Reel: A Forbidden Hollywood Romance

“So let’s save those scenes for later,” Jill says the next morning, “because the sun will be highest. I think that’ll be our best light.”

Kenneth and I nod. When it comes to cinematography, light, and composition, I defer to Jill. There aren’t many people I defer to on . . . well, anything, but Jill knows her craft in the way you’d be crazy not to trust her.

Evan walks into the cottage we’ve designated as our command station of sorts. Lines of strain bracket his mouth, which is not unusual when we’re in the final stretch of a movie, but he shoots me a wary look that makes me wonder what’s up.

“Hey, guys,” he says, pulling up a chair and joining us at the table. “We need to talk before the day starts.”

“Okay.” I lean back and link my hands over my stomach. “Shoot.”

“It’s about Neevah.”

The air tightens in the room instantly, for obvious reasons.

One.

She’s the star of this movie and in just about every scene. When something goes wrong with Neevah, it affects the entire production.

Two.

She’s my girl. And if there’s something going on with Neevah, shouldn’t I already know about it?

“What about Neevah?” Kenneth asks, as if number two is not a consideration.

“She texted me wanting to talk last night,” Evan says, leaning forward.

“What time?” I demand, because I talked to Neevah last night, if only for a few minutes.

“I don’t remember. Maybe nine? Does it matter?”

Hell, yeah, it does.

“No,” I say. “So what’s up?”

“You know a few days ago she had to get some bloodwork done for her dermatologist,” he continues. “Well, when she got back to her room last night, the doctor had left a message for her with the results.”

My teeth clamp together to the point of discomfort. My jaw must be about to shatter. This cannot be good, and I’m bracing myself not to explode all over my team when Evan says whatever the hell he’s taking forever to tell us.

“The skin condition Neevah has is discoid lupus,” Evan says, looking up when Jill gasps. “Discoid lupus isn’t life-threatening. You’re probably thinking of systemic lupus, like I did at first. Neevah had to explain the difference to me.”

“Oh.” Jill touches her chest, closing her eyes. “Thank God.”

“But,” Evan says, shifting his eyes to me, “they’re concerned that Neevah may be in the middle of or approaching a flare-up.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I demand, my voice sounding like it’s being strained by a cheese grater.

“Apparently her levels—don’t ask me for all the acronyms she gave me. ANA, WBC, all kinds of letters and tests—are all off. They’re especially concerned about her elevated creatinine levels.”

“And that indicates what?” Kenneth asks.

“Um, maybe not much. She starts a new prescription today, which they hope will level things out, but I guess the combination of what they saw across the panel has them concerned about her kidneys. They want to biopsy her kidney as soon as possible.”

Biopsy her kidney.

Lupus.

Life-threatening.

Even though he said discoid lupus is not life-threatening, it’s apparent the doctor doesn’t like the direction this is headed.

“This shouldn’t affect production today,” Evan continues. “But in a few days, when she goes in for the biopsy—”

I stand abruptly, the action scraping the chair across the hardwood floor and cutting Evan off.

“Fuck you,” I tell him, my eyes narrowed. “You find this out and you don’t tell me? And then you speed right past this information like I’m supposed to—”

“I knew you were on a run with the props team and—”

“And so you just neglected to tell me at the absolute earliest moment that my girlfriend has lupus and needs a biopsy on her kidneys?”

“If you check your phone, you’ll see I tried calling you,” he says in that even tone I hate, like he’s reasoning with me when I’m being unreasonable. “You didn’t answer, and I got caught up taking care of some issues this morning before we had a chance to talk.”

He runs an agitated hand through his hair. “Maybe the real problem you have,” Evan grinds out, “is that she didn’t tell you, and that is something you’ll have to take up with your girlfriend later. My job is to make sure this disrupts the movie we’ve spent two years and millions of dollars on as little as possible, which is why she came to me and not you. She understands that.”

“Well, I don’t understand,” I fire back, heading toward the door. “Guys, I think we were just about done anyway. As Evan has so effectively reported, Neevah’s medical condition shouldn’t affect shooting today. We’ll figure out tomorrow.”

“And where are you going?” Evan asks, his tone sharp as a new blade.

“Motherfucker, where you think I’m going?”

I stomp out of the room and take a few paces before realizing I am stomping and probably scowling, based on the concerned looks of the cast and crew. My steps slow and then stop, right in the middle of our 1930s French Riviera. I let all the information I just heard sink in. My fists are clenched at my sides. My chest heaves from the effort of walking and breathing. I hate being in the dark and I hate being out of control, and this shit with Neevah is too much of both.

I need to know everything.

I start with hair and makeup, but she’s not in the tent they’ve set up for the crew. Takira is, though, trimming a wig on a mannequin. She looks up, smiling when she sees me approaching. She must not know, or she doesn’t want me to know. I don’t care to figure out why she’s smiling. After hearing Evan tell me about Neevah, I need to hear it from her and no one else.

“Where is she?” I ask, unable to summon manners.

Takira’s smile slips, but a teasing glint enters her eye, like we have a secret. We do not have a secret. Everyone knows I’m sprung for Neevah. I’ve failed at concealing that fact.

“Wardrobe,” Takira answers. “’Bout five minutes ago.”

“Thanks,” I mutter tersely, heading for the hard-topped tent I searched yesterday. This time, I find her. She’s standing in a floor-length gold dress embellished with sequined orchids. It molds to her upper body, faithfully follows the curves of her breasts and waist and hips. It shimmers across the rich hue of her skin like gold dust, and she’s laughing down at Linh, who’s on her knees with pins in her mouth, grinning while she adjusts something on the costume. Joy—there’s no other way to describe it—lights Neevah’s face. Her laugh rings out like a chime and her head is thrown back, like she’s giving herself completely over to the moment she’s in right now. Like besides doing what she loves most, she doesn’t have a care in the world.

But I do.

And as much as I’ve given this movie, as much as I care about it, right now, all I care about is her.

I enter the tent and her smile falters. Our eyes hold, and we’re both searching. For someone who can usually read her as easily as the alphabet, I have no idea what she’s thinking. And I need to.

“Linh,” I say. “Could you excuse us for a second?”

Linh glances over her shoulder, seeing me for the first time, and rises gracefully. She carries herself with such dignity and a quiet strength. What is she doing married to a guy like Law Stone?

“I’ll be back to check this,” Linh says, “before the first scene.”

“It’s gorgeous,” Neevah tells her. “I’m honored to wear it.”

Linh’s expression, typically impassive, reveals uncharacteristic enthusiasm and pride. “I think it’s my favorite dress I’ve ever designed.”

“It looks incredible,” I add, smiling at her. “Great job.”

She inclines her head indicating her thanks, and then leaves Neevah and me alone.

Simply seeing her takes some of the edge off my frustration and anger. She has fighter’s eyes. The force of her personality, that undimming light, was one of the first things I noticed about her.

“Where is everybody?” I ask, walking deeper into the space. “Isn’t it usually kinda crazy in here with so many extras?”

“Uh, yeah. They’re down on the beach already. There’s so many background actors for these scenes, it’s easier for Linh’s team to do some things on set instead of cramming everyone in here.” She looks at me squarely, almost defiantly. “I suppose Evan told you.”

When I reach her, I take her hands, stroke the line of script along her thumb.

“Gotta admit,” I say with a chuckle, void of humor. “I was kinda thinking I should have known before Evan did.”

“I get that.” She slips her finger out to mirror my caress, running her fingertip along my thumb, too. “But when the rest of the cast has issues that would affect filming, they don’t usually start with the director. They start with Evan, and—”

“I’m not dating the rest of the cast.” My words fall between us, and her fingers tighten on mine.

“We have to maintain some professional distance,” she says, looking down, lashes wispy against her cheeks.

I grip her hips and pull her into me, aligning our bodies, shaping her curves to my hardness. I lay my forehead to hers. “This is all the distance you get.”

“Canon,” she whispers, bracketing my face, running her thumb over my mouth. “I don’t want to mess this up.”

“Mess us up? You won’t. I just need you to be honest with me. Hearing this from Evan? Not cool.”

She laughs, her breath misting my lips. “I meant mess up your movie.”

“Of course I care about the movie, but I’m a lot more concerned about you right now. Lupus, baby?”

“I didn’t want to use that word in the beginning because people don’t know enough about it, and they make assumptions, make judgments. Yes, I get rashes and have hair loss, but I’ve been managing this naturally. It’s never affected my work.”

“But Evan says you may be having a flare-up? And they’re concerned about your kidneys? That sounds more serious.”

She licks her lips and nods. “It could be. My doctor prescribed prednisone, which I’ve been able to do without until now. It’s a steroid that suppresses the immune system’s response. One of the PAs is picking it up for me from the pharmacist. I’ll start taking it today.”

“And that will fix whatever’s going on?”

“I don’t . . . I don’t know. The biopsy . . .” She closes her eyes, drops her head to my chest. “We’ll know more after the biopsy. I get that in a few days. Evan said you guys can work around it and shoot other stuff, or shoot rear shots with my stand-in.” A wry smile tips one corner of her mouth. “I’m still not used to having a stand-in after being someone else’s for so long.”

“Don’t worry about us. We’ll figure out the filming. Worry about you, about this.” I hesitate over the next question, lifting her chin so I can read those beautiful eyes. “Are you scared?”

She loops her arms behind my neck and burrows into my shoulder. After a few seconds, she nods. I walk us over to one of the couches, sit down, and pull her onto my lap, stroking her back as she takes deep breaths in my arms.

“We don’t have time for this,” she says unevenly. “We need to—”

“I’m making time.” I pull back to peer into her face. Her eyes are dry, but wide and uncertain. “I’m the boss, remember?”

She laughs and leans against me again, splaying her hand over my chest.

“So, this biopsy—do you want me to go with you?”

“No. Takira will, besides you’re needed here.”

“Neevah, come on.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s just a biopsy. Not that big a deal.” She stands, reaching down to pull me up from the couch. “Now can we get to work? We got a long day ahead.”

“You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m doing the job I love with the man I . . .” She bites her lip and blows out a short laugh. “The amazing man I’m dating.”

The man I love.

I wanted her to say it. I wanted her to put words to this thing that was planted in me the first night I saw her onstage and has grown little by little ever since until now it’s full-blown. Those aren’t words I ever thought I would want to hear from a woman, much less consider saying them myself. But I find that I do. Not when two hundred people are waiting for us. Not when we have biopsies hanging over our heads. Not when things are this crazy.

But when the time is right, I do want to hear it from her.

And I do want to say it.