“The production company is terrible,” John said. “I was a second lead in one of the prior pilots that never went anywhere.”

“So does that mean you are an actor?”

That’s the question, isn’t it? John had asked that of himself many times. Why not make as much money as he could at the one thing this industry enthusiastically wanted from him? “Someone’s got to play shirtless guy on the left.”

“I shouldn’t have assumed, and I’m sorry about that.”

Women in front of the camera were treated worse than men, so he supposed she understood. But taking short-term acting gigs paid better than other part-time jobs, and they left him with enough time to do what he really wanted to do.

“Also...” he said. Should I tell her? “I’ve got a script.”

“You’re a writer?”

“Yes, but I really want—”

“To be a director.”

“—to direct.” John waited for her reaction.

“It’s harder than everyone thinks.” Anna tossed the towel on the counter.

“I’ve been an assistant director on a couple of productions. I get it.”

“Trust me, there are better and easier ways to make money in this business.”

“Don’t say that.” He walked over to the fridge and pulled out a beer. “Everyone says that.”

She eyed the beer. “I can’t pay for that.”

“Linda will be here in a few minutes, and I owe you.” He popped the cap.

“You don’t. Besides, I still need to figure out what’s going on with that TV show if I want to get a job.”

“Well,” he drawled, handing her the beer. “Here’s the thing...”

He grabbed his laptop bag from beneath the bar and pulled out the pages of his script.

She held up a hand and took a swig as if preparing herself for what came next.

“I don’t really have the time today,” Anna said, eyeing the bound pages warily.

“Seems like it, with your busy schedule.”

“You’re going to ask me to read that.” She pointed to the pages with her beer.

John had been planning to tell her he loved The Castro. If the conversation went well, then he would ask for her opinion on his screenplay. Perhaps it wasn’t the smoothest transition he’d ever made, but it was rare that he ran into someone—at this bar, of all places—whose opinion he thought would be worthwhile.

“You just carry your script around in case you find someone to read it?”

“You’ve lived in LA, right?”

Anna smiled as if she couldn’t help herself, and her whiskey-brown eyes sparkled.

“Come on, you do owe me.”

“Listen, you’re obviously a smart guy, and I would love to help you.”

John rolled his eyes. A classic. He had heard that many times when he pitched his script. He didn’t need more vague platitudes.