“Fishing village,” Sergei mused, rubbing his chin and starting to pace, mentally rewriting the screenplay. “Tell me more about it.”
“Well.” Hannah unwrapped her hands from inside her sleeves. One did not pitch a genius director, a location scout, and a panel of producers with her fists balled in a UCLA sweatshirt. Already she was cursing her decision to pile her straw-colored hair into a baseball cap this morning. Let us not add to the kid-sister vibe. “It’s moody and misty, set right on the water. Most residents have lived there since they were born, and they’re very, um”—set in their ways, unwelcoming, wonderful, protective—“routine-oriented. Fishing is their livelihood, and I guess you could say there’s an element of melancholy there. For the fishermen who’ve been lost.”
Like her father, Henry Cross.
Hannah had to push past the lump in her throat to continue. “It’s quaint. Has kind of a weathered feel. It’s like”—she closed her eyes and searched through her mental catalogue of music—“you know that band Skinny Lister that does kind of a modern take on sea shanties?”
They stared back at her blankly.
“Never mind. You know what sea shanties sound like, don’t you? Imagine a packed bar full of courageous men who fear and respect the sea. Imagine them singing odes to the water. The ocean is their mother. Their lover. She provides for them. And everything in this town reflects that love of the sea. The salt mist in the air. The scent of brine and storm clouds. The knowledge in the eyes of the residents when they look up at the sky to judge the oncoming weather. In fear. In reverence. Everywhere you go there’s the sound of lapping water against the docks, cawing seagulls, the hum of danger . . .” Hannah trailed off when she realized Christian was staring at her like she’d swapped his cold brew for kitty litter.
“Anyway, that’s Westport,” she finished. “That’s how it feels.”
Sergei said nothing for long moments, and she forced herself not to fidget in the rare glow of his attention. “That’s the place. That’s where we need to go.”
The producers were shooting flamethrowers at Hannah from their eyes. “We don’t have it in the budget, Sergei. We’ll have to apply for new permits. Travel expenses for an entire cast and crew. Lodging.”
Latrice tapped her clipboard, seeming kind of eager for the challenge. “We could drive. It’s a trek, but not out of the question . . . and skipping the plane would save on funds.”
“Let me worry about the money,” Sergei said, waving a hand. “I’ll crowdsource. Put my own cash toward it. Whatever is necessary. Hannah and Latrice, you’ll work out the permits and travel details?”
“Of course,” she said, agreeing to a slew of sleepless nights.
Latrice nodded, shooting Hannah a wink.
More flamethrowers from the men who’d been silly enough to think they were in charge. “We haven’t even scouted locations—”
“Hannah will take care of it. She obviously knows this place like the back of her hand. Did you hear that description?” Sergei gave her a once-over, as if seeing her for the first time, and her toes curled inside her red Converse. “Impressive.”
Don’t blush.
Too late.
She was a cherry tomato.
“Thank you.” Sergei nodded and started collecting his things, draping a worn leather satchel over his slim shoulder, messing up his dark boyish locks in the process. “We’ll be in touch,” he called to Maxine, sailing out of the studio.
And that, as they say in the business, was a wrap.
* * *
Hannah escaped the collective glare of the producers and jogged from the room, already drawing the phone from her back pocket to call Piper. She ducked into the ladies’ lounge for privacy, but before she could hit the call button, Latrice popped her head in through the door.
“Hey,” she said, sticking a thumbs-up through the opening. “Good job in there. I’ve been dying to stretch my legs a little. Between us, we’ve got this.”
Thank God they’d hired Latrice to take location-scout duties off Hannah’s plate. She was a dynamo. “We’ve so got this. I’m starting an email to you as soon as I make this call.”
“You better.”
Latrice dipped out again, and, bolstered by the vote of confidence, Hannah dialed Piper. Her sister answered on the third ring sounding out of breath.
Followed by the very distinct groan of bedsprings.
“I don’t even want to know what you were doing,” Hannah drawled. “But say hi to Brendan for me.”
“Hannah says hi,” Piper purred to her sea captain fiancé, who’d obviously just rung her bell, which was a constant event in their household. A fact Hannah unfortunately knew all too well after living with them for a couple of weeks over the summer. “What’s up, sis?”
Hannah hopped up onto the counter beside the end sink. “Is your guest room free?”
A rustle of sheets in the background. “Why? Oh my God. Why?” Hannah could almost see the wild flutter of her sister’s hands in the vicinity of her throat. “Are you coming here? When?”