3.Chapter Three

Chapter Three

Bonnie

“Wait, Henry McAllister is here ?”

Katie sighs, holding her makeup brush in front of my nose and looking at me like I’m a toddler who can’t sit still.

I can’t help it if I’m wiggly. I’m always nervous at the start of shooting a new project and have a lot of pent up energy and nowhere to put it until I’m on set. But I just heard that the man who wrote Frosted Peaks is here in Laketown and coming to set , and she expects me not to move? Meeting the Henry McAllister has only been my dream for years!

Honestly, I liked the sound of this movie even before I knew the title, and then I realized it was an adaptation of one of my favorite books. I made my agent set up an audition immediately, forced Derek to run lines with me and help me nail down the character, and put my full energy into getting this role. I’ve never wanted anything more.

I’ve been in love with the Detective Frost series since the first book came out a couple of years ago. McAllister is an utter genius, and he has created the most kick-butt heroine I’ve ever read. Gabrielle is real . She’s not written like a man but with boobs, like many “strong” female characters are. She’s fierce and doesn’t take crap, but she’s also vulnerable and feminine in a non-ick way. At first, I wondered if maybe Henry McAllister was a pen name and the author was really female because he managed to write her so beautifully. Especially because there aren’t any pictures of him anywhere.

“Do you realize what this means?” I ask Katie, who hasn’t resumed her makeup routine because I’m not sitting still.

She sighs again. I’ve worked with her several times before, and she clearly doesn’t have much patience for me today. I shouldn’t alienate her, given how nice it is to have a friendly face sometimes. “What does it mean, Bonnie?”

“It means I’m going to be one of the few people who know what Henry McAllister looks like! And he never does events or anything, so no one ever gets to meet him.”

“Cool.” The way she says it, it’s clear she thinks it’s anything but cool. I guess she’s not really a mystery reader.

“No, listen.” I grab her wrist, sending a dusting of powder onto my lap. “This guy is legendary. He didn’t start publishing until a couple of years ago, and he already has four books out. That’s so rare in traditional publishing! He was a number one New York Times bestseller for like six weeks in a row with his last book.”

“It was only three weeks.”

Katie and I both jump, turning to the door of the makeup tent where a woman watches me with raised eyebrows.

“But I wouldn’t bring it up with him,” she says. “He gets touchy when you mention the Times .”

Okay, so I don’t love the idea that McAllister might have an ego, but I’m still stoked about meeting him. As Katie finally starts my makeup, I hold out my hand to the woman. “Hi, I’m—”

“Bonnie Aiken, I know.” She glances at my hand but doesn’t take it, instead letting her eyes wash over me in an appraising way. I’m used to looks like that, but coming from her, whoever she is, it feels like there’s a lot more judgment than usual. “I’m Mariah Harvey, Mr. McAllister’s agent.”

Oh, so she must know him really well! “What’s he like?” I ask. I’m wiggling again, and Katie is starting to look murderous. I shoot her an apologetic glance before focusing back on Ms. Harvey.

Settling in a vacant chair, Ms. Harvey speaks more to her phone than to me. “Pretty much how you’d expect him to be,” she says with a shrug. “He’s a mystery writer, after all.”

I’ve always pictured him as a silver fox, distinguished and full of wisdom. In my head, he’s solid and sturdy, with bright blue eyes that have an icy hue, but not in a cold way. More of a shrewd way. Like Neal McDonough, who seems to look straight through your soul. I will absolutely be intimidated by McAllister just as much as I will be fangirling so hard.

“When can I meet him?” I ask, biting my lip in anticipation.

“Oh, that’s not likely to happen. He’s busy speaking with the director. I doubt he’ll have time to—”

“Bonnie, I’m not finished yet!” Katie’s shout follows me out of the tent, though it takes me a second to realize I’m on the move.

Apparently, I hear the words “not likely to happen” and my subconscious brain takes over. It happened once when my high school classmate told me I would never be able to beat him in a footrace, and I totally kicked his trash before I was even aware I was running. And one time, when Liam said I wouldn’t be able to fit ten jumbo marshmallows in my mouth at the same time, the next thing I knew I was choking on one. Freya’s bodyguard had to give me the heimlich, and Derek banned us from making s’mores after that.

I don’t always look before I leap .

I turn a corner, hoping to take a shortcut past catering to get to the director’s trailer, but I run smack into another person and crash to the ground in a heap. “Ow.”

“Sorry,” he says, scrambling to grab his glasses from the dirt before hopping to his feet. “Didn’t see you.”

I take the hand he offers me and then grimace at the dirt streaked across my white pants. Dang it . It’s all over! The costume director is going to kill me. “I am in so much trouble,” I mutter, fruitlessly brushing my thigh as if that will get the dirt off. “You wouldn’t happen to have the world’s biggest Tide to Go on you, would you?”

He chuckles. “Sorry. No. Did I hurt you?”

Yes, but I’ll be fine. I don’t have time to stick around and chat anyway. I refuse to lose my chance to meet McAllister, even if I’ll be covered in soil when I do it. “I’m fine. Guess I should look where I’m running.”

“You and me both.”

I’m about to apologize for my part in the collision when I finally look his way and get my first glimpse of the guy. Whoever he is, he’s cute in a dorky librarian kind of way, complete with a green cable knit sweater and canvas boots beneath khaki pants. He must be one of the extras or something because he looks like he was made to be in a small town. That, or he actually lives here in Laketown, where we’re filming, and he’s sneaking around on set.

I narrow my eyes, which makes him take a step back in surprise. “What were you running from?”

He lets out a quick breath. “What were you running from?”

“I wasn’t. I was running to . Are you even supposed to be over here?”

He glances around the production tents and trailers, his ears turning red. “No, but—”

“Do I need to call security?” I don’t have my phone. I don’t even have a loud voice. But I could probably scream or something, and someone would come to catch this guy. My security team is around here somewhere, and it’s a miracle no one saw me leave the makeup tent in the first place.

Sighing, the guy brushes some dead grass from his sleeve and shakes his head. “No. I was just in a meeting with Beckett Perretti. I needed to get some air.”

Beckett is the director. Yeah, okay, pretty much anyone who knows what movie we’re filming would know the name of the director, but the guy sounds genuine. Maybe I should believe him.

Wait .

I grab his arm, making him tense up. “You were just in a meeting with Beckett? Was Henry McAllister there?”

He furrows his eyebrows, glancing down at my hand before meeting my gaze again. “Uh, yeah.”

I squeal. “You got to meet him?”

“Sort of?”

“Is he still there?”

“Not anymore.”

I deflate, dropping his arm and doing my best not to pout. From the sounds of things, McAllister won’t be coming back to set anytime soon. He’ll probably fly back home as soon as he drives to Sun City, the closest airport, and then he’ll disappear and I will never get the chance to meet one of my idols. I don’t like to cry over spilled milk, but this feels like a whole gallon of spillage. That must be worth a few tears, right?

“Were you hoping to meet him?” the guy asks. He studies me, and it’s like he can’t figure out what my deal is. He also doesn’t seem to recognize me, which is a strange feeling. I can’t even go to Walmart in sweatpants and no makeup without someone figuring out who I am. Not that I do that. Often.

Sighing, I fold my arms and will my tears to stay in my eye sockets. My one chance to meet my favorite author… “Yeah. He’s kind of my hero.”

“Why? ”

I don’t like the way he asks that question so incredulously. Huffing, I glare at him as I say, “He has written my all-time favorite female character, and there is no one who puts the same level of heart and soul into a book the way he does. You’d think a male mystery writer would turn his heroine into a chesty blonde with enough kick-buttery moves to take down guys twice her size, but the way he wrote Gabrielle is just so real, you know?”

He fights his smile as he folds his arms to match me. “Kick-buttery?”

I know he’s making fun of me, but I don’t have a better word for it. Not one that I’m willing to say out loud, at least. “Yeah. And yeah, Gabrielle totally kicks butt, but she has real human flaws and quirks that make her feel like she could really exist. It’s not often a writer can put someone so genuine on the page like that, and I was really hoping to tell him that.”

“I think he knows.”

“No, I know. People probably tell him that all the time.” I sigh, feeling silly now for going off like that to a stranger. “But I wanted him to know that I knew it, you know?”

“I know.” He holds out his hand for me to shake. “I’m Hank. Hank McAllister.”

It’s not until I’ve pumped our handshake three times that it clicks, and I freeze. “Hank,” I repeat, my eyes opening wide. I probably look like a crazy person, but I don’t care. Mostly. “Hank as in Henry.”

He nods once.

“You’re Henry McAllister.”

“Hi.”

I scream and then clap a hand over my mouth to shut myself up when he winces. “Sorry,” I whisper through my fingers, only now realizing that I’m still holding on to his hand. I let go, even though a part of me wishes I hadn’t. “Sorry for screaming. And for spewing all that fangirl stuff at you.” He probably thinks I’m a nutcase .

But he smiles, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he looks around the area again. So far, no one seems to have noticed the two of us standing here in between the tents, but it’s only a matter of time before we’re discovered now that I’ve screamed. “It was nice,” he says with a shrug. “Not the screaming part, I mean. The, uh, other part. I had no idea if anyone even liked Gabrielle’s character.”

“How could you not know? She’s the best!”

Another shrug. “I’ve never talked to anyone who’s read the book.”

Well, that’s just straight crazy. He’s been way too popular over the last couple years to have never talked to anyone about his books. “Weren’t you just in a meeting with Beckett?”

“He hasn’t read the book.”

I gasp, and for a second it feels like something has wrapped around my heart and given it a firm squeeze. “That’s every bookworm’s nightmare,” I whisper, as if speaking it at full volume will make the truth worse. “How has the director not read the book? This movie is going to be a travesty if I don’t do something.” And how did I not know this before now? We’ve already started filming, and it never came up in any of the table reads or discussions.

I knew the script was questionable, but I figured Beckett had a plan to make it all work.

Hank’s eyes do a quick head-to-toe of me before jumping back to my face. I have no idea what he thinks about me other than the uncertainty in his eyes. “I didn’t catch your name.”

So he really doesn’t know who I am.

I hold out my hand again, giving him a broad smile. “I’m Bonnie.”

Though he was reaching for my hand, he stops halfway and goes still, his eyes locked on my hand and barely any emotion in his face. “You’re Gabrielle.” It isn’t a question, and there’s not enough inflection in those two words for me to get a sense of how he feels about it.

I fold my arms again, suddenly feeling self-conscious in a way I haven’t in years. “Yeah, I guess I am. I don’t know how I got lucky enough to play her, but—”

“You look like her.”

Holy mama, that’s some intense eye contact. But it’s almost like he’s not really seeing me, like he’s looking through me and seeing his detective heroine standing in my place. Heat floods my face, and I feel like I need to touch him or something to break the connection. So I do, reaching out and wrapping my fingers on his arm near his elbow.

“It’s an honor to portray her. Seriously.”

He blinks, coughs, and then stuffs his loose hand back into his pocket as he drops his head. “I’m sorry. It’s surreal, thinking about my book becoming something different.”

“Well, prepare yourself for it to turn out terrible.”

He smiles. “I’m sure you’ll be great.”

I can’t stop the laugh that breaks out of me. That isn’t what I meant—not at all. I’m a decent actor, better when I have good costars, but I’m no Audrey Hepburn. “Even if the director hasn’t read the book?”

Hank shrugs once more, highlighting just how different he is from the man I imagined when picturing Henry McAllister, writer extraordinaire. He’s just a little taller than me, probably five foot nine or ten, with dark brown hair and eyes the color of espresso, and I’d guess he’s somewhere in his early thirties. Everything about him is warm, from his smile to his soft gaze, and it’s hard to imagine someone like him writing about murder in such detail. It’s a testament to his skills as an author, I suppose.

He’s not at all what I expected, but I almost like this version of him better. Maybe because this version is real. Real people are always better than imagined ones.

“I should…” Hank scuffs his boot in the dirt, hands still firmly tucked in his pockets. “I should probably head back before my agent sends a search party after me. I only got away because she went looking for coffee.”

Not sure why she ended up in the makeup tent, but whatever.

I should really be going as well and figure out my pants situation before I have to report to set, but it’s hard to want to leave. This could be my only interaction with the amazing Henry McAllister, and I need to make the most of it. Kasey is going to freak out when she finds out that I met him, and I need to send her some kind of proof.

“Could I take a picture with you?” I ask, only to remember I don’t have my phone.

Hank grimaces anyway, clearly uncomfortable with the idea. He doesn’t even have his picture in the back of his books, so he’s probably a super private person. “Sorry,” he says, and I’m pretty sure he means it. “It’s not you. I’m not…”

I shake my head. “You don’t have to explain. It was insensitive of me to ask.”

That gets a chuckle out of him. “You’d know better than anyone how it feels to have people ask for a picture with you, wouldn’t you?”

“Comes with the job.”

“It was nice to meet you, Bonnie. Good luck with filming.”

“You too!” I cringe. “I mean, it was nice to meet you too. Not good luck with filming. Because you’re not going to be in the movie, obviously. Could…” My cheeks are flaming now, and I let all my breath out at once. “You can say no, but could I have a hug? I’m a big hugger, and you’re, like, the coolest person I’ve ever met, and I’m friends with a princess.”

Great. Now he’s going to think I’m bragging about being friends with royalty. “You know what? Never mind.”

“Bonnie?” Hank gives me a crooked grin as he slowly pulls his hands from his pockets. “I’d love to give you a hug.”

“Really?”

He holds out his arms .

I slip right into his hold, probably holding him too tightly but not really in control of anything happening right now because I’m hugging Henry McAllister . And he is really hugging me back. I meant it when I said I was a big hugger, but this is the hug to end all hugs. I wouldn’t have pegged Hank as a physical contact kind of guy, but he sure had me fooled. To paraphrase Jack Callahan from While You Were Sleeping , this is a whole body leaning situation, and I am never letting go.

“Thanks,” I squeak when he finally pulls away, and the little smile and head shake that Hank gives me before walking away might be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. And considering I once did one of those puppy interviews with Buzzfeed, that’s saying something.