Page 9 of Love At First Fright
S o this was Rosemary Shaw. The woman who had tried to get him pulled from the movie.
She was nothing like Ellis had expected, when he’d imagined their meeting.
No, instead, he was faced with a haughty little North American woman who looked like she’d just stepped out of a Pre-Raphaelite painting.
Her long wavy copper hair was plaited back, exposing the smooth, pale column of her neck, and her face was framed with cat’s-eye glasses that only served to accentuate her piercing gaze.
She was young, younger than many of the screenwriters he knew.
There was a sunniness about her that spoke of someone who wasn’t yet as disillusioned with the industry as he was. Peachy, that’s how he’d describe her.
Rosemary had full lips that he couldn’t quite draw his eyes from, and when she snapped back at him—he probably deserved it for how he’d snipped at her in the churchyard—her nose had tinged pink from the simmering dislike.
It was clear to Ellis that Rosemary Shaw hated his guts.
As the production meeting drew to a close, he felt her shift in her chair, the scent of lavender (not powdery, but fresh and herbal) and something minty hit him and, almost involuntarily, Ellis turned to face her.
He should give her a piece of his mind; say something about how he knew she didn’t want him cast as Alfred.
But when Ellis pivoted in his own seat, he felt his leg graze Rosemary’s, looked down, and saw a pattern across her plump thighs.
Peeking through the dark tights she wore, there was a twisting curve of a tattoo.
Ellis’s mouth went dry, and all thoughts of arguing fled his mind.
“Are you coming to the dinner tonight?” slipped out instead.
Rosemary raised an eyebrow, sticking him again with that piercing brown-eyed gaze. “I had planned on it, why?”
“Only that it would be good to speak more. I have a few questions about Alfred I’d like to run past you.”
The expression softened. Perhaps her loathing for him wasn’t as all-consuming as it appeared?
“You do? I— Well, I thought—”
“You thought?”
“That you wouldn’t be interested in having that conversation with me,” Rosemary admitted, her voice slipping into a whisper.
“Because I’m not the ‘right casting choice’ for Alfred, you mean?”
She flinched a little at his words before collecting herself, her thigh shifting against his again as she rose to stand. Ellis did the same, perversely gratified that she only came up to his collarbone.
“I am entitled to my own opinion, Ellis.”
“And do you still stand by it?”
Rosemary pouted her lower lip out. Biteable.
“For now. Until you prove me otherwise.”
Before he could say anything else, Rosemary peeled away, leaving the scent of lavender in her wake.
—
Ellis slipped into the heated pool, steam billowing around him as he took a deep breath and sank into the water.
He closed his eyes, feeling the world float away as his heartbeat slowed to a steady beat, his muscles loosening from the pent-up tension of the afternoon meeting.
He pushed off the side, falling easily into the familiar routine of laps.
The more laps he did, the more the day’s nerves dissolved away. He’d always been a bit of a wreck when it came to preliminary meetings, more so today because this wasn’t part of a franchise he’d already starred in. He’d never been in a horror movie before, and he felt the need to prove his mettle.
When Ellis had walked into the suite, he’d felt the eyes of all the production hotshots on him, appraising, surveying their purchase.
Would he make them enough money? Would he draw in enough crowds to the cinemas?
Would he be worth the salary Brody had negotiated for him?
Perhaps he looked older than they imagined, or less glamourous, without all the studio makeup and good lighting. And then he’d met Rosemary.
Until you prove me otherwise. Her words haunted him.
He didn’t know what was worse, that he’d got into a whispered argument with the screenwriter, who also happened to probably be a good decade younger than him, or that all he could think about now was impressing her.
Why should it matter to him whether or not Rosemary Shaw thought he deserved his place as the main character in her movie?
Ellis glanced at his waterproof watch, checking that he still had time for a few more laps before he had to go and get ready for the dinner.
He’d received a text from Jenna earlier confirming that she would be there as his “date.” He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d nicknamed him as “Grandpa” on her phone.
He groaned internally. When he walked in with Jenna tonight, Ellis would be fulfilling the classic stereotype of middle-aged Hollywood actor with a much younger woman.
What would everyone else think of him? What would a certain grumpy little American think of him?
He kicked off from the far side, this time pushing deeper into the water, pulling himself forwards in great breaststroke sweeps.
He held off until the very last moment to come up for air, but when he did, Ellis was met with the slick plastic roof of a pool float.
Desperate for breath, he pushed it to the side, vaguely aware that something splashed into the water as he sucked in sweet air.
He thought he was alone in the pool, but he supposed someone could have come in while he was under the water.
Ellis hoped it wasn’t anyone from the production.
An empty pool float bobbed on the pool’s surface and, spluttering as she tread water, holding up a book that was now soaked through and wrinkling, was the absolute last person Ellis wanted to see right now: Rosemary.
She’d taken off her glasses, her ginger hair now a darker colour since he had unintentionally hauled her off her float. From the way she was brandishing her soaked book like a weapon, it was clear she was thoroughly pissed off. Being thrown into a body of water tended to do that to a person.
Ellis ran a hand through his hair to clear it from his face.
“Sorry, I didn’t see you there.”
Rosemary smacked her soaked book down onto the float. “That is abundantly clear.”
“In my defence, I thought I was alone.”
“That is not a defence.”
“Well, I apologise.”
Rosemary snorted. “Sure.” She began to swim to the side. Ellis followed.
“You think I don’t mean it?” She was so impertinent. He was just trying to apologise, god damn it.
Rosemary turned on him. Ellis tried very hard not to notice the way a few locks of hair had slipped from her bun and were slicked to the side of her neck, or how the tattoos of delicate flowers and vines that began on her wrist in fact climbed up her arms and twisted in delicate patterns onto her collarbone before dipping below the material of her—rather amply filled—bathing suit.
“I think that we’re in the middle of an empty pool and that there’s no way you didn’t see me on my bright red float.”
“What’s going to make you believe me? Want me down on my knees? I can try but I’ll probably drown.” Ellis’s attempt at wry humour clearly hadn’t worked, as Rosemary’s cheeks were even more flushed with anger now.
“I’m going, the pool is yours, Ellis.” She swam to the stairs, slapping her book down on the side.
“Come on, Rosemary. I’m sorry. Let me help you get back on the float so you can relax a bit more and read your”—he glanced at the title—“killer mermaids book?”
“No, I don’t want your help.” She was half out of the water, and Ellis was close enough to see the steam from the warm water rolling off her and the whorls of inky art that decorated her thighs and calves. He swallowed.
Ellis pulled himself out of the water after her.
“What are you doing?” Rosemary asked.
“Just handing you a towel, the least I can do.” He smirked.
Ellis decided then and there that if persuading Rosemary to think he was right for the role, or even like him in general, was off the cards, then he could rile her up as much as possible.
Was it a particularly professional thing to do?
Not at all. But her cheeks were flushed pink and a perverse part of him liked arguing with her.
Reluctantly, Rosemary took the towel from him and stalked off.
Jesus Christ, had this woman been placed on earth specifically to bother him? Ellis shook water from his hair and dried off. There wasn’t much time before dinner, and he had a bookshop to visit.