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I’ll let you in on a secret. I have a superpower. Not just any superpower like flying or x-ray vision. Pointless parlor tricks in my opinion. I use my skill set for a far more noble cause. I give people their happily ever after.
Call me a philanthropist of the heart. The Mother Teresa of matchmaking if you will—but with snazzier footwear. Emma Woods, actress by day, Cupid in stilettos by night. It was my selfless charity. Every other actor in Hollywood had a charity. Some raised money for libraries or animal shelters. All worthy causes, yes. But me, I volunteered countless hours to bring lonely hearts together. And I was bloody good at it.
Exhibit A: Annie Taylor was the best hair and makeup artist in Hollywood and dismally single. Her arms were covered in retro tattoo art and whatever colour her hair (currently pink), it was always coiffed like a 1940’s pin-up girl.
Exhibit B: Randall Weston. The artistic director on my latest film. I didn’t know very much about him except that he worked super late hours, designed wicked sets, and had a certain confident swagger in a George Clooney sort of way. He was also dismally single.
Annie knew my head like no one else and she was all mine. Oh, I’d been assigned several very talented hair and makeup professionals, but for the past five years, I’d not let anyone come near me with a brush except my Annie. No doubt she’d been in this industry a decade longer than I had. Brilliant did not begin to describe her. Her problem? She was married to her work.
That is why I felt it was time Annie have a man. Let me rephrase that. It was time Annie have a man that wasn’t a total and utter knob-head—which was very difficult to find in this business. Good men were mystical creatures like mermen or Sasquatch. (No offence intended toward any mystical creatures reading this). I made it my personal quest to find such a man-unicorn, whose existence, like any other mystical creature, was questionable. Until the day I found Randall.
They were made for each other. They just didn't know it yet. And that is precisely why they needed me. Annie and Randall were about to be struck by this cupid’s arrow.
But alas, artistic directors and makeup artists worked on opposite ends of Major Hollywood studios. Therefore I decided, with some reluctance, to recruit help on this adventure—and I had the perfect man for the job: Jaxson Knightly. I'd never known a better friend than Jaxson. We had an understanding, like close family, and he happened to be directing my current film.
I expected he’d come to my trailer. He was so predictable it was adorable. The knocking came after lunch.
“Emma? Are you in there?” Jaxson had a distinctive knock. He always rapped four times in quick succession and only used the knuckle of his forefinger. Then silence followed because he knew with a succinct clarity I was in my trailer. I was also adorably predictable.
“You know I am. Get your Aussie bottom in here.” I think he rather liked it when I called him Aussie. And when I mentioned his Aussie bottom, his lips would curl at the corners. When he entered, his teeth were flashing and the glint of his olive-green eyes was framed by the expressive creases of his smile. He was up to something. Or he knew I was.
Jaxson closed the distance between us in four easy strides across the trailer and to the desk where I sat. He wrapped his lean fingers around my scalp and placed a platonic kiss on the crown of my head.
“How’s my little Emma? I was worried about you.” His brotherly concern was a little more than annoying.
“No need to worry. I’m not your little sister, you know.”
Awareness flashed in his face for just a moment. “Indeed you are not.”
He placed himself on the sofa and crossed his long legs. “But,” he said, “I didn’t see you at lunch.”
“You know I can’t stomach that dreadful caterer. I had something delivered.”
“As you do every day. But you always eat in my office.”
“That's because I don’t like the food smell to linger in my trailer.”
“I know.” He smiled, “Thanks for bestowing the honour upon my wastebasket.”
“You’re very welcome.”
I’d been taking lunch in Jaxson’s office since he directed my first film. I didn’t know anybody back then, and an artsy twenty-five-year-old director straight out of film school was a heckavalot less intimidating than all the old farts on set. Of course back in those days his ‘office’ was a card table propped up next to a pile of rubbish he called his car. Good times.
“So where did you lunch today, might I ask?”
“In here,” I said evasively. “By myself.”
Jaxson looked around and sniffed like a bird dog. “I don’t detect the usual traces of your pad thai.”
“I had a salad. Couldn’t finish it. The rest is in my mini fridge if you’re hungry.”
He squinted at me suspiciously. He may have winked, but it happened so quickly, I couldn’t be sure.
“What are you up to, Emma?”
“Nothing.” I shrugged.
“Nothing at all?” he pressed.
“Why do you always ask me that?”
“Because you’re the British equivalent of Lucille Ball.”
“And I suppose you’re the Australian Ricky Ricardo?”
This earned me a laugh and a flash of those wonderful teeth. I don’t know what it was about his teeth that endeared me to him so much. I decided it was most likely because they were usually attached to his smile which was warm and comfortable—like a pair of fuzzy socks on a cold night. I have a soft spot for hot cocoa, shortbread bickies, and fuzzy socks. And Jaxson’s smile was a fuzzy sock for my soul.
“I suppose having salad for lunch is highly suspect behaviour?” I asked.
“Avoiding me is highly suspect behaviour,” he said. “You ran away after the last take without a word. So . . . what are you up to, Emma?”
The Mission Impossible theme song played in my head. I would have to use subtlety as my strategy. I would be covert and stealthy and employ shrewd prowess.
I decided early on that Jaxson could never know what I was up to in any of my matchmaking efforts. He took great delight in stifling my creativity on that score. He said I meddled too much. If pressed, I’d say I hadn't the faintest idea what he meant by that. After all, I was ninety-seven percent successful in my previous endeavours. Let’s not talk about the other three percent. Jaxson never did let me live that one down.
But I needed Jaxson to be Randall’s wing man. Even if he wasn’t keen on the idea. Skipping our standing lunch date was only the consequence of spending my free time scoping out the guys in the scene shop. When I saw Randall, I knew he’d be perfect for Annie. Step one: Identify target. Check. Step two: Reconnaissance mission. I needed Jaxson for that.
“Now that you mention it,” I said, “I do have something I wish you could help me with.”
“Aaaand there it is.” He uncrossed his legs and stretched out across the sofa. “Spill it, Emma.”
I had to be very tactful.
“Do you think you could send that Randall fellow into my trailer tomorrow morning? While I’m having my hair done?”
“Randall?” He blinked a few times trying to place the name. “Randall Weston?”
“Weston. Yes. That’s the chap.”
“The artistic director?”
“The very same.”
“Why?” He drew out the word why as if stretching it, like a piece of taffy. Careful, Emma. Tactful and sly. Like a matchmaking IMF agent—a female Ethan Hunt on a happily ever after mission. Doo doo doo doo doo . . .
“I just have some questions about the set, that’s all,” I said. “For historical accuracy.”
“Aaaand you are questioning the historical accuracy of his set? For a steampunk fantasy?” I could tell he was starting to become a little cross.
“Of course not, silly. But I want to be sure of my performance moving about in the space.” I was lousy with excuses.
“Don’t you think you should be asking your director about your acting choices?”
“What do you think I’m doing right now?” I blinked at him beneath layers of make-up on my lashes.
Jaxson cocked his head and stood from the sofa. He placed his towering figure right in front of me, looming over my chair. He gently took my chin in his hand and stared directly into my eyes. His skin was a furnace against my cool face. I think he was trying to read my mind. I’m not entirely sure he wasn’t successful. Maybe that was his superpower.
“What do I think you're doing right now?” he said, narrowing his eyes into half moons.
I nodded as well as I could with my chin in his grasp. I figured doe eyes were my best option at this point. He dropped his hands to his side, leaving my skin bereft of his warmth and walked to the mini fridge, helping himself to my salad.
“I think,” he said quietly, “you are trying to make your director jealous.”
I laughed, stroking my cheeks. “Why on earth would you be jealous?”
“Because you are seeking acting advice from a carpenter.” He began looking through the drawers for something. Probably a plastic fork.
“I am not seeking acting advice from a carpenter,” I said in defense. “I trust you completely.”
He stopped looking in the drawers and stared right at me. “You trust me?” His tone was slightly incredulous.
“Of course I do.” I leaned under my desk and retrieved a package out of my handbag. It was a spork and napkin, but it would do for salad. I handed it to him. “I wouldn’t work on so many films with you if I didn’t. You're my favourite director.”
“Thanks.” He studied my features in open assessment as he accepted the spork. “Do you make a habit of carrying cutlery in your satchel?”
In fact, I did. “You can never be too prepared.”
“I imagine not.” He started toward the door. “I’ll see you on set.”
How did he do that? How did he distract me from my prime objective and almost make me forget my intentions?
Get back on track, Emma.
“So . . . you’ll send him tomorrow?” I pressed.
He stopped with his hand on the door handle. Then he didn’t move like he was thinking of a way to tell me ‘no’. Maybe I was being too obvious.
“At least introduce me, Jax.”
He whipped his head in my direction, and his features darkened. He looked at me like I’d just confessed to eating children.
“You really want to meet Randall?”
I straightened. Resolute. “Yes.”
He frowned. Why was he being so serious? I didn’t like serious Jaxson. I liked funny Jaxson. Cheeky Jaxson. I’d even take condescending, protective, mansplaining Jaxson. So I did my best Lucille Ball impression.
“Please, Ricky?”
That softened him just a little, and as he stepped outside, I caught a glimpse of that warm smile. Fuzzy socks.
“All right, Lucy,” He said. “But you’ve got some ‘splaining to do.”