Frank smothered a shocked laugh, but he covered his discomfort much better than either Anna or John had. “Anna directed The Castro.”

Anna glanced away at the mention of her most-successful movie. She took a deep breath, as if steeling herself for what was to come. John gazed over her shoulder. Tom Melton smirked back, observing their small group with interest. John shrugged. “Must be before my time.”

Anna’s shoulders dropped at his words, as if the blow had been physical.

John had never been so petty in his life. He squashed the guilt threatening to rise, remembering the way she had responded when he had asked her out and how she had behaved here—entitled and superior. “I haven’t heard of you before.”

Anna’s head snapped up. Forget the malingering production assistant—she looked ready to fire him.

Frank put his hand to his chest. “John, you told me—”

“So,” Anna said, crossing her arms over her chest. “How’d the pitch go?”

“I’m working,” John said. “Not pitching.”

“Difficult stories are hard to sell nowadays.” Frank glanced between them. “His coming-of-age movie wasn’t bad before the rewrites.”

Anna narrowed her eyes. John had avoided that conversation at the bar, and he didn’t want to have it here.

“You know how it is, Anna, when you’re starting out,” Frank said.

“Does she, though?” John cocked his head. “Really?”

Anna closed her eyes then glanced away. She looked deflated. He knew he was going too far, but he couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t find it in himself to feel bad for someone who’d obviously had so much help getting started, when everyone else was stuck serving drinks and wearing spandex.

Clara approached the group. Great, this evening was getting better and better.

“Can you help me plate this food, or are you only here to pitch?”

“I’m not pitching.” John took a breath. Might as well get this over with. “This is Frank Amato and Anna Kovács.”

At Anna’s name, Clara cocked her head at John. “Casting-director look?”

John gave a terse nod, and Clara scowled at Anna. He recognized the look on Clara’s face. It was the same one she had on her face when a waiter had thought it would be funny to pat her on the ass. John put a hand on Clara’s arm. “It’s okay.”

“You sure?” Clara asked. “I don’t need this job that badly.”

Anna tensed and glanced between the two of them.

“Seriously,” John said. “It’s okay.”

“You know I’ve got your back.” Clara pursed her lips. “Except when you aren’t plating food.”

“I have somewhere to be,” Anna interrupted.

There’s nothing more to say, is there? He should forget that afternoon ever happened. Obviously, she regretted it. John needed to get out of there. “Thanks for the advice, Frank.”

“Anytime,” his friend replied, a quizzical look on his face.