Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 123873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 619(@200wpm)___ 495(@250wpm)___ 413(@300wpm)
There was one thing he could think of far, far better than simply drowsing with Brendan all day.
And he indulged in that thing for hours on end, as he pushed himself up and pressed his lips to Brendan’s—kissing him slow, kissing him sweet, kissing him as if they had nothing else to think about, no need for time, for stress, for thought.
All he needed was this.
To hold on to when it was over, and he had to walk away.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
A VISIT TO HIS HOUSE in Asherville always left Brendan unwilling to leave. Unwilling to return to LA’s strange mixture of dirt and shimmer, its gossip and its ugliness, its beauty and its obsession with that beauty.
But it had been harder to come back to the real world, this time.
Harder to pry himself away from an idyllic quiet where the only noise was the foxes yipping in the woods and the morning birds, the occasional raucous arguments between a few rooks and the chitter of squirrels. No one to bother him, expect things of him, press in on him from all sides until the shape of himself started to warp.
But there was Cillian.
And Brendan hadn’t known how much he could enjoy a weekend spent just kissing. Not even foreplay; sex had been the last thing on his mind when he’d given in to impulse and dragged Cillian up to northern California. He hadn’t needed sex, for those two quiet days.
He'd just needed peace.
And that drowsy, contented look in Cillian’s eyes every time he’d glanced at Brendan and smiled that shy, boyish smile tinged with wonder, like he couldn’t quite figure out how he’d gotten here.
Brendan couldn’t quite figure it out either.
But he thought…
He might actually miss that impertinent monster once he was gone.
And he wanted to go back to those timeless hours, drowsing and now and then lingering on the lock of lips to lips.
…which made it that much more frustrating to be standing here under cold white spots, more than an hour earlier than they normally started shooting, all because Newcomb had called an emergency all-hands meeting for all cast and crew.
But Newcomb was currently nowhere to be seen.
At Brendan’s side, Cillian fidgeted. “What do you think this is about?”
“God only knows, with him.” The sound of a door banging echoed from the back. “But it looks like we’re about to find out.”
“I don’t want to know,” Sophie muttered from beyond Cillian. “All-hands meetings mid-production are never a good thing.”
Drake chimed in at Brendan’s shoulder—there were too many people attached to him right now. “Let’s not worry until there’s something to worry about.”
Newcomb came strutting through the set pieces with a rather exaggerated air of grave solemnity. He’d never have made it as an actor himself—not when he tried to screw his face into an expression of pensive authority, but mostly looked half-asleep and possibly as if some part of his clothing might be pinching him in uncomfortable places.
He somehow managed to curl his nose, wrinkling it until the tip pinched under, as he mounted a set of scaffolding steps until he stood over them like he was the goddamned Pope giving benediction, hands clasped before him. Slowly the conversations among the cast and crew groupings started to die out, attention turning reluctantly toward the man who had made himself less than beloved with far more people than just Cillian, over the last few weeks.
“Ladies, gentlemen, and people of Heart of Snow,” Newcomb began sonorously, exaggerating each word. “I’m afraid I have tragic news.”
He paused for effect.
No one responded.
With an offended sniff, Newcomb continued, “I’m afraid we may have to fully stop production of this film.”
Now people responded—erupting with questions, disbelief, a few curses. Anger. Cillian went pale, his eyes widening, his expression fixed; Sophie sighed.
While Drake muttered, “…something smells fishy here.”
Brendan agreed, unease a quiet thing crouched on his shoulder and whispering in his ear.
But he held his tongue while Newcomb raised a hand to demand silence, pitching his voice louder. “Please allow me to explain. We’ve just lost our venue for shooting on location for the castle scenes. Due to a recent spate of vicious slander regarding my reputation, the venue operators have cancelled our contract and another property is not available on such short notice.” His gaze flicked subtly to Cillian, flat and cold as razors. “It’s a shame to have to cancel production because of malicious gossip, but we have few other options.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
“Cillian,” Brendan whispered—but Cillian was frozen, pale, his pulse ticking against his throat. “Cillian.”
Cillian jerked, then quickly turned to Brendan, grasping his arm. “I didn’t say anything,” he hissed fiercely. “It wasn’t me.”
“I’ve kept my mouth shut,” Drake added in a subvocal mutter.
“As have I,” Brendan said, and fixed Newcomb with a hard stare.
What was he playing at here?
People were shouting again, calling over each other, and Newcomb let it go on a few moments before he cleared his throat and continued. “Our alternatives aren’t ideal. We could use full CGI for the backdrops and establishing shots, but that would require reshoots and post-production work that we don’t have the time or budget for. We could try to build a more expansive set in-studio to address our needs, but again: our budget and time cannot fit the scope of that work. We could try to rewrite the script to fill in scenes no longer requiring that setting, but the same problems exist. So we have the option to either pause shooting entirely and resume at a later date when a venue is secured…or to halt production for good.”