Page 10 of Astrid Parker Doesn't Fail

“Simon, it’s so wonderful to meet you.” Natasha clasped his hand in both of hers, then turned to Pru. “And this must be Pru Everwood. It’s an honor. I’ve long admired your inn.”

“Oh, thank you so much, dear,” Pru said.

“And may I just say,” Natasha said, “your glasses, that sweater.” She held both of Pru’s hands out, taking in her outfit. “Classic.”

Pru beamed. “I try to keep up with these two,” she said, elbowing Jordan, who had come up next to her grandmother.

“I can see that’s a tall order,” Natasha said, shaking Jordan’s hand.

Astrid dutifully waited her turn, smoothing her black pants as surreptitiously as possible as Natasha turned toward her.

“That leaves our intrepid designer!” Natasha said.

“Yes, hi, Astrid Parker,” Astrid said, proud when her voice came out smooth and even. Years of etiquette training as a girl—literally, there were lessons conducted by a pinched-mouthed woman named Mildred—had prepared her for moments like this. “I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Natasha narrowed her eyes, but not in an unfriendly way. “I’m excited to see what you have in store for us, Astrid.”

And with that, Natasha turned to the person standing next to her. “This is Emery, our brilliant producer.”

“Hey, great to meet you all,” Emery said. “They/them.”

“Good to know,” Jordan said, shaking Emery’s hand. They were Black, with a halo of dark curls around their face, and wore jeans, a soft-looking green sweater, and rugged brown boots. “She/her.” Jordan pointed to her chest.

“He/him,” Simon said, grasping Emery’s hand as well. “Nice to meet you.”

Pru also shared her pronouns (she/her), as did Natasha (she/her). Astrid almost felt redundant when she smiled at Emery and said “she/her,” which was ridiculous. A person’s pronouns were their pronouns, but the storm in her belly had her questioning every word.

“Okay, so a few logistics,” Emery said as crew members went in and out of the inn to search for the best lighting for the first scene, which would feature Astrid sharing her design plan with the Everwoods.“We’ll take a look around first, get acquainted with the space. At some point in the next few days, we want to shoot the Everwoods, Natasha, and Astrid meeting as if for the first time. I know it’s tedious, but it’s an important opener for the show.”

“But that will be the only inauthentic scene,” Natasha said. “After that, your goal is to act as though there aren’t at least four people at any given time standing in the room with you, pointing lights and cameras in your face.”

“Should be a piece of cake,” Jordan said sardonically.

Natasha laughed. “It takes some getting used to, but just focus on your work, and you’ll be fine. Don’t worry about messing up. If you stumble over your words, just start over like you would in any situation. If you drop something, pick it up. We want real people doing real work here. Humor is a must. Plus, editing exists for a reason.”

Astrid nodded along, her mind whirling. Humor was a must? She wasn’t exactly known for her jokes. Oh, god, this was real. This was actually happening. And so quickly. She knew they were filming today, but after the morning she’d had, afterJordan, she’d kill for a few hours to regroup.

Hours she clearly wasn’t going to get.

“Shall we take a quick tour while the crew sets up?” Natasha said, holding her arm out to Pru.

“Of course,” Pru said, looping her hand around the inside of Natasha’s elbow. The two of them started toward the house, Emery and Simon trailing behind them.

Astrid hung back for a second so her usual brisk walk wouldn’t overtake them. Plus, she could use a second to get her thoughts organized, her emotions in check.

And there were a lot of emotions. The altercation outside Wake Up flashed in her mind again, threatening to overwhelm her. She couldn’t believe her luck. Or lack of luck, rather. Of all people. Of all jobs. And now here was Natasha Rojas, looking every bit the gorgeous goddessAstrid always knew she was, Emery all collected and cool, people dressed in black carrying cameras.

It was very nearly too much.

But Astrid could handle too much. She could handle anything. She had to.

She took in a slow, deep breath through her nose, just like Hilde, her therapist, had taught her. Held it in her lungs for four, released it over a count of eight. She was about to repeat the process, just one more time, when she realized Jordan had not moved toward the house with the crew and her family. Instead, she was leaning against her battered truck, arms folded over her chest.

“That helping?” she asked.

“Is what helping?” Astrid asked.

“The breathing.”