Something uncomfortable twists in my belly. Guilt, frustration, I’m not sure, but I shift in my seat.

“I know Samantha took the watch.” Anger twists his lips and fills his blue eyes. “I know you’re working here to pay him back, which makes you a fucking saint in my book.”

I glance away, embarrassed and upset with Sam all over again.

“But I figure that’s a pretty bitter pill to swallow, regardless. So you should know that even though Saint can be a dick now and then, it’s clear, to me at least, that his actions toward you aren’t motivated by some old feud.”

I’m the one now fighting not to squirm in my seat. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say anything.” North shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. “This is awkward as hell. But I wanted you to know you’re valued here. Shit situation or no.”

“You’re a good egg, North.”

“Just trying to keep the peace, ma’am.” He thumbs up the brim of an imaginary hat.

I laugh, feeling lighter. “So what’s your story?”

“I have to have a story?”

“Everyone has a story. Some are boring, some aren’t, but everyone has a story.”

“My family is in the stunt business—dad, brother, sister, me. That’s how I met Saint; I’m his stunt double on Dark Castle.”

“Really?” I wouldn’t mistake him for Macon for a second, but aside from the hair color, they do have roughly the same build and height.

“It’s colored black during filming,” he says, seeing the direction of my gaze. “The fake beard itches like hell, though.”

While I haven’t watched the show, I have seen pictures of Macon as Arasmus. He’s often in Roman-style leather body armor and heavy fur capes, his hair roughly chopped and sticking out at all angles, a full beard covering his jaw. I’ve never been one for beards, but Macon works the barbarian look.

North stretches his legs out. “Since Saint and I both do the sword-fight shots, I was also responsible for training him. Then that crap with the crazed fan and the accident happened—”

“What?” I cut in shrilly. “What fan?”

“Hell, you didn’t know?”

“How could I know?” My grip is a vise on the wheel.

North swears under his breath. “Saint said he was going to talk to you about—”

“What happened?” A sick lurch tilts my insides, and I have to swallow hard. “Please, North.”