“The rewrites are good.” Reed dropped a copy of the script on the counter. “It has her sense of humor, and it’s a hundred times better than it should be.”

Thank God the script had improved. It would be easier to get the cast and crew onboard after the switch over.

“Have you met the director yet?”

“Not yet, but I’m sure it will be fine.” John set down his cup. “Any more questions?”

“Are you sure you don’t want more coffee?” Reed flattened his hands down his shirt, as if worried about wrinkles. “I have fruit and mixed nuts too.”

“Your commitment to healthy living is admirable, but we need to get going. I would like to get a copy of the script before the read-through.”

Reed took a deep breath. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

John and Reed walked out of the trailer. The message about the table read must have gotten out. A few more people milled about the place. The parking lot was full of cars.

The two men entered the soundstage. John didn’t miss Reed’s intake of breath. This guy should not be this nervous.

John followed Reed’s gaze. It landed on Jenny Hayes. The screenwriter observed Reed, taking in his appearance in a glance. Reed nodded to her. She bit her lip and slowly lowered her gaze to her laptop.

John wasn’t interested in whatever little drama was playing out between those two. He walked to the craft services table. The read-through would tell him everything he needed to know about the director. Tom Melton wouldn’t turn this over to an idiot—John had to believe that.

“All right,” Jenny called out. “Take a seat, please.”

Everyone moved to the U-shaped conference table made of mismatched smaller tables. Card tables, picnic tables, desks, every available flat surface had been scouted for inclusion so that everyone would have a seat. Chairs shuffled on the floor, and water cups splashed as the group settled themselves. A copy of the script waited for him at the table. Finally, he would be able to read the damn thing.

John was about to sit down when he heard a familiar laugh, reminding him of lazy afternoons, back alleys, and Hitchcock movies.

No, no, no. No. It can’t be. He turned around. A woman stood with her back to him. Her hair was in a ponytail, and she wore a faded leather jacket and scuffed boots. She threw her head back and laughed. No fucking way. She turned around.

But it was.

“Oh shit,” John said.

Or maybe it was her who said it, but someone did, and John found himself staring at the woman he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for the past week.

Anna looked good, he thought, a little tired.

“Oh shit,” he said again.