Unscripted (32 page)

Twenty minutes later, Mason found me sitting cross-legged on the guest bed, surrounded by stacks of his writing. He appeared in the doorway, saying, “Hey, are we going to go get your car or—” and cut himself off with a faint, “Oh. Uh-oh.”

I looked up from the script in my lap to see that, in his inimitable way, Mason wasn’t shocked or angry, just surprised. And uneasy—that was clear from his nervous fidgeting, the way he suddenly didn’t know what to do with his hands. But nervous was the absolute last thing he needed to be.

“These,” I said firmly, looking him straight in the eye so he could see I wasn’t bluffing, “are fucking incredible.”

He let out a breath, dragging his fingers through his hair, and his face flushed a bit. “Come on . . .”

“Mason, I mean it. And I’m not saying that as the woman you just banged senseless in your shower, either; I’m saying it as a producer. These. Are. Fucking. Incredible.”

Reddening even more, he protested, “Please. They’re not—”

“I’m telling you they are. So okay, I haven’t had time to read each and every one, but from what I’ve seen so far, I want to. And it’s my job to know these things, so shut up and accept it.”

He cleared a spot on the bed next to me and plopped down, studying my face as I turned the page of the script I was reading. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me, bud. You wrote ’em. I just call ’em as I see ’em.”

Mason sat beside me in silence as I blew through the rest of the script. I closed it and put it aside, then turned to fix him with what I hoped was a penetrating glare.

“Now tell me why you turned down the job on my show.”

He got fidgety again. “I told you, it lost its appeal.”

“Yeah, yeah, that means nothing. I want the real reason.”

“It
is
the real reason. The job lost its appeal when I found out you were off the show. I didn’t want to just write for
Modern Women.
I wanted to write for
you.
If you weren’t there, I didn’t want to be there. That’s why.”

Now it was my turn to blush. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Jaya said you were a fan.”

“Too true.”

“I never sleep with fans, just in case they turn out to be psycho stalkers.”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid.”

“Several sessions too late. So . . .
are
you a psycho stalker?”

He smiled. “You asked me that before, in the studio parking lot. My answer is the same now as it was then: No.”

“That’s what psycho stalkers always say.” I chewed on my thumbnail, thinking. Then, “Are we . . . here . . . I mean, did you . . . do you like me just in a fan kind of way? Did I just fulfill some weird fantasy of yours or something?”

“I have been a fan of yours for a long time, that’s true. That means I have admired your
work
for a long time. But . . .” He paused. “I’m trying to find the right words, here.”

“So I don’t run screaming when you turn into a psycho stalker?”

“I just figure I’ve got one shot at explaining this the right way.”

“Or I’ll run screaming?”

“Faith!”

“Sorry! Go on.”

“I thought of you only in terms of your work. But . . . when I met you . . . when I got to know you . . .” He let out a
whuf
of amazement. “I was a goner. So you don’t have to be Faith Freakin’ Sinclair for me to be crazy about you. You could be, I don’t know, a Porta-Potty cleaner, and I’d still feel the same way.”

“You say the sweetest things.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, I do,” I said quietly, then kissed him. “So that means you’re going to support my dream of being a Porta-Potty cleaner?”

“Whatever makes you happy.”

I gave him an evil laugh. “Oh, never say that. You know what that’ll get you.”

“Why, yes, I do.”

And with a couple of inelegant, frantic shoves, we cleared the papers off the bed.

* * *

Our Sunday evening was spent collecting my things from the dorm and my Cayenne from the parking lot, then devouring a huge Italian dinner before we retired for the night. Both of us in his bed. And it wasn’t awkward in the least. Not that I ever really thought he was a psycho stalker, but I was surprised at how comfortable we were with each other, so quickly. It was like we’d always been together. Or maybe were meant to be together. Not that I was getting ahead of myself or anything. Ahem.

We just . . . played well together. Not even the morning routine, before heading to campus, was clumsy. Mason was thrilled that there was finally a way to get me to class on time (he could—and did—hustle me out the door), and I had a good laugh at the number of tweed jackets with patches on the elbows that he actually did have squirreled away in his bedroom closet, despite his denials.

Naturally we always behaved professionally in front of the students, but some of them seemed a little suspicious at how we smiled at each other for an extended beat or had the same idea at the same time. Still, nobody was rude enough to question us outright, for which I was eternally grateful. Not that I cared what they thought; I just didn’t want to be confronted with questions about my private life. Especially now that I had one.

Of course, it was probably a dead giveaway that something was different between us when Mason finally acknowledged me as a guest lecturer, instead of just a piece of furniture ordered to “observe for now.” Near the end of class, he said, “For next time . . . the syllabus says to read Chapter Four in the text, but I’m going to give you some additional work.” Amid groans, he went on, “I want you to watch TV.” That perked them up. “Specifically, I want you to watch an episode of
Modern Women
with the plan to discuss its structure in depth with the person who wrote and directed it. If you’re all right with that, Ms. Sinclair?”

“I am more than all right with that, Professor Mitchell.”

“So what I want you to do is go to the EWW site and watch
Modern Women
’s sixth episode from season two. I believe it’s called ‘Raine Over Me’—is that correct?” he asked me, and I nodded. “It’s considered one of the best examples of the form in the past decade. I believe it was nominated for an Emmy . . . ?”

“Don’t remind me, Professor. It didn’t win.”

He smiled warmly at me. “You were robbed.” To the class, he said, “And next time, you can pick Ms. Sinclair’s brain. About the episode in question, Brandon,” Mason added hastily. “No showbiz gossip.”

Taylor pouted. “Aw, why can’t we watch the episode with the Hershey’s Kisses? That was the best. I could watch that one a hundred times.”

“That was a good episode as well,” Mason agreed. “But I think you’ll get a lot more out of the one I’ve assigned, once we’ve examined its intricate structure and superior dialogue.”

“Hot love scene in the Hershey’s Kisses one, though,” Trina said.

Mason snuck a glance at me that burned right through my clothes. “Ms. Sinclair is very talented.”

Yee haw.

* * *

Mason said something about going to a meeting after class, so I hung out in his office and made some phone calls. My bank accounts were reopened, albeit with almost nothing in them. My charge accounts were cleared, and the companies were ready to send me new cards with new account numbers. I had to specify that they not be sent to my house, in case Jamie was still there and took it upon himself to open my mail, and it gave me a silly thrill to tell them to FedEx the cards to Mason’s address instead.

I got another thrill thinking I’d see Mason again soon, as I was planning on sitting in on his acting class this afternoon—only this time
not
for Alex.

Good grief, I was in hip deep, wasn’t I?

As if on cue, my phone rang in my hand. Jaya.
Just
the person I wanted to talk to—who else but a best friend was perfect for gushing about a new boyfriend? I let her take some time to apologize for being out of town when I needed her (oh—had she been out of town? had I been in distress?) and to share the news and gossip from the set, but the minute she asked the floodgate-opening “How are you doing?” I launched into an account of the weekend adventures and didn’t stop till I had covered every sordid detail.

Jaya laughed long and loud at the turn of events. “I
told
you! You just needed to get laid!”

I didn’t answer.

“Faith? It
is
a good thing, right?”

“It . . .” I sat very quietly, licked my lips, and then said, “It’s . . . more than just getting laid. Way more.”

“Baby, please. That’s the good-sex downpour after a mighty long drought talking. Nothing more. Don’t make it more.”

“It already is.”

“Honey. Be careful.”

It occurred to me that Jaya was giving me the same advice that I had given Kaylie regarding Alex. And now I understood why the younger girl had gotten defensive. Jaya just didn’t
get it,
probably the same way that I didn’t
get it
about Kaylie and Alex. I vowed to keep my opinions about them to myself from now on.

“So . . . does this mean Alex is out of the picture? For your love life, I mean.”

“Alex who?”

“Very funny.”

“Yes, Alex is out. In fact, he was never really in, was he? I don’t know what I was thinking—what I thought I felt about him, it was . . . nothing. Not like this.”

“Wow. You really mean it.”

“I do.”

“Well then,” Jaya went on, in a fake demanding tone, “just when do I get to re-meet this guy? As your bestie, I feel it’s my duty to do a little cross-examination—just to protect you, you understand.”

“You already said you liked him.”

“I was talking of him in terms of his joining the staff!”

“Oh, and what part of—what was it? ‘he was really cute’?—matches the job description?”

She laughed again. “Who said the eye candy all has to be
in front
of the camera?”

“There are laws against hiring on that basis, you know.”

“And speaking of eye candy, what’s the deal with Alex, show-wise? I know you’re all googly-eyed in lust or whatever it is, and I’m really happy for you, but don’t forget why you’re there.
Alex
.”

“I know. Alex. Back on show. I get.”

“Oh my God, you’ve lost it.”

“Most soundly.”

* * *

Trouble was, when I was sitting in the auditorium during the advanced acting class, I wasn’t focusing on Alex. I was staring at Mason and trying not to drool. Why hadn’t I noticed before how self-possessed he was in front of the class? How clever and smart he was, how he just
owned
the space when he was teaching? Well, I had noticed, but I had pretended not to. Now, however, I could ogle him openly. And I did. I enjoyed the little wiggly feeling in my stomach as I watched his every move, laughed at his jokes along with the class, and thought about what I was going to do to him when we got back to his house tonight.

When I noticed Alex was waving hello to me during a break, I barely waved back and didn’t even approach him. Instead, I went back to watching Mason talk with some of the students at the side of the stage.

And then, a minute later, I jumped a mile when Alex plopped into the seat next to me and put his feet up on the row in front.

“Hey, Faith. How’s it going?”

“Good, Alex.”

“You still coming by to watch me act, huh?”

I smiled patiently. “I’m observing the class.” My attention drifted back to Mason, and I started undressing him with my eyes.

“Hey, Faith?”

“Mm?”

“Uh . . . you’re . . .
not
here to see me?”

I tore my gaze away from Mason and forced myself to look at Alex. I was glad I did. He was as handsome as ever, still tanned, still with the same dramatic sweep of glossy hair and chiseled jaw. But now he didn’t incite any lustful feelings or excited nervousness. It was like all that crushing I had done on him had happened to someone else—or like I had written it into one of my
Modern Women
scripts. Instead of feeling it myself, I was one step removed from it.

I also felt more detached, more placid, about the plan to get him back on the show. When I talked with Jaya earlier, I just hadn’t felt the urgency that she had. Not anymore. Sure, maybe it was because I was all googly-eyed over Mason, like she said, but I just couldn’t seem to muster up the same level of concern I once felt. The way I saw things now, if I could convince Alex to rejoin
Modern Women,
great. If that saved the show’s ratings, also great. If not, life would go on somehow. Jaya could work extra-hard to get the audience back. I could get another job. My priority at the moment was to find out how Mason felt about office nooky.