truth was, 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 turned it down. My buddy Spencer is all about making his own opportunities, and we thought it would be nice to check in on the people I visited as part of the Grant-a-Wish program. The idea is we check in around the anniversary of my visit, and make a little feel-good internet series out of it. Hopefully, it’ll help people see that I’m sober and haven’t always been an asshole, so maybe they’ll give me a second chance.”

“More like a fifth chance.” She raised her eyebrow, a tidy gesture that cut through bullshit, fast. He let all pretense drop.

“You follow my press, huh?”

She rolled her eyes, so he moved on.

“I’ve made more than my share of mistakes and some of the bridges I’ve burned are ash. But I’m hoping others to repair others, and I’m willing to do the work to make amends.”

That was the meat of it, right there. Many people he’d met in rehab, people he held deep in his heart, were convinced they’d fucked up beyond redemption, that 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 out the all the exceptions. Silence bubbled up between them again. Melinda narrowed her eyes and dragged her plump bottom lip between her teeth. He shouldn’t notice that lip, not when it belonged to a woman whose future was hopeful, shiny, and stuffed with optimism.

“So, what do you think?” he asked.

Melinda folded her arms and nailed him with her gaze. “Let me repeat back to you what I heard. You visited kids with life-threatening illnesses at the height of your career, without cameras or PR. And now you want to cash in on your past good deeds. Is that right?”

His hope deflated, and he let down 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? Hang with their families while they pat you on the back?”

“I hadn’t thought that far.”

Max scratched the back of his neck. He and Spencer had cooked this idea up between them, and he hadn’t told a single other person about it, worried that they’d squash his enthusiasm. Not his parents, his sister, his agent… Hell, not even his sponsor knew he was out on the East Coast.

“Fortunately, my whole job is thinking things through, so let me be straight with you. This. Is. A. Bad. Idea.” She punctuated each word with a clap. “I was on camera for ten seconds, and I feel used. How many people have you done this to?”

“You’re my first.”

“Thank Jesus.” She let out a long 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 walk out of here with your little friend, go back home, and get your agent to hunt down genre roles. Show up on time, be gracious, and stay humble. Repeat. That’s the only way to 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 so people can fall in love with you all over again.”

“Christmas rom-coms? But those things are so schmaltzy.” He couldn’t picture this woman, in her plum lipstick and tight fashion, watching a fluffy tale about a big city woman-turned-small town candlemaker falling for a thick-shouldered rancher.

“Don’t judge.” She waved him off. “Most women I know 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?”

Ouch. No sympathy from his number one fan? That stung, but he couldn’t deny it.

“Yes.” He palmed her soft shoulder, which was a stark contrast to her rigid stance. “But I’ve changed.”

Heat flickered in her eyes. Hello, that was a surprise. This whole time she’d clearly wanted to kick him in the balls. Maybe he hadn’t completely lost his touch? Flirting with his former Wisher had not been part of the plan. What had been the plan, again? Impossible to remember, especially when the pink tip of her tongue darted between her lips, moistening them.

“I’m not sure I believe you,” she said.

“You would if you spent more than seven minutes with me in this closet. Or…” Inspiration struck. Time to turn her obvious interest to his advantage. “If you watched a docuseries about me, you’d see it’s true.”

“Right.” The heat fizzled as she shook off his hand. “Of course it would, because any docuseries you produce would be cut together to show you in your best light, to manipulate people into liking you.”

“What if I gave up creative control and explicitly tell Spencer to show the truth, warts and all?”

She searched his eyes. “You do you, Max Cameron. But it’s still a hell no from me.”

A knock sounded at the door, and Donn’s deep baritone cut through the wood. “Ah, would you two mind stepping into the hallway?”

“Don’t say anything stupid,” she whispered. “And follow my lead.”

Without waiting for his answer, she opened the door.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

While each book is a standalone, it’s fun to check in with the other characters and their romances.

 

Keep going for more in the The Charm City Hearts Series.