Page 2

I can’t help my blush. “Have to keep the Christmas spirit alive.”

He nods.

“I’m so excited to work with you!” I clench my fists and grin so hard my face hurts. “We’re going to have so much fun. I mean, we don’t have a lot of scenes together, and even when we do you won’t be talking to me, but justknowingthat ending and how the story unravels, it’s like we’re nottogethertogether, but we’re together, you know?”

His smile wanes and he looks away, searching for an excuse to leave.

I try a different tactic. “I haven’t seen you in anything for a while. You must be excited to get back at it, and with a lead role no less.”

His smile falls to nearly a frown. That was the wrong thing to say.

Before I can think of a redeeming question, all eyes turn to the front of the room. It’s as if July has been captured in a bottle, shaken, and released in concentrated form.

Julia Miles. She’s all long tanned legs, effortless blond waves, and teeth so white they’d glow under a UV light. Not only that, she seems to have some control over gravity, as the entire room is sucked toward her. She graces everyone with her presence in a royal way, her chin lifted and her plush lips opening to a perfectly balanced smile.

Ah. The lead.

While I wasn’t sure how or why they managed to score Oscar Fizak, I know exactly why they cast Julia Miles—and it’s not because of her acting experience. I’m pretty sure she’s only ever been in a toothpaste commercial before this, hence the white teeth. But damn, she’s got “effortless beauty” down.

“Hello everyone,” she sings, the melodic lilt of her voice carrying easily through the room. If she’s not careful we might be inundated with small forest creatures.

I can’t help but sigh, just as enraptured by her presence as the rest of us peasants.

“Anyway, Oscar—” I start after picking my jaw up off the floor and turning back to him.

But it’s too late. I’ve lost him. His eyes have gone glassy as he gazes upon his co-star, and I’m sure there’s at least 10 percent less blood in his brain than there was five minutes ago. I guess this conversation is over.

Yueyi and Marlene’s attention has also been taken over by Julia’s presence, the director now moving through the crowd to help her find her station. Not that she needs the help—Julia’s name is clearly visible in bold lettering.

“Marlene, sorry, but where do I...?” I venture, unsure if I’ve simply missed my sign.

“Oh, darling, you’re over there.” She points with a talon.

“Great. Thank you!”

There is no sign; my station is bare.Where is my makeup artist?I set down my purse and settle into my chair, with nothing to do but look past my reflection to the hubbub behind me. Julia is being fawned over, her hair and makeup alreadyunderway, while Marlene grips her forearm with those talons of hers and Yueyi flips through the script. Oscar is seated next to Julia, stealing glances even though his makeup artist keeps poking at him to close his eyes. Another actress I don’t have scenes with, Aimee Ladams, has joined them now, too. All three of them are lined up at their stations, smiling and laughing together while they’re prepped.

There’s a tinge of pain in the centre of my chest. It’s small, but it’s there. An unsettled feeling that—once again—I’m on the wrong side of the room. I should be over there, flirting with my co-star, going over our lines, blushing about our kissing scene, living out a pretend whirlwind romance and getting that coveted happily-ever-after. Instead, I’m here, watching from the sidelines.

Always the supporting character, never the star.

A duffel bag thunks down next to me, startling me out of my pity party. I give myself a shake and smile brightly at the person who’s just approached. Their skin is white with a pinkish hue, and while their height and envious curves catch my first impression, I’m also drawn to their hair. It’s shaved on one side, poofed up through the centre with wild curls, and is coloured a mix between white-blond and teal. And their makeup, my god—it’s flawlessly applied with swooping eyeliner, a deep burgundy lipstick, and contouring that would garner RuPaul’s approval. Aside from the hair and lipstick, their wardrobe is otherwise entirely black, from the pants ripped at the knees to the camisole hugging their enviable breasts.

“Hi, I’m Ellie! My pronouns are she/her. What’s your name?”

They meet my gaze with a bored expression. “Mariah. She/her.”

“Ooh, named after the Queen of Christmas herself!”

Mariah’s brow pinches together, but otherwise she ignores the clever connection. “I’m your makeup artist and hair stylist.”

“Nice, a two-for-one deal.” I giggle at myself, but my joke doesn’t earn even a twitch of a smile from my new friend.

She unzips her duffel bag and bends, rifling through it.

I fidget in my seat. “Have you ever worked on a movie set before?”

“Nope,” she replies, not even looking up.