Jed cringed inwardly as the young man on the stage fumbled through his lines. It wasn’t just that he mumbled, or that he seemed to have an aversion to maintaining eye contact. Wasn’t even his strange attire, though his trench-coat-over-skinny-jeans look didn’t help any. What got him instantly crossed off Jed’s callback list was the high-pitched snort he made every time he messed up. Every. Single. Time.
He and Shannon, the friend helping him screen potential talent, exchanged glances. Her quivering mouth indicated she struggled to maintain a straight face. That made it all the harder for him to do the same.
He coughed a few times to cover a laugh. “Thanks for coming in.”
“Can I try it one more time?”
“Sorry, but we’ve got a lot of folks waiting in the lobby.” True enough. “We wish you luck with your acting career.” One of his cast members was leaving at the end of her contract terms, which was soon, and he needed to find a replacement.
Hopefully the next applicant—he glanced at her sheet—Amber, would do better. At least she had some experience, though mostly from high school productions.
“Um, Jed?”
He looked up. Paige stood a few feet away; her posture was rigid, and her chin jutted forward, as if she were bracing for a fight. The vulnerability peeking beneath her hard exterior drew him. She clutched a leather portfolio under her arm.
“Hey.” He stood and tipped his hat with a nod.
Had she come to audition? Did this mean she didn’t want the script-writing gig? How’d she hear about the casting call?
He’d never thought of her as an actress. Matter of fact, he couldn’t picture her standing on a stage, in front of anyone, let alone a room full of watching eyes.
He crossed the room to meet her. “Did you...uh...fill out an information sheet?”
She frowned. “An application, you mean?”
“You could call it that. It gives us an overview, lets us know your experience, availability, that sort of thing. We can’t make a decision till we see you in action.” He hated sounding so formal, especially when he’d been so quick to offer her a job. But this was different. He needed to know she could act before they talked terms.
“You mean read some of my writing samples?” She opened her leather binder and pulled out a few sheets of paper. “I haven’t created much fiction since high school, but I wrote a short story, a romance, over the weekend.” Her gaze dropped, and the most endearing pink blossomed on her cheeks. “I hope that’s okay.”
He studied the typed pages with a furrowed brow. “So...you’re not here for the auditions?”
Her eyes widened, and the color in her face deepened. “What? No! I’m here about the script-writing job. That is, if you still want me.”
He did, and that worried him. How much of his job offer had been based on emotion? On feelings he had no business entertaining? Then again, it was Grandma’s idea, not his. “I...uh...” As much as he wanted to see her involved, he needed to watch how he phrased things until he had a chance to check out her writing. He turned to Shannon. “I hate to keep our potential talent waiting.”
“I can handle the auditions for a bit.”
“I’d appreciate that.” He shifted toward Paige. “How ’bout we head back to my office to talk.”
She studied him for a moment before giving a quick nod, and then she followed him down a side hall to the tiny dark room that housed his desk and files. Entering, he flicked on a light, set his hat on the rack and opened a metal folding chair that was propped against the wall.
“Have a seat.”
She did. He rounded his desk to do the same and set her document in front of him. He sensed her eyes on him as he read.
Her first sample, a short story, was a romantic comedy about a girl who introduced herself to the wrong man while on a blind date, only to discover the truth during supper. The next few pieces looked like they’d been pulled from various magazines. One explained numerous uses for coconut oil, and the other what to wear with which heel height. A third piece discussed different ways to shape one’s nails.
He regarded her with a raised brow. Paige Cordell, the girl who once wanted to start a worm farm to sell to local fishermen, interested in glitz and glam? Then again, she had worked as a fashion writer. Apparently she’d changed more than he’d realized. As had he, hopefully for the better. More than anything, he wanted her to know that. To open herself up enough to get to know him again.
Maybe even...
He gave himself a firm mental shake. A work relationship and a rebuilt friendship—those he could handle. Trying for anything more would only complicate things.
He studied her as she sat tall and stiff with her hands folded in her lap. But her large pupils surrounded by her wide blue irises and rapid blinking contradicted her confident demeanor.
The woman was so beautiful. And smart, talented, determined...
That ex-husband of hers had been a fool to let her go.
He tidied her papers into a neat stack. “You’re very gifted. Always have been.”
“Thanks.”
“So, here’s what I’m looking for.” He explained his theme to her. “Everything needs to be scripted, including my introduction, jokes and all. I’d like help with blogging, too. You comfortable with that?”
She nodded. “I’ve done humor. My blog alternates between satirical and straight-up comedy.”
“True.”
She angled her head. “You’ve read it?”
“I...uh... A little.” Heat climbed his neck. “What’s your price point?”
“Depends on how you want to do it—pay for the manuscript or have me on staff. You’d mentioned something about me helping with other stuff, like press releases or whatever.”
Did that mean she planned to stick around? “How about we start with the script and go from there? We can work together some.” The idea appealed to him more than it should have. “I’ll share my vision, let you know what’s feasible as far as set requests—that sort of thing. Then I’ll read your first draft—I’d need it pretty quick. Like, in ten days. Sooner, if you can swing it.” That way his cast could prepare for the grand reopening.
“How many words are we talking?”
“Scripts usually run about fifty pages, depending on choreography.”
“I can do that.”
“I’ll probably want revisions.”
“Of course.”
“Plus I’d like your help for unexpected, midproduction changes, like if one of our cast members gets sick and I can’t find a backup, or audience response isn’t what we’d hoped.”
“I’ll need an advance.”
“A what?”
“Payment up front.”
“Oh.” But what happened if he paid her and she didn’t deliver? Or got mad and stormed out halfway through the draft?
She’d never do that to his grandmother. Even so, this wasn’t something he could jump into blindly. He’d need some help figuring out the legalities of it all.
“Send me an email, letting me know how much you’d like to get paid.” He handed her a business card, which she tucked into the flap of her portfolio. “I’ll review your request and write up a formal contract, see if we can come to an agreement.”
“Sounds reasonable.”
He walked her out, feeling much too excited about the prospect of working with her. A man couldn’t allow emotions to get tangled up in business matters. But so long as he kept things professional, he was sure that everything would work out fine.
Early the next afternoon, Paige sat in a booth at Wilma’s Kitchen, a small diner with a working jukebox, red booths and checked linoleum floors. About the only modern thing about the place were the flat-screen televisions mounted in opposite corners. That and the playing cards tacked to the ceiling.
Two women Paige had gone to school with entered—one with a toddler, and the other a baby carrier. Upon seeing Paige, their faces lit up, and they hurried to her table. Paige stood to greet them.
“It was so good to see you Sunday!” Rissa, the taller of the two, gave Paige a hug. “I meant to get your phone number so we could do coffee or a playdate.”
Paige pulled a pen from her purse, wrote down her contact info and handed it over. “How old’s your little guy?”
“Two and a half.”
“Not far behind my Ava.”
“So it is possible to survive the terrible twos, then?” Holding her son by the wrist, she gave the squirming tyke a look of mock exaggeration.
Paige laughed. “So long as you have plenty of reinforcements.”
“I do have that.” Rissa hip bumped her friend, a girl two years Paige’s junior. “The three of us should totally get together.”
Paige smiled. “I’d like that. Mind if I invite my friend Mira to come along?”
“Of course not.” Rissa’s friend shifted her baby carrier to her other hand. “The more the merrier. You want to join us for lunch?”
“I’m waiting for someone, but thanks.”
“Oh, yeah?” Rissa glanced toward the door. “Who?”
Heat climbed Paige’s neck. “Jed Gilbertson.”
Rissa’s eyebrows shot up, and a slight smile emerged. “I see.”
Ah, small-town life. She could just imagine how quickly rumors would circulate. “To talk about theater scripts.”
Rissa gave a slow nod that indicated she was less than convinced, though Paige rambled on about random particulars to prove her claims. Soon the conversation shifted to nap times, cartoons and motherhood in general.
After a few minutes more of small talk, the ladies excused themselves to a vacant table near the back.
Paige was left to nervously sip an iced tea while she waited for Jed to show up for their scheduled meeting. What was she thinking? How in the world could she work with the man when a simple glance fired up her pulse? But she needed the money, and Mrs. Tappen needed her. At least, that was what Mom kept telling her.
Based on Jed’s rapid response to the email she sent the night before, Mom’s words appeared to be true enough. Paige had messaged him with a payment figure almost as soon as she’d gotten home. It’d taken Jed less than twenty-four hours to set up a lunch meeting to discuss her potential contract.
He had indicated a fast turnaround time, which could work in her favor, should he try to squeeze her.
But he wouldn’t. He wasn’t a user. Never had been.
With her legs crossed, she jiggled her foot, and her eyes were trained on the window, to the street beyond. She couldn’t seriously be nervous. Not to meet Jed Gilbertson.
She was about to make a dash for the restroom when her phone rang. Mira. “Hey, thanks for calling me back.”
“What’s up? You sounded sort of panicked in your message.”
“I’m about to meet with Jed.” She filled her in on the details.
“Oh. The two of you reconnected, then? How’d that go?”
“Smashing. Unemployed girl begs her ex-boyfriend for a job and lands herself a heartache waiting to happen.”
“You still love him, don’t you?” A child whined in the background.
“No. Yes. Maybe.” She sighed. “I don’t know. I shouldn’t. But I really need the money.”
“So, now what?”
“Woman up? Act like the functioning adult I am? Then douse my highly unstable emotions in a tub of chocolate frosting.”
“You’ll invite me to join you for that last one, right?”
“Only if you bring your own tub.”
“Which begs the question—when were you going to ask me to lunch?” The whining on Mira’s end had turned into a wail. “Listen, I hate to do this, but I gotta go. The troops are getting restless.”
“I understand.” She ended the call in time to see Jed heading her way. Carrying a manila folder, he wore a navy shirt and faded blue jeans, and was clean-shaven.
Had he shaved for her?
Of course not. The man did pick up a razor every once in a while.
His easy smile made her heart jump. “Howdy.” He removed his hat and raked a hand through his dark hair.
She cleared her throat. “Hi.” She took a sip of her tea while Sally Jo, the waitress, relayed the daily specials.
When she left, Jed opened his folder, pulled out a document and slid it toward her.
The contract. “Thanks.” She glanced over the first page. “You drafted this up in a hurry.”
“Asked a family friend who’s a lawyer to write it up. I think it’s fair for both of us.”
“Your dad didn’t help you?”
“Nope.”
Apparently things were still tense between them. Did they talk at all, or had he and his dad become near strangers? It wasn’t her business. Besides, her empathy for Jed wouldn’t help her maintain a safe emotional distance.
She returned her attention to the document and studied the amount offered for the script. The terms said he’d pay half up front, and the rest once she delivered the first draft, as well as royalties based on sales thereafter.
She turned the page. “For marketing pieces, I get paid by the word?”
He nodded.
The wage was less than she’d anticipated. Because he and Mrs. Tappen didn’t have more to give, or because he wasn’t aware of the going rate for writers? Then again, she only knew how much freelancers in Chicago got paid.
He scratched the back of his neck. “We’d love to offer you more, but we just don’t have it.”
“I see.”
Sally Jo reappeared, chatted a bit, took their orders and then left.
An awkward silence followed.
Obviously Jed was taking on the bigger risk here. Besides, she wouldn’t just be working for him. Every dime she earned would be coming from Mrs. Tappen’s account, too.
She considered that and the contract terms while they waited for their food. She didn’t want to appear overly anxious. It wasn’t as though she had anything better to do, except gather more article rejections. Plus she truly wanted to help his grandmother out. As much as the thought of working with Jed knotted Paige’s stomach—and sparked confusing emotions—it was the right thing to do.
She rummaged through her purse for a pen. “Seems fair enough.” Not as much as she’d hoped, but enough to secure her spot at the writers’ conference. She initialed where indicated and then signed.
“Your turn.” She pushed the document toward him.
His boyish grin halted her breath. “Looking forward to working with you.” His dark, penetrating eyes searched hers, as if he wanted to say more.
“Yes, well...” She fumbled for her drink.
She needed to find a way to get hired on somewhere permanent. In a city with nice restaurants, lots to do, and with lots of potential stories, fashion or otherwise, to write on. Because the longer she stayed in Sage Creek, the greater the threat of heartbreak.