“Ten more minutes, and I’m going home,” I say to Rosie, who sighs but doesn’t protest. I nudge her shoulder, grateful she’s keeping me company while I wait, and she smiles faintly, nudging back.

“Hey, auditions are tomorrow,” I say, eyeing the end of the hall for Emmitt’s impending arrival. “Do you think Sofia will get a part?”

Rosie rips the paper in half.

I blink at her, taking in her flushed cheeks. “Ro, all I said was her name.”

“I’m fine,” Rosie says, crumpling the paper into a ball and throwing it at the trash can across from us. She misses by a foot and I snort. “I’m fine,” she repeats, stomping over to the balled-up paper. She drops it into the bin herself.

“Whatever you say.” I offer her a slip of loose-leaf paper—it’s not pink and glittery, but it’ll have to do. She takes it with a disgruntled look on her face. “What do you think, though?”

Rosie hesitates a moment before nodding. “I think she’d be a good fit for the love interest.”

“Noted,” I say, playing out the film in my head with Sofia cast as the second lead. “I hope you didn’t get too distracted while running lines.”

The comment slips out without much thought, but Rosie stiffens, making me instantly rethink my words.

“Mina,” Rosie starts to say, but before she can finish her sentence, Emmitt shows up, out of breath.

“Sorry. Let’s go?”

I raise my brows at him, trying to force down the unease from the conversation Rosie was about to start. “No explanation?”

The corner of Emmitt’s mouth creases. “I...had a phone call with my mother. It ran longer than I anticipated. And then I kind of got lost. I’m still not used to this place.”

After hours researching Emmitt, it would be difficult to not know who his mother is. Claire Gong is a marketing executive at the UK branch of Twentieth Century Studios and has been waddling Emmitt into film auditions since he was in diapers.

His father, Alejandro Ramos, isn’t in the picture—passed away when Emmitt was young—so it’s always been just him and his mother. By the looks of it, they’re not exactly on the best terms.

I wonder if she’s in New York with him or if she’s still in London, calling from five hours ahead. I wonder which he’d prefer.

And then I shake myself free of that line of thought. I don’t care about Emmitt’s life that much.

“Come on, then, pretty boy,” I say, beckoning him forward as I head for the main staircase. “We’re already late.”

The lines of Emmitt’s expression relax, settling into his usual condescending frown. “She never calls me by my name,” he says to Rosie, like that’s going to help anything.