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We’d finished eating, and without a mundane task to keep me busy, I’d found myself growing restless. Unaware I’d even done it, I looked down to see I’d folded the paper takeout bag into a tiny crooked triangle.

The night before, I’d spent the whole evening hoping she’d ask me about my work—but now that she had, I was right back to square one—having no clue what to actually say.

“It’s, um—I don’t know, not as glamorous as one might expect.” I considered what lay ahead: The long hours on set. The sleepless nights. The stress. The hurry up and wait. The public scrutiny. The extreme highs. The inevitable lows. And those were just the things I knew to worry about. I wasn’t so naive tobe unaware I hadn’t even scratched the surface of the Pandora’s box I was about to open.

My last film had been shot in the sweltering basement of a rundown apartment building in the middle of summer. I’d spent three weeks on the project and earned just enough to cover two months rent. The producer had been a nightmare. The director high on oxy. I’d walked in to find my other three cast members having a threesome on the mildewed couch featured in the majority of our scenes.

Yeah, glamorous wasn’t the word for it.

If she asked me the same question this time next year, I might have a different opinion.

However, if I wanted to look on the bright side, there was at least one thing of which I was certain: Dillon hadn’t seen any of my crappy movies. And I felt pretty confident, unlike me, she was no internet stalker. I doubted my name would pop up in her search history. She knew nothing about me, and the anonymity was refreshing.

“Half the time I think I should have stuck with my original plan and majored in Marine Biology.” I didn’t volunteer the petty reason I’d stubbornly slogged through five lackluster years in Hollywood was primarily due to being unwilling to concede to my parents’—mymom’s, more specifically—belief that my life would have been more fulfilling outside of the entertainment industry. Code for:you should have gotten a degree.

“Even though studying the mating rituals of killer whales sounds interesting, I have to say, I can’t see it having panned out in your favor.”

I feigned offense. “Why? I may have made an excellent cetacean sex expert!”

She laughed. “Perhaps. But it would never have worked out for you.”

“How so?”

She lifted one dark blonde eyebrow, as if it should have been obvious. “You’re made for movies.”

“You haven’t even seen my work.” It came out defensive and I regretted it. She’d been trying to compliment me. But I had grown jaded to the subject. I was so tired of being told by men three times my age “you’re perfect for the screen.” And then being forced to smile and nod as they discussed my ‘look,’ my body, the symmetry of my face, the unfortunate unchangeable reality that my eyes were brown, and then the inevitable circle back to the most important aspect: I was pretty enough,hotenough—God, how I hated that word—to overlook the minor things. Heels could make me taller. Makeup sexier. Scriptwriting funnier.Don’t worry, they would handle the rest.

If Dillon was thrown by my affront, she gave no sign. “I don’t need to. Anyone could see why you’d succeed.” She drew her legs up, sitting crosslegged, and propped her elbows on her knees. “I have no doubt you captivate an audience.”

And here it was.

“And why’s that?” I waited for the disappointing cliché. Instead, she surprised me.

“Because you’re unique. Because there’s so much more to you than meets the eye. You’re magnetic. Smart. Funny. Clever. Shall I go on?”

The answer was so genuine, I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to find a glib response to offset how touched I was by the compliment, but I came up with nothing.

And then panic struck. She hadn’t mentioned I was pretty. Did that mean she didn’t find me attractive?

Once again, as if reading my mind, she cut me off from my ridiculous carousel of conflicting emotions.

“You’re the complete package, Kam-Kameryn. Far more than just a pretty face. And while I realize I’m no expert in filmmaking, I imagine all that counts for something.”

Oh.

I found I had to swallow, and became suddenly fascinated with my fingers that had turned from folding to shredding.

“Is that what you tell all the girls you invite to dinner?”

“Only the ones so desperate to get my attention they hit me with their car.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, and when I looked up she reached to set her hand on mine, stilling the nervous busy work of my fingers. It was impossible for her to have not felt the aerobics of my cardiac endeavors. My pulse felt like it was going to jump out of my skin—go on a walk of its own.

“Relax, Kam.”

I closed my eyes. I loved the way my name sounded in the lilt of her voice. I tried to exhale.

Relax.