As Leah removed the premade section on my face I asked her under my breath, “Should I be worried? Does he think I knocked over that light?”

“No, that was an accident. You did great. He’s just a big bear. Sometimes he forgets a movie becomes a movie during edits.”

“You’ve worked with him before?”

“Lots of times.”

“Leah!” the big bear said.

“Yes?”

“I want more . . . more . . . something on the zombies. Let’s chat.”

“See,” Leah said. “This is his filming persona. He’ll be happy in the end.” She tucked the section she’d taken off my cheek into a red plastic case.

“Red for blood?” I asked, nodding to the case.

“Don’t forget guts. Blood and guts.” She gave me a smile and left to go discuss makeup with Remy.

Grant was talking to some guy who I had seen on set before. He was tall, wearing shorts and flip-flops, and didn’t seem happy. I waved goodbye, but Grant didn’t see me.

I started peeling off wardrobe layers as I walked toward my trailer. Suddenly Aaron was at my side. “Are you okay?” He was looking at my hands like he’d find them bloodied up.

“I’m fine. Was your dad mad about the light?”

He rolled his eyes. “He’s always mad. You did great today. I like the way you glare at Grant. I think it’s very zombieish. My dad liked that part too. He gave a happy grunt.”

I held in my laugh because I could tell he was trying to give me good feedback. Being a director’s son, he’d probably been on a million sets throughout his life. “You’re going to make a great director one day.”

His eyes shot to the floor. “Thanks. Do you need anything?”

“I’m good. Thank you.”

He nodded and left me to myself. I slipped off my blouse. I was down to my tank top and ripped-up skirt by the time I closed myself inside my trailer.

A guy around my age sat on the couch, one of his feet propped up on the coffee table, his backpack open beside him. He was the most clean-cut-looking guy I’d ever seen in my life. Had he come straight from singing in a church choir? His dark hair was cropped short on the sides and a little longer on top. He wore a collared shirt and black pants.

I backed out of my trailer, pretended to check the name on the door, then entered again. “I didn’t order a cute boy today. Did I?”

The guy pulled a pencil from the open backpack, took his foot off the coffee table, and leaned forward without even the hint of a smile.

“Are you here to run lines?” I asked. Maybe this was why Remy hadn’t put up a fight about ending the day—he’d sent a coach. I headed for the cabinets in the corner where I stored my script.

“I’m Donavan, your new tutor.”

I did a one-eighty and walked to the hanging rack instead. I hung up my blouse and corset. “Ah. I didn’t order one of those either.”

“Your father told me you’d say that. And he told me to tell you that it’s this or his having a long talk with your director.”

Remy would hate that.

“Did he also tell you how to deliver that message? Because you’re channeling him very well. Although your scowl is a little on the heavy side. Maybe tone it down a notch.”

“Do you need to get ready before we start?”

“Ready? Do you have some brain warm-ups for me?”

His eyes scanned my face, unruffled by my teasing.

“Oh. You mean my makeup. Am I scaring you?”

“Not at all. I found your packet and see you’ve done only about half.”

“I’ve done half? Nice.” I sat on the couch next to him. “But here’s the problem. I can’t do homework with a stranger. Tell me your five-minute history.”

“My five-minute . . . what?”

“Your . . .” Wait, he was a stranger. Remy may not have sent me a coach, but that didn’t mean this guy sitting next to me wouldn’t make a good one. “You can help me.”

“Yes, exactly. Do you want to start with math or English?”

“Chemistry.”

He flipped several pages on the packet. “Do you even have chemistry this year?”

I began taking everything between us and putting them on the coffee table: my packet, a binder, a pencil, his phone. “You have never seen me without makeup on.” Sure, I was missing the big section on my cheek that made me look even creepier, but I knew what was left still wasn’t a pretty sight.

“Your dad also told me you would be very creative at finding ways to get out of this.” He reached for the stuff on the table.

I grabbed both of his arms and turned him to face me. “I’ll do your packet in a minute.”

“It’s your packet.”

“Whatever. Just help me real fast, and then we can work on that.”

He sighed. “I am setting my phone timer for five minutes. When it goes off, we start on the packet.”

I crinkled my nose. “You really are a choir boy, aren’t you?”

“Five minutes.” He picked up his phone.

I smirked a little. He could hold his own. Most boys let me get my way. “Fine.”

He clicked a few buttons, then set it back on the table. “So what do you need me to do?”

“Just sit there and tell me when you feel something.” For many auditions I’d had to go from meeting complete strangers to performing a scene with them in seconds. This was a little different, since he wasn’t an actor, but he’d be fine.

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I lifted my hand slowly, then ran a finger along his shoulder while I stared into his eyes. He had nice eyes—chocolate brown with thick lashes.

He jerked back. “Wait, I thought you were going to try to scare me.”

“You’d think, right? No, I need to know when you feel a spark.”

“I don’t even know you.”

“I’m not trying to form a lasting connection. I just need to know how to create chemistry with all this on.” I pointed at my makeup.

His eyes traveled over my face. Had Grant’s eyes been traveling my entire face today too? Maybe he needed to concentrate on the one thing the makeup artist didn’t touch—my eyes.

“Hey . . .” I realized I’d forgotten his name.

He realized I’d forgotten too. “Donavan.”

“Right. Sorry. Donavan, don’t look anywhere but in my eyes.”

“Okay.” His eyes went back to mine. It was obvious he was feeling nothing but uncomfortable at this point.

I needed to change that. I kept my hands to myself and twirled my hair while locking eyes. I tried to make mine soft and vulnerable. My dirty hair crunched as I twisted it around my finger, and I held back a sigh. This was the problem—I was relying on the tactics I normally fell back on in a romantic scene, things that wouldn’t work in my current makeup-ed state. I inched closer to him on the couch. He smelled like mint gum. If he had a piece in his mouth, he wasn’t chewing it. He was perfectly still.

I reached for his hand that was resting on his knee and slowly laced our fingers together. His fingertips were slightly calloused, and I wondered what he’d done to earn those. Yard work? Building? I used my thumb to draw circles on his palm.