“Thank you, sir.” Maybe she wouldn’t show him her writing. This golden opportunity was off to a bad start.
He climbed inside. When she shut the door, she saw the man in the gray suit was still standing by the limousine.
“Ms. Bach.” The man’s smile was friendly though tight. “My name is Miles. I’m Mr. Fairchild’s personal assistant for his home. I’ve placed portfolios, his laptop and his briefcase on the front seat. Mr. Fairchild may request that you hand him a portfolio for him to study during the drive. They’re all in a specific order. If he requests a portfolio, hand him the one on top.” He lifted a brow.
“The one on top. Thank you, Miles. I’ll be sure to hand him the correct portfolio.” She glanced at the neatly arranged stack on the bench seat.
Miles stared at her a moment longer, his brow lifting higher as if unsure she understood his instructions.
“The one on top,” she repeated.
She hurried around the car to the driver’s side. Her hands gripping the steering wheel, she guided the limo down the drive lane. The privacy partition was closed but Quint’s deep, smooth voice carried through the glass. His tone rose. The phrases a period piece and hook the viewers with a series, followed by we’ll audition unknowns floated through the divider.
Period piece. What did he mean by that? In her portfolio was a pilot script for a series set during the turn of the last century. She’d based the character on her great-great-grandmother who’d left her privileged life in New York to teach in Gwilliam Park. Chrystelle had already filmed the first episode starring her cousin, who was definitely an unknown. She squeezed the steering wheel. This could be the script he had in mind.
Quint Fairchild was known for his wholesome television series and movies. She couldn’t squander this opportunity. Her heart beat a little faster. She may never have another chance.
As she drove around the fountain, Quint’s belongings slid across the seat and her portfolio tumbled over his. She glanced at the mess, and a bubble of panic popped in her throat. She took a deep breath.
Though the cases were similar, hers would be instantly recognizable with its bent corner. The clutter wasn’t life-threatening. She could fix this. If Quint didn’t ask for one of his cases, he’d never know. Once they arrived at the studio, she’d sort through the stack and make sure she gave him his portfolios. Not that he would be the one carrying them. Clearly he had assistants for that kind of thing.
“Miss Bach?” Quint’s voice sounded through the intercom.
Waves of heat washed through her. He remembered her name, and he didn’t sound angry. Maybe she still had a chance to give him her script.
“Yes, sir?” Her voice squeaked. She winced and waited.
“Hand me the top portfolio Miles gave you.”
She glanced at the chaotic mess scrunched against the passenger door. Some items had tumbled to the floor and slid halfway beneath the seat. From this angle, it was impossible to identify her portfolio case.
“You want it now?” Her voice climbed an octave.
Impatience pulsed through the hesitant beat. “That would be preferable. I have a few moments before my next conference call.” There was steel in his voice. No doubt he didn’t like being questioned.
She had to stall, but what she was about to say might send him through the limousine’s roof.
“I have to apologize, sir, but I overheard parts of your phone conversation.” Now she’d done it. Her stomach twisted into a hard knot. Never had she been this bold, but how else could she get someone to read her scripts?
Stony silence rang through the limousine. “You do realize I could have you fired for eavesdropping.” He spoke in a glacial tone.
A sharp pang shot through her. She needed this job, but she couldn’t stop now. “I understand, sir, but I attended your speech at the most recent Hollywood Screenwriters Conference, and you did say you were open to scripts from unknowns.”
“So I did.” He gave a humorless laugh. Was that a line he said at all conferences and never expected anyone to take seriously? “When your script’s ready, contact my assistant, Bernice. She’ll tell you how to submit it.”
“It’s ready now, sir. I have it here.” Who was this brash person talking? Never had she been so insistent, but she knew this script would be perfect based on the phone conversation she’d overheard. She glanced at the muddle of portfolios teetering on the edge of the seat and spotted a bent corner peeking out from the stack. “It’s a period piece, the pilot to a series, and I’ve taped the first episode with my cousin, who is an unknown, as the main character.” She separated her portfolio from the rest before merging onto the interstate.
Chrystelle wove in and out of traffic on the Hollywood Freeway. Keeping her eyes on the road, she lowered the divide and passed the portfolio through the opening.
“You expect me—”
“I don’t mean to interrupt, sir.” She could barely hear her own voice through the blood rushing through her eardrums. “I’m not expecting anything, but you did say you had a few moments before your next call. You’ll know before you’ve finished reading the first page if it’s worthy of Fairchild Films.” If he didn’t, she’d prove it was.
“You are persistent.” Quint laughed low.
“Not normally, sir, but I’ve seen every film and series your studio’s produced. My script fits with the theme.”
As he accepted the portfolio, his hand grazed hers. It wasn’t smooth and soft, as she would expect for a Hollywood executive. Strength emanated through his hardened skin. Strength she wanted to wrap herself in.
The portfolio lifted from her grasp. The partition slid back into place. Would he read her script or throw it aside? He’d accepted it. At least, he was curious.
His now familiar deep voice cut through the silence that pressed against her. The tension in her chest eased, but only a fraction. He’d taken another call.
Chrystelle wished he’d get off the phone and tell her what he thought of her script. She might get lucky. This could be the idea he wanted. He’d hire her to write the series. Her name would appear in the opening credits. She’d walk the red carpet with Hollywood A-listers. She’d be photographed and interviewed. Producers would call day and night begging her to write for them.
Reality swooped in as a truck’s horn sounded in the lane next to her. Quint Fairchild, hire her as a writer for his company? She’d be lucky to keep this chauffeuring job.
She exited the freeway and traveled down Sunset Boulevard to Fairchild Films. At the main gate, she gave her name to the guard and pulled out her ID for review. His gaze wavered between her and a list of names appearing on his tablet. Finally convinced she had authorization to be there, he waved her through. The map on her console’s GPS guided her to the studio’s executive offices.
Quint’s voice quieted from behind the partition as she slowed to a stop and parked the limo. She gritted her teeth and waited for the tinted glass divider to open.
Five minutes passed.
Ten minutes.
Please lower the window and tell me what you think.
The partition opened, but Mr. Fairchild remained quiet.
Chapter 2