Page 7 of His Girl Hollywood

He winced, but that infernal smile and the jagged dimple remained. She turned her attention to the large light fixture to her right, checking every hinge and screw even after she’d gone over them already.

“You always were one to cut to the point,” he huffed. “I thought I’d come down here and get the lay of the land before we jump in the deep end tomorrow. I’ve never been on a movie set.”

That caught her attention. She knew that. Of course she knew that. But something about the way he said it grabbed her. Like he, a Broadway big shot who didn’t need any of the people he’d leftbehind in a little fishing town on the coast of California, was nervous. She stopped fiddling with the light stand and looked at him.

He turned on his heel, graceful as ever, wolf-whistling as he took in the sets. She tried to suppress the urge to stare at his butt, toned from years of dancing. It was absurdly enticing in his tailored slacks, designed to show off the line and form of his leg even when he wasn’t in motion. “Boy, they sure aren’t sparing any expense,” he marveled as he walked the length of the fake dance studio they’d built.

She preened a bit at that. Harry had given her a sizable budget. Far bigger than most first-time directors got out of the gate. It had shocked her. But it was a vote of confidence, of trust. She hoped it would go far in convincing the rest of the crew that she deserved their respect. She was a valued asset in the Evets Studios portfolio, whether they liked it or not. “Oh, this is just the dance studio.” She smiled, unable to hide her excitement. “Wait until we get to the big production numbers.”

He beamed at her. “I’m so proud of you, Le—Arlene. You really did it.”

A rush of pride and something dangerous and more intangible flared in her belly. “I did, didn’t I?” She smiled, before adding, “We both did.”

They’d chased their dreams until they’d achieved them. No sense in ruining the moment by reminding him that he’d found his while abandoning everyone who loved him. She was proud of him too—even if his choices stung.

“Maybe,” he intoned, flashing her an enigmatic smile as he ran his hand along the barre.

“Not maybe! You did! You went to New York, became the toast of Broadway, all the things you always said you’d do.” She didn’t know why she so badly needed him to take pride in his own achievements. Maybe because if he did, his absence, his silence,would at least be justified. It was hard to look back when you were doggedly focused on moving forward.

He simply nodded, his eyes taking in the parts of the set he could make out in the shadows cast by the ghost light. “Well, Hollywood is a new mountain to conquer.”

He pressed his toes into the ground, testing the spring and give of the floor they’d installed on the soundstage. She’d sent very specific directions to the carpentry department. No one was going to slip or roll an ankle on her set. He executed a nimble series of steps, ending in a kick ball change, a turn, and a showy final pose as he slid onto his knees with his arms outstretched. She giggled; she couldn’t help herself.

“The floor is perfect,” he marveled.

“Do you remember the time you wrote out your vision of a perfect dance studio?” she murmured.

He cocked his head. “You didn’t.”

She blushed, flicking at a piece of lint on her sweater. “I insisted the studio build this to my specifications. Of course, I didn’t know you’d be the one using it at the time,” she fibbed. “But I only want the best on my set. And dance floors were always more your domain than mine.”

It was mostly true. She would’ve held the carpenters to the same standard. No matter who was dancing on the floor.

He grinned and sprang from his position on his knees into another series of leaps and jumps. “I could really do something with this.”

“Do something?” She didn’t like the sound of that. This was her set. Don might be the toast of Broadway, but she was the director of this movie.

“I’m trying to talk the studio into letting me choreograph something,” he called back over his shoulder. “Me and Eddie!”

“Eddie?”

“My choreographer friend from New York. He helped me devise the solos inPal’ing Around. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

The hell he’ll be,Arlene thought. She would not let control of her set be ripped out from under her before they’d even begun. Joan had warned her. The second you give a man in this business an inch, they take a mile. But she hadn’t expected Don being the one she’d have to worry about. Sure, he’d always been headstrong, ambitious—but she didn’t imagine he’d come in with guns blazing, overstepping before they’d even shot a single frame of film. “Did the studio approve that?”

He stopped mid-fouette. “Well, they knew he was coming with me. I told them I needed him and his insight. But at least for tomorrow, I thought I’d bring him along and let him observe.”

“I’m the director.”

“I know that. I—”

“It’s been ten years, Don. I’m not your next-door neighbor anymore.” The hint of bitterness in her voice was unrecognizable to her.

“I just thought… Shit, Lena, I’m sorry.” He closed his eyes in frustration. “Arlene. Sorry.”

She bit her lip. This person—unyielding, flinty—that wasn’t her. But he’d quite literally waltzed in here and turned everything topsy-turvy in a matter of minutes.

“It’s all right.” But it wasn’t. She was terrified nothing would ever be all right again. Terrified she would forget all the pain and hurt roiling in her gut and forgive him. Terrified she would relent and give him whatever he asked for. The way she had when she was seventeen. No, things were most certainly not all right. And they wouldn’t be until Don Lamont was back in New York and far away from her, once and for all.