“Yesterday.”

“Holy shit, Jenny, why are you talking to me?”

“How often do you call?”

Anna hadn’t always been the best at staying in touch. “Thanks for your texts. London was... It was a shit job on a terrible TV show, and I—”

“You realize this whole industry is better if you talk to your friends?” Jenny paused. “And go with them to premiere parties this Thursday?”

Jenny had been one of many screenwriters to turn a draft on a new superhero film. Anna wanted to support her friend, and she needed to rebuild her contacts in Los Angeles. If nothing else, Anna could practice networking. It had never been one of her strengths.

Anna glanced down at her ripped jeans, faded striped T-shirt, and scuffed checkerboard Vans. “All right, but I’ve got nothing to wear.”

“I have a plan for that.” Jenny sounded confident. “What are you going to do about your bar tab?”

Anna couldn’t ask Jenny to leave her apartment when she was past a deadline on a well-paying job. Anna studied the bartender. She should be immune to the charms of a pair of warm brown eyes, broad shoulders, and the stance of a man who looked like he didn’t suffer fools. But even in a city filled with some of the most handsome men in the world—and Anna had met a few of them—the bartender still left an impression. He continued to take drink orders and manage the bar tabs for the growing crowd. As far as Anna could tell, no one new had clocked in. “I’ll figure something out. Good luck with the vampires.”

Anna put her phone back in her jacket pocket. The bartender gave her a questioning glance. She picked up her bottle and finished it in one swig, ignoring the taste of the warm, flat beer. He walked over to her.

“I’m sorry about the credit card.” Anna’s cheeks felt hot. “I just got back into town, and I don’t have any cash.”

“Whatever.” The bartender sighed, not meeting her gaze. “Look, I’m not going to spot you any more beers.” He moved on to speak to another customer.

“Wait,” she pleaded. “Do you need help behind the bar or washing dishes? Those are pretty much my only skills, unless you have a movie you want me to direct.”

The bartender paused and turned back to her. The other patron hung his head in annoyance.

“Anything I’ve heard of?”

“Probably not.” The Castro had been released ten years ago. The bartender appeared too young to have seen the indie movie, even one with a few festival wins and award nominations. “I’ve got this TV pilot.” She gestured to the script in front of her. “But it doesn’t make a lot of sense. If I’m going to direct it, I should understand it.”