“When you’re done making out with the dog, I want to show you something,” he says, and I can damn near hear the laughter in his voice. I push my hand into Buster’s collar and yank him away before he starts getting a little too friendly with me.
“Shower first,” I tell him through squished lips, and I crawl to my feet.
“Down the hall. It’s the room with the toilet in it.”
“Thanks. I never would’ve figured that out.”
He stretches on the bed, and I take the opportunity to grab a pillow and toss it at his crotch. Then I bolt from the room before he tosses it back.
After my cold shower, I put on the least sexy thing I packed and keep Buster close. I need a cock-blocker if Landon can get me revved up while I’m completely hungover.
I was hoping to smell some sort of food as I make my way down to the kitchen, but it’s just the soap from the shower. I smooth my braid over my shoulder when I reach the landing and subtly fix my bra straps to make sure they aren’t showing. Last Night Lizzie didn’t make a very good impression. But by golly, Breakfast Lizzie will win over the in-laws. Hurdle number three, I will clear you.
Honk!
“The whole point to this weekend was to talk about the wedding. We haven’t even gone over anything.”
Landon’s voice filters through the living room, and I follow it to the front door.
“Your mother forgot about her doctor’s appointment,” Mr. Wangford says.
“On a Saturday?”
“It’s a weekend clinic.”
Honk!
I tentatively turn the corner to where Landon and his dad are. Mr. Wangford has his keys in his hand, hanging out on the porch while Landon hovers in the open doorway. All I can see of Landon is the back of his beet red neck, so I sidle up and lightly tug on his arms. He uncrosses them and takes my hand.
“Why would she schedule a doctor’s appointment this weekend? Meeting Liz was her idea.”
“I know…she just wasn’t expecting an engagement—”
HonkHonk!
My eyes swivel to Mrs. Wangford in the driveway, throwing her hands in the air at her husband. A guilty weight burrows deep into the pit of my stomach.
Mr. Wangford sighs, gaze drifting to me, then back to Landon. “You had to leave early anyway, right? Head back to work. And long trips probably aren’t good for the baby.”
Landon stiffens. “She’s not pregnant, Dad.” His hand shakes in mine, and I lean in to him, hoping that my proximity alone will help comfort him, because no way am I opening my mouth. That’s probably what made Mrs. Wangford slam her butt in the car in the first place.
“You can stay for a bit if you want.” Mr. Wangford forces a smile. “Show Elizabeth the house.”
“Right.”
Landon’s arm wraps around my waist, still keeping my hand tucked in his. I squeeze it twice and he squeezes back…but it takes him a minute.
HonkHonkHonk!
Mr. Wangford doesn’t turn. “We’ll see you at Christmas, ’kay, kid?”
Landon’s jaw flexes. “Got it.”
Mr. Wangford’s gaze goes to me, and his smile doesn’t look as forced. “Nice to meet you, Elizabeth Ann.”
Mustering up every ounce of courage I have, I reach out and hug my future father-in-law. “You too,” I say, hoping my voice sounds light and happy and also sorry for my drunken behavior. Mr. Wangford jerks a tiny bit with surprise, but gives me an awkward pat on the back. Then he gets in the driver’s seat and they take off to Mrs. Wangford’s “appointment.”
Landon drops my hand and slams the front door shut, knocking down an extra set of keys on the wall hook. He starts toward the stairs while I pick up the keys and put them back in place.
He’s not saying anything, but I’m assuming we’re going to pack our stuff and go. The house feels empty. Just us and Buster. Who knows where Elle is. I try to keep up, my guilt increasing with every step.
Why oh why did I drink last night? I could’ve sucked it up and dealt with the ex-girlfriend talk. Or maybe I overreacted. I mean, it’s natural for moms to talk about uncomfortable things, right? Oh hell, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter, because I completely botched this meet and greet. I wonder if Landon will even talk to me on the way back.
Shit, this was my chance to prove I’m old enough to get married, that I’m excited about being a member of their family, that I’m cute and perfect for their son and not this lippy, bossy ditz who can’t hold her liquor.
I slam my butt down on the middle step of the second staircase. “Landon, I’m so sorry. I should’ve shoved that wine away. Or drank water. Or duct-taped my mouth shut. Or—”
“Wait, you think I’m mad at you?” Landon stops, turns around, and grins. “That’s damn cute.”
“You’re not?”
He sits on the step above me. “I’m mad at them.”
“But I—”
“You’re here.” He kisses my cheek. “Even though they’ve treated you like hell, you’re still here.”
“I want them to like me.”
“I do, too.”
“I want to like them.”
“I don’t give a shit if you like them.”
“They’re your family.”
“Don’t remind me.” He sighs and rests his head on the railing. “It’s days like this I wish I could choose my family.”
“You chose me.” I offer up a cheesy grin. He laughs and kisses it away.
“I still want to show you something before we go.”
“Okay.”
He takes my hand, and I trip up a couple of stairs before I get my bearings. He’s laughing, and I’m scolding him for making fun of me, but at least he seems in a better mood.
Buster must’ve heard my very graceful promenade, because he barrels from the guest room and whacks us both with his bulky tail as Landon pulls me into a bedroom at the end of the hall. He better keep his distance, because I am not going to be his new hump pillow.
“My old room,” he says. It’s now the makings of an office…I think. There’s a desk, a computer, and a bookshelf, not much else.
He opens the closet and ducks inside. I hear him slump on the floor.
“There’s room for two!” he shouts, and I nudge the door wider. The closet is barely a walk-in, but I slip inside and sit on the floor across from Landon. Buster’s tail smacks the side of my head, and I shove his large puppy butt away as he settles between us. Landon slides a box out from behind him with one hand and rubs Buster’s belly with the other.
“This stuff used to cover my walls,” he says, handing me a large poster. I bat Buster’s paw off my arm and unroll the long sheath of glossy paper.
“The Nightmare Before Christmas…I’m not surprised.” I smile and peek over the poster to the box. There are about six or seven more, along with a bundle of Sundance tickets, article printouts, and lots of Tim Burton knickknacks. I let out a chuckle and set the poster down. “I have a boy band collection. You should see my signed One Direction poster.”
“Aren’t they a little modern for you?”
“When was the last time you saw a BBMak concert?”
“Never.”
I give him a look and reach for the box, but Buster whines and kicks at me to get a belly rubbing. I oblige only because I imagine him sitting on my lap and crushing my legs if I don’t.
Landon sweeps a hand across a Big Fish poster, staring at it with a sort of nostalgic glimmer, and I suddenly see someone ten years younger, chasing after a dream that seems unimaginable, before he became the man whose dreams are within arms’ reach.
“Tim Burton always painted what was different. He celebrated it, embraced it, made not only a story, but art. When I saw this movie”—he nods at the poster in his hands—“I saw myself. I felt like a big fish. I looked around and saw elaborate stories, people’s lives, and I wanted to create them, too.” The corner of his mouth picks up and his eyes flick to mine. “I wrote a book, thinking it meant I wanted to tell s
tories.”
“You wrote a book?”
He rolls the poster up and fishes around in the box. I scoot closer, Buster’s warm belly mashing against my leg.
“Weeds,” Landon says, jostling a thick binder in his hands. “Took me a year.”
“How old were you?”
“Sixteen.”
I hold my arms out and he sets the heavy binder in my hands. “Instead of making out in your secluded tree house, you were playing the part of tortured writer, huh?” I go to flip it open, but he stops me.
“It’s awful.”
“You won’t let me peek?”
He shakes his head, and I bat at the bill of his cap. Buster whines and presses a wet nose to my knee. I sigh and shift the book so I can continue to rub his tummy. Landon’s fingers occasionally knock with mine and we scratch the pudgy pup.
“I was going to say…after writing it, I never had that spark again. I didn’t want to write stories. But I did want to tell them.”
“Is that when you got your grant?”
“I made the movie first. I signed up for film studies and shot Weeds in movie form. It’s still so rough, I don’t know how or why Mr. Nickerson saw something in it. But he did, and yeah, after it won state in film, I got a grant to make the next one.”
My chest swells, making my lips turn up and my toes tingle. I love hearing about his dreams coming true. Most of my adolescence consisted of Spin-the-Bottle, what to wear to my next date, if I’d get a date, if Mom and Dad would ever extend my curfew, what Jessie Hopkins was going to say about my new haircut, and if I’d botch my play auditions.
Now Landon, he found out what he wanted to do, and he did it. Gah…sex under a baseball cap that man is.
“It still feels unreal,” he says, eyes moving back to the Big Fish poster. “I’ve done so much, gotten so far, yet it seems unreachable at the same time.”
“It’s not. Your zombie movie will kick film festival ass.”
A wide smile sets on his lips, and he pushes the posters out of the way, tries to nudge Buster—who doesn’t move, and takes my left hand.
“Telling stories, directing, being someone who could make a difference is what I wanted. I still do, but it just…falls flat now.”
“What do you mean?”
“The way I felt when I got my first film award was phenomenal. I was above the moon. Then things kept coming, kept happening. I feel like I’m slowly moving up this steep mountain and I’m nearly at the top. It feels great. Exhilarating. Freeing. I feel proud of myself, and in love with what I’m doing. I feel happy.”
His eyes drop to my hand, to my ring. A thumb strokes over my knuckle. “None of that compares to when I put this on your finger.” He looks up at me, and my heart has completely ballooned from my chest. “It’s like comparing no-name to Heinz. A puddle to the ocean. Slight breeze to a raging tornado. Regular TV to HD. Dinner to dessert. And I thought, this…this is how it feels to finally get what your heart wants.”
A steady beat fills my ears, low and happy and thrilling. “Aww!” My smile makes my cheeks sore. My stomach feels all tingly. And I squeeze his hand twice before he squeezes back once. “That was really romantic.” Where has this man been?
“I know,” he says like he can’t believe it either. “You should kiss me for it.”
“I would…” I pucker my lips. “But I can’t reach.”
He puckers, too. Then we air kiss while Buster continues to bat at our hands with his paws so we keep rubbing his tummy.
“We should hit the road,” he says after a minute, pushing the box back. I give Buster another good rub and nod.
“I think my iPod is charged now, so perfect timing.”
He groans and I evil laugh. But I think I’ll let him listen to his music. After what he just said, if I can’t give him sex, I’ll at least give him power over the radio.
Chapter 12
I’m pretty sure my future mother-in-law hates me, my future sister-in-law thinks I’m an idiot, and my future father-in-law thinks I’m pregnant, but I survived! And even with the awkward parting, the wedding is still on and according to Elle’s text to Landon, they’re planning on attending.
One parental meet and greet down, one to go. I’ve added to my Hurdle List: Find a dress, so when Mom flies in on November fifth, I can show it to her. It works great because Landon’s last day of shooting is Halloween.
He’s shooting at the school’s studio today, and even though the car is running off fumes instead of actual gas, I drive the forty-minute trip and ask the gate guy to direct me to Landon’s shoot.
I get out of the car and a cute girl with an iPod bud in one ear while the other dangles down her front escorts me through a giant set of metal doors. Fog spills out over my heels, and she puts a finger to her lips. I nod and slip inside.
Not even three steps in, I adjust my baby blue sweater on my shoulders, wondering if I should have grabbed my coat. I thought the set would be hot and muggy considering there’s a ton of smoke from the fog machine and Landon always comes home smelling of sweat. But it’s like the a/c is cranked to frost and it’s already below sixty outside.
My shoes aren’t exactly quiet, and I don’t want a click clack to pick up on anything, so I slide them off and tiptoe across a cold tile floor. I can hear Jace yelling, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. When I get past the main hallway to the open set, my mouth pops open a little.
I don’t know why, but I expected something a little…low-funded? But as I look at the cameras, the fog, the props, the actors, the lighting, the microphones, all of it…it’s like I walked in on a legitimate Hollywood movie set. Goose bumps prickle up and down my arms that have nothing to do with the cold.
“Can we cut for a second?” Landon says from behind the camera. A giant smile sets on my face as I watch his furrowed brow as he looks at the playback, his light scruff when he scratches his chin, his tongue poke out slightly like it always does when he’s concentrating real hard.
That man is mine.
“Jace, can you do that line again, but instead of looking at Chantal, look slightly to her right.”
Jace twirls his prop rifle, letting it come to rest on his shoulder. “You got it.”
“And Chantal, try to figure out what he’s looking at. Exaggerate it.”
“Do you want me to improv any dialogue?” Chantal asks while Landon waves the makeup person to fix the blood on Chantal’s neck.
“No. I want to make it comedic without any mention of it.”
She nods and then stretches her neck up to get her zombie bite refreshed. Landon adjusts his cap and leans in to Jace, and they laugh at whatever he says. I tiptoe behind the camera, far enough so I’m not in the way and close enough to see what it looks like on screen.
“All right, marker.” Landon moves back behind the camera. A guy with a headset announces it’s take twenty-two and then the set quiets.
“We can’t,” Jace says, looking over Chantal’s shoulder. She looks behind her and looks back.
“But I’m not a zombie.”
“Yet.” He’s still looking at something behind her. “But when that bite spreads, you’re going to want to eat me.”
“I want to eat you now. Like a stuffed turkey.” She makes this squeezing motion with her hands, and I choke back a laugh.
Jace keeps looking over her shoulder. Chantal steps into his line of vision and he turns his head. They do it through their entire scene, and it’s so ridiculous that holding in my laughter causes me to lightly snort. Landon turns around, nods to some guy who gives him a thumbs-up, then Landon’s gaze drifts to me.
He squints like he’s not sure who I am, but after I wave an apology for disturbing the shoot, his smile widens and he yells, “Cut!” right in the middle of Jace’s line.
“Dude, I was killing that!” Jace says with a toss of his hands.
“Break for ten.”
Chantal lets out a giant sigh of relief and then rushes to the ladies’ room behi
nd me. Jace takes off his ripped wardrobe jacket and chats to a couple of the extras. Landon takes off his headphones, hops over a chair, and meets me at the back of the room.
“What’re you doing here?”
“I’m here to micromanage, of course.”
He laughs. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“Stop making me laugh, because I’ll ruin every take.”
“Laughing is good.”
“I thought you were shooting a zombie movie.”
“Zombie parody. It’s called The Walking Stiff.”
“Sounds like a porn.” I flick my gaze over his shoulder to Jace. He’s using a spoon as a mirror while he fixes his hair. “Though I think you’ve cast it well.”
“Comedy is Jace’s forte.”
“And yours.”
His smile gets even bigger, and he pulls me into his arms. “So really, what are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you work. Is that okay?”
“Hell yeah. You want a quick tour?”
“Yes, please.”
“You can put your shoes back on.”
I make a face at him and use his shoulder for balance while I slip on my heels. Then he takes my hand and pulls me toward all the equipment. Most of it has been abandoned with the break Landon announced, so he leads me right up behind “camera 4,” which is the one shooting Chantal’s mark.
“It goes to my laptop over there.” He points behind us. “Chantal has great action/reaction, so I end up using more of her perspective than I probably should. She also has the better face for kissing.”
“Say what now?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. Landon chuckles, takes my chin in his hand, and leans in.
“If I shoot from this camera during the kissing scenes, it captures Chantal’s face more while we get most of Jace’s profile. It’s a more direct facial.” His fingers tiptoe across my cheek. “When we kiss, you always turn right. If we were to kiss in front of this camera, we’d see mostly you, less of me.”
“Don’t you see both kissers equally?”
He grins and taps a peck to my lips before pulling back. “There’s always a ‘lead’ kisser. In this case, it’s Chantal because Jace constantly grins like a dumbass.”