Los Angeles
Romance Book Swap

Hundreds of cast and crew stand watching as they wait for the director to address them on their very first day of filming. Emotions run high, and they run the gamut: anxiety, excitement—and, for my part, some mild nausea. 

“I want to thank you all for devoting your time and energy to this project,” I say, perched on an apple box. Everyone’s eyes are on me. “I’m excited to create something special together.”

Somewhat to my surprise, I don’t want to shrink away from their gaze. I am emboldened by it. My shoulders drop. It’s obvious these people trust me to lead them, and I’ll do everything to ensure that their trust is well-earned, even on the most trying days on set.

“When Jack and I founded Swan Dive Productions—” I gesture to him a few rows back, where he’s crossing his arms and suppressing a grin among the sea of faces— “this was exactly the kind of story we saw ourselves bringing to the screen. Stakes, sex scenes—and no superheroes.”

I get the laughs I was going for.

When Tom’s wife Molly announced over dinner that the galleys for her next novel had arrived, I’d insisted on taking one before we left their house. “I’ll have my people call your people,” I’d joked, but holding it in my hands, it felt like kismet. Molly’s book, Camembert Dreams, is about two best friends who are dancers, falling in and out of love over the course of thirty years on two different continents. It’s dramatic, sweeping, funny, poignant, and adult. I laughed, I cried, I read passages out loud to Jack in bed. I knew fifty pages in that I wanted it to be the first film we made together. 

I lock eyes with him now, on set, picturing the copy we marked up together before going into full adaptation mode. “Jack? You want to say anything?”

He clears his throat and takes two steps forward, but he remains in the mix of the cast and crew. “Every time I make a movie, it still feels like an impossible dream, and this time even more so,” he says. “As an actor, you’re given the script and only have a small window to spend with it. Having the privilege of lingering on this one, of being involved in this story every step of the way—it only makes me more excited to see how we all bring it to life.”

He sends a small, discreet wink my way, and God, if it doesn’t set my insides fluttering. 

I tear my gaze away and nod to Amanda, the assistant director on Gatsby, who we convinced to team up with us again. “Okay, let’s go. Picture’s up in five.”

“That’s places in five, everyone! Last looks!” Amanda claps her hands for emphasis, and hair, makeup, and wardrobe set about ensuring that there’s not a strand, an eyelash, or a thread out of place.

As I mentally catalog the list of things I have to do to ready myself for the first shot, I hear the patter of little ballet slippers. Agnes is running toward me, with Stuart hot on her heels. 

“Just in time!” I say as Agnes flings herself into my arms. I glance at Stuart. “Thank you for bringing her today.”

Agnes pulls away and I smooth her now-ratty tutu, the one she insists on wearing everywhere. The one she knows is just like the costume the star of the movie will wear, minus the pizza stains. My hope is that if Agnes can see for herself what I’m doing on set—can experience it in her own way—it will make the time when I’m away a little easier on both of us.

I ruffle her hair and kiss her cheek, then catch Stuart’s eye. “You’ll keep her away from the electric department?”

He puts his arm around me and gives me a look. “I would be remiss if I didn’t take this opportunity to tell you for the millionth time that I’m so proud of you, honey. And your mother would be, too. I’m allowed to be sappy. It’s one of those kinds of days.” 

My heart swells a little, and I don’t try to stop it. “Thank you. For that and for helping make it possible”—I gesture at the tote full of Agnes’s gear draped over his shoulder—“for me to follow in your directorial footsteps.”

He flicks his wrist. “Your work will be far more tasteful. And if you happen to need an extra background actor, let me know. I think I might be due for my second act.”

“Imagine you fading into the background.” I shake my head, laughing. “But I could use your opinion on this first setup, if you have time?”

He puts his hand to his chest in mock disbelief. “Moi?” 

“Oui,” I tell him, playing along. 

“Agnes, why don’t you—” But before he can finish, Jack is by my side.

“I’m not in this first scene,” Jack says. “He squats down to get eye level with Agnes. “Why don’t you and I take a walk over to crafty?”

“What’s crafty?” she asks, clearly perturbed by the idea that there’s yet another thing that needs explaining by adults.

“Code word for snacks.” His tone turns conspiratorial. “And we have to go quick, before all the good ones are taken.” He holds out his hand and she takes it.

Jack stands, but before they walk away, he points to the four of us. “Hey,” he starts. “What about this for our next movie?”

“You mean us? Our love story?”

“Haven’t you heard?” he asks. “Romance is back.”

“It’s not a bad idea.” I’m already picturing the most cinematic moments in my mind. “But you can’t play yourself.”

Later, when we’re setting up for the second shot of the day—Jack’s first—he appears by my side, hand at the back of my neck.

“Any last-minute notes for your star?” 

“Me, notes?”

His fingers press into my skin, a glint in his eye. “We can discuss them back in the office if that’s easier.”

I hardly blush at him making comments like this to me in public anymore—a true testament to how far we’ve come. In so many ways, today feels like the culmination of everything we’ve worked toward for the last eighteen months: merging our professional and personal worlds in a way that lets us share our lives and create the kind of work we both love.

A year ago, when Jack went back to London while I stayed put in LA, we’d spent a few months doing our best at making it work long-distance. Which for us mostly meant watching movies, separately but together, just like we had during Gatsby. But this time around, we were seeking out newer indies featuring up-and-coming talent in an effort to find people we hoped we could collaborate with eventually. We made new discoveries, like the writing of Annie Baker, and I answered lots of urgent questions from Jack, like, “Do you think Glen Powell is fitter than me?” (I assured him the answer was no—or at least, my answer was no.)

After a while, the routine started to take on an air of domesticity that even I had to admit was impressive given our physical distance. Occasionally during our FaceTimes, Agnes would run off with the iPad so she could show Jack one of her new stuffies and he could ask her earnest questions about its dietary preferences. Then Stuart would inevitably snatch the device from her to ask if Jack could introduce him to Nicholas Galitzine, at which point I would reclaim it and retreat to my bedroom. 

To give our Swan Dive pursuit some structure, we had what we deemed Special Business Phone Calls twice a week, set aside for scheming about the production company. Jack and I would work together when we wanted to, we decided, or we would ensure one of us was home and not working if we needed to be. I worried how Delia would react, but Jack didn’t. “It’s my career, love, and if she has a problem with it, then there’s always new representation to be found.”

By the time we wrap our first day on set, my voice is raspy from overuse, bound to be gone completely before production ends. I step into Jack’s and my shared office to inhale a deep breath and review the schedule for tomorrow. Just being in the little space Jack and I have made ours centers me, and my thoughts wander back to that first kiss in my office over a year ago. How we—well, I—tried so hard to suppress what was between us that I almost risked it never getting this far.

Jack and I were never inevitable. We were better than inevitable, because our relationship caused both of us to grow and learn, to become people we might not have been without each other.

A light knock on the door interrupts my thoughts. Jack, back in his gray T-shirt and jeans, steps into the room. His face is a little damp and slightly pink from the layer of makeup that was just scrubbed off it.

I walk toward him, take his head between my hands, and press his mouth to mine.

“Well, hello to you, too. You’re breaking your own rule,” he murmurs against my lips—but his hands are already creeping under the hem of my shirt.

“Last time I broke my own rules it worked out pretty well for me.” I hook my fingers through his belt loops and pull his hips close to mine. My heart rate climbs. 

Jack slides his hand down the back of my waistband. “How many rules are you game to break?”

“Don’t date an actor, don’t go into business with your boyfriend—how many are left?” 

He squeezes my ass, and my breath catches in my chest. Every ounce of focus I had planned to put toward tomorrow’s blocking is now diverted to the sensation between my legs—wet, and desperate for Jack’s touch. 

Jack smirks, a flicker in his eye. “Is sex in this office on the table, then?”

“I believe it’d be on the desk.”

He huffs a laugh—and then, his hands are around my waist, hoisting me atop a pile of scripts and production notes. I let out a truly silly squeal, a combination of shock and delight, and wrap my legs around his hips, pulling him even closer in a desperate attempt to create friction or pressure. It’s not a challenging feat—his dick is already hard and straining against his fly.  

“Touch me,” I demand breathlessly, my hand working to unbutton his pants. We move in tandem as he wriggles me out of my micro-pleat pants, and I angle my head toward his and nip at his earlobe. He moans softly, a welcome reminder of what he says my “bossy voice” does to him.

He moves his hand down my thigh slowly, stroking along the outside of my leg then shifting in closer, teasing me in a way that is as much a turn-on as a trial. He’s become a master of making me wait—of not giving me exactly what I want when I want it. His acting training has given him an acute understanding of power dynamics and how to leverage them to his advantage.

After minutes that feel like hours of him tracing circles around the very tops of my legs and the edges of my underwear, his thumb jumps to my clit, and my hips buck instantly. 

He gives me a self-satisfied smile. “This is what breaking your own rules does.”

“Jack,” I say hoarsely. “I’m dangerously close.” 

“I could get used to this new voice of yours—it’s quite sexy. Say the words ‘dangerously close’ one more time…”

He increases the pressure and starts moving his thumb in circles.

I can’t even try to form the words. Instead, I cry out as an orgasm rips through me, the sensation reaching all the way to my fingertips. 

“It turns out,” I gasp as he trails kisses up my neck. “That if you follow all the rules, you miss all the fun.”