“Well Neevah Saint practically did.”
“Neevah did a damn Broadway show and killed her audition with Mallory.”
“I’ll send you his tape. Mal’s working with his agent. The team’s coming together. We got Verity on the script. Monk’s in for the score. Neevah’s in for Dessi. Costumes will be a huge part of this. We need to start looking at costume designers.”
“Yeah?” I turn back to the storyboard, only half listening now. “Alright, whatever.”
“Lawson Stone has a suggestion.”
Something in Evan’s voice makes me study him over my shoulder suspiciously. “Don’t tell me. His second cousin is a seamstress.”
“Even better.” Evan fights a smirk unsuccessfully. “His wife.”
Now that I wasn’t expecting. “Linh? His wife we met? Whose dad is the sculptor?”
“Yeah, pretty sure he’s only got the one wife.”
“And if he’s willing to get rid of her, you’d be in line.”
“Me? The last thing I want is somebody’s wife.”
“But you think she’s pretty,” I tease.
“I think she’s gorgeous and sexy as hell, but she’s married to our studio exec. There’s plenty of pussy in the sea.”
“Nice with the mixed metaphor. You seen her stuff yet?”
“Yeah, man. She’s terrific, actually. She’s worked on several period pieces but under someone else’s banner. Now starting to branch out on her own.”
“Send it over. I’ll take a look.”
“You mentioned needing to see the chemistry between the two actors,” Evan says. “What do you think about flying Neevah out to do a screen test with Trey?”
This is a sound suggestion, but the thought of seeing Neevah again gives me pause and also, unfortunately, a dangerous thrill of anticipation.
Be smart.
Be cautious.
“Canon?” Evan asks, one brow lifted. “Think we should bring Neevah in for Trey’s screen test?”
“Sorry, dude. My mind is all over the place today. We can ask her, sure.”
“Okay, well since you’ve been dealing with her and she and I haven’t actually met yet, you want to do the honors?”
“Yeah. I will.”
“Cool.” Evan heads for the door. “I’ll coordinate with Trey’s agent.”
Once he’s gone, I consider the phone on my desk. I know I need to make this call, but I’m bracing myself for that husky-sweet voice of hers, and how the sound of it hits me like a shot of whiskey. And I need a clear head.
“You don’t have time for this shit,” I mutter, grabbing the phone and dialing. “It’s just a call.”
She picks up on the second ring.
“Canon?” she asks, sounding a little breathless.
“Hey, yeah. How are you?”