Page 10 of Love At First Fright

“F ucking men,” Rosemary huffed, falling back onto her bed, freshly showered after her fall in the pool.

Everything had been going so well; she’d had hours before dinner, had just relaxed onto the pool float and opened her book where the sea-cave explorers came upon a nest of killer mermaids, when Ellis fucking Finch had thrown her overboard into the water.

She hadn’t even had time to read a single page and now her book was ruined.

She’d tried to blow-dry it, but the damage was done.

All she’d wanted was a little quiet time before the big dinner tonight and Ellis had to interrupt with his stupid gorgeous face and disgustingly sexy body.

No man should look like that, it wasn’t fair.

Packed muscle, sculpted shoulders, probably built through years of training, and a few scars (she wondered what from) across his upper chest. Said chest was of course perfectly peppered with dark hair that trailed scandalously down to the deep V just above his shorts.

His dark hair was short, and when he raked a hand through it, her gaze caught on the flex of his biceps.

Ellis’s resting expression was studious, serious, until he broke out in a small smile, his eyes crinkling with roguish charm. Even when she felt he was laughing at her, Rosemary found herself fighting the urge to smile back—it was infectious.

Ellis looked exactly like a Hollywood leading man should, except—and this was the truly infuriating part for Rosemary—he also looked like a man she might have met in a small town who owned a farm or a garden shop. Ellis Finch could probably wear the hell out of a plaid shirt.

But a 10/10 body did not make up for an annoying-as-hell, asshole personality. She wasn’t sure what made her so gripey about Ellis, but whatever it was, he aggravated her, and knowing that she was going to be stuck with him on this shoot and in her movie only made it worse.

Rosemary dried herself off and pulled on a sleek green dress.

It brought out the warmth of her hair and made the ink of her tattoos pop.

She rubbed a little more shea butter on her arms, one that Nour, Dina’s mother, had concocted for her.

She wasn’t even sure if it was magic, although Nour was a witch, too, but it certainly made her feel like a million bucks.

And made her smell like cocoa and neroli.

She applied some fresh makeup, going with a warm smoky look to complement her brown eyes, and a red-wine lip.

Rosemary eyed herself in the mirror. She didn’t need Ellis, or anyone, to make her feel small tonight. They were only here because of her. She’d let them know exactly who Rosemary Shaw was.

A text buzzed on her phone.

How’s the view, sweetpea, the text read, from her dad. It was a tradition of theirs since she’d moved out to go to college. She snapped a photo of the Thames, with all the evening strollers and old-fashioned streetlamps setting the river aglow.

Not too shabby, she replied, sending the photo.

Her dad replied with two photos: one was a screenshot of the bird sound recording app he’d downloaded, showing a few birds he’d recorded recently and feeding into his daughter’s obsession with ornithology; the second was of the barn, where there was a litter of three black-and-white kittens and a smaller ginger kitten all curled up together on a heating pad.

You win! she replied. Where did you find them? Cuties!

Another photo came through with the kittens drinking from small baby bottles. Found them in the barn, no mama. Going to keep them, good for getting rid of mice.

Rosemary felt a sudden pang of homesickness for her dad and her childhood home.

Her parents had moved out to the farm soon after her nana died, to open their flower farm and pumpkin patch.

Even when her mama had gotten sick, they refused to move back towards civilisation, they both loved the open space too much.

Her mama was buried out there now, beneath her favourite cherry tree, so she could lie beneath them in the sunlight.

She was glad her dad had the kittens to keep him occupied until she came to visit.

Not that he needed more to do, what with running the farm and participating in the village book club.

Sometimes Rosemary thought about moving home to be closer to her dad, and she had asked him once if he would like that. After a long pause, Russell Shaw had told his daughter that she should only come home if it was for her and not for him.

Are you going to name them? she texted.

Only if I think of something good, otherwise you can name them when you come visit. Still coming after the shoot is done, for Christmas? She could almost hear the worry in his voice-over text.

I’m still coming, Dad. Wouldn’t miss it.

Seen any ghosts? came the reply.

Her dad knew she could see ghosts. When Rosemary turned thirteen, she’d decided to tell her parents, though neither of them had seemed surprised.

As it turned out, her mama knew her own mother had been able to see the dead, and Rosemary wasn’t very good at whispering when she was chatting to invisible people.

But just as her nana had instructed her, her parents had told her not to tell anyone other than the people she trusted the most.

A couple. London is an old city.

Be careful.

I will. See you soon. Love you, Dad x

Love you, sweetpea, he signed off.

Heart feeling a little fuller, Rosemary shut the door to her room.

She made her way down to the cast and crew dinner. She didn’t know what to expect; would the vibe be similar to the meeting, or would it have a more relaxed air? Would people bring their significant others, assuming most of them were in London?

“Dinner is in the library, madam,” said a fancily tailored butler, indicating she should follow him through the foyer. What a strange world she had stepped into, a world where butlers called her madam. In this dress, she certainly earned it.

The library was one of the most beautiful rooms she’d ever seen.

Chiefly because of the books. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, each one hand carved in dark cherrywood, lined the walls, and she even spotted a ladder in the corner to reach the books higher up.

Everything about this room was classy and warmly decorated, from the gold-foiled book spines to the long table filled with china jugs of dahlias and asters, lit with candles on gleaming brass candlesticks.

The room might have been cold if not for the crackling fire to her right.

She was perhaps a little late to the party and would have to continue admiring the room from her seat.

Rosemary looked out for Lyn but couldn’t spot them, not that she was surprised.

If Lyn hadn’t been allowed to even sit at the table, she suspected they wouldn’t have been invited to dinner.

It was a much smaller group, perhaps ten or twelve of them.

Jeremy was here, with a beautiful woman on his arm who whispered in his ear.

She wondered what she saw in a man like Jeremy.

Rosemary found her name and took her seat, eyeing all the different forks and knives.

She sent a silent thanks to Dina. At Immy’s wedding last year, Dina had explained to Rosemary (who had never felt like more of a country bumpkin in her life) the order in which she was meant to use the forks and knives, and for which course.

Who knew the British had invented a fork you were only allowed to use for cheese?

“Hello again,” a deep, rumbling voice said, and Rosemary looked up to see Ellis sitting down opposite her. He was wearing a dark blue turtleneck sweater, his dark hair brushed back, his grey eyes still cold and scolding.

“Did you have a good afternoon?”

What was he playing at? Was he pretending he didn’t remember pushing her into the pool only an hour before?

“For the most part,” Rosemary replied, not meeting his gaze but perusing the drinks menu with attempted nonchalance. Her insides were squirming.

“How are the killer mermaids?” Ellis smirked.

“Totally unsalvageable, thanks to you.”

“I’d apologise again but I doubt you’d believe me.”

Rosemary looked at him over the top of the menu. “Finally, we agree on something.”

“I do need to ask, though,” Ellis said, “why were you reading about killer mermaids in a pool?”

Rosemary shrugged. “It’s relaxing.”

“Please enlighten me as to what exactly is relaxing about reading aquatic horror whilst in a body of water?”

Why did he want to know?

“It’s a cathartic escape. You’re safe within the pages of the book, even if the characters are meeting their grisly ends.”

“I thought horror was meant to be scary, not safe?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You would think that, wouldn’t you?

” Just then, before Ellis could throw her a devilish retort, a woman sat down beside him.

She was, predictably, gorgeous. And young, early twenties.

Rosemary supposed that should also have been predictable for someone in Ellis’s position, but she felt oddly disappointed in him.

The woman had tanned skin and beach-blond hair; she looked like sunshine had been formed into a human being.

Something in Rosemary’s chest tightened.

He has someone. She wasn’t sure why that bothered her.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us?” The woman raised an eyebrow at Ellis.

“Of course. Jenna, this is Rosemary. Rosemary, Jenna.”

“Lovely to meet you, Rosemary. Are you one of the ghosts? If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like you’ve just stepped out of a painting.”

“Oh. Um, thank you,” Rosemary stuttered. She wasn’t used to being complimented so forthrightly upon meeting someone new. “But I’m not in the movie, I wrote it.”

“That’s amazing. I’m writing my own script at the moment, so I’ll have to pick your brain.”