LITMIR.BIZ

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      Jesus, he needed another beer. Which was a pretty good reason not to have one. Mac had seen his fair share of actors succumb to drug and alcohol addictions over the years. He didn’t plan on becoming one of them. But he also knew he had to do something because he couldn’t continue living his life the way he was.

      It had been a mistake coming back to Ocean Boulevard. The moment he’d gotten over his relief at having a regular paycheck again he’d known it. He’d been greeted like a returning king by the producers when he walked back on set twelve months ago and the show’s loyal fan base had gone wild. The soap magazines had splashed him across covers and he’d smiled, answered all their questions and basically acted his butt off to look as though he was exactly where he wanted to be.

      But he so wasn’t.

      He’d come to Hollywood from Seattle as a determined eighteen-year-old and hadn’t been able to believe his luck when he’d scored a role on a new soap. He’d only intended to stay with the show a year, two max. But each year his paycheck got fatter as the show’s ratings rose and his character became more and more popular. At the same time, the older actors on the show were constantly telling him how good he had it, how lean it was Out There, how he’d never have it better. By the time he’d been with the show for eight years, he’d crossed the line from complacency to boredom and frustration. Finally, he made the leap.

      And failed spectacularly.

      Hollywood had swallowed him in one easy gulp, with barely a ripple to mark his passing. He’d been on the soap for too long, his agent had told him, he was tainted by the association.

      On a good day, he didn’t hate Boulevard. It had bought his house, his car, fed him, clothed him, got him laid for many of the past fifteen years. It was a fun, entertaining, sometimes even moving show. It just didn’t feed his soul. And how pretentious was that, anyway, wanting a career that made you proud, made you want to jump out of bed in the morning? Most people settled for three square meals and a roof over their heads, smiles on their kids’ faces and backyard barbecues. He was a spoiled bastard. He knew it, but it didn’t stop him from feeling as though a giant hand was slowly grinding him into the ground.

      The reality was, he should have had the courage to walk away altogether, to pursue something completely outside of the industry. Instead, he’d succumbed to the lure of money and security. And it was slowly killing him.

      “Boo-goddamn-hoo,” he sneered at himself, launching himself to his feet.

      The only thing worse than a worn-out has-been was a self- pitying worn-out has-been. Prowling around the house, he picked up books and put them down again, shuffled through his CD collection looking for something—anything—he could bear to listen to, and generally behaved like a lost soul.

      Inevitably, he wound up in his study, staring at the calendar on his wall. Tomorrow’s date was circled in red, and he shook his head as he acknowledged his own desperation. Tomorrow he found out if the Boulevard’s new producer was willing to continue what her predecessor had started and hand over a block of the show for him to direct.

      Originally, he’d floated the idea of directing some blocks of the show to his agent half as a joke—he’d figured the producers would say no, or that if they said yes it would be an entertaining diversion from the usual. To his surprise, they’d given him the nod. Twice now he’d been allowed to step behind the camera and direct the show. It had been challenging work both times, but it had also been the most alive he’d felt in a long time.

      Then there had been a regime change, a fairly regular occurrence in television. Heads had rolled and new heads had taken their places. He’d been waiting for nearly two months since then to find out if the new producer, Claudia Dostis, was willing to continue what her predecessor had started. There was a high chance she wouldn’t—many producers would have said no simply because he’d been a pet project of the guy whose seat they were now warming. But tomorrow was the day of truth, the day she was handing out the newdirectors’ roster.

      And he wanted his name to be on it, bad. He needed his name to be on it, if he was being honest with himself.

      There had to be something more out there. Didn’t there?

      IT WAS MID-MORNING when Claudia called Grace into her office the next day.

      “I wanted to talk to you about Mac Harrison,” Claudia said by way of kicking off the conversation.

      Grace started in her seat and tried to will away the blush that she could feel rising into her cheeks. There was no way that Claudia was about to tell her to stop using him as her convenient virtual stud. No one could know what she’d been doing in the privacy of her apartment last night. No one.

      It didn’t stop her from blushing, however. Ducking her head, she pretended to have an itchy nose.

      “Right, Mac Harrison. The actor who plays Kirk on the show,” she said, fumbling for time.

      Claudia gave her an odd look and Grace winced mentally. Probably pretending to not be familiar with one of the show’s biggest stars was not the smartest way to appear natural.

      “Yes. That Mac Harrison,” Claudia said dryly. “What did you think of the blocks he directed recently?”

      Grace blinked a few times, trying to work out where this conversation was going. Mac had directed two five-episode blocks since he’d put up his hand to step behind the camera. Both had been good—inventive, interesting, tight.

      “Does he want to do more?” she hedged.

      “His agent has approached me. You still haven’t answered my question.”

      Grace fiddled with the hem of her 1950s-era sundress. “They were good, strong. He brought a lot of energy to it,” she said honestly.

      Claudia smiled. “I’m glad you liked his work. He’s a big fan of your scripts, too. It’ll make the whole process much smoother.”

      Grace frowned, feeling as though she’d just missed something very important.

      “Um, what process?” she asked hesitantly.

      “Well, you’re writing the script for our feature-length wedding episode,” Claudia explained.

      “Yessss,” Grace said slowly, beginning to see the yawning chasm that loomed before her.

      “And he’s going to direct it.”

      Grace’s whole body went hot, then cold.

      “You’ll have to work closely with each other—he’ll be on light duties on-set and we’ll get in an extra body to take over some of your usual workload so you can do reconnaissance with him for location shoots and anything else that’s necessary. I want this to be the best wedding the Boulevard has ever done,” Claudia said with determination.

      “Right. The best,” Grace repeated numbly.

      She felt blindsided. For twelve months, she’d used Mac Harrison as the personification of all her sexual desires. She’d had sex with him in her mind a hundred different ways, cried his name out as she climaxed, gone to sleep with his image in her mind. All despite never having met the man.

      And now they were about to become each other’s shadows.

      Why did she feel as though she’d set herself up for the fall of a lifetime?

      2

      MAC PULLED INTO the visitors parking slot at the Boulevard’s Santa Monica office and switched his ignition off. Instead of getting out of his car, however, he sat for a moment listening to the tick-tick-tick of his engine cooling.

      He was nervous. He felt like an idiot as soon as he admitted it to himself. It had been a long time since he’d felt the peculiar mix of adrenaline and expectation that was pumping its way around his body right now. He’d stopped being nervous about auditions roughly three years after he’d left his cushy, high- paying role on the show—that was about how long it

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