Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters, #2)(4)

Real leading-man material.

What was that like? To be the star in the movie of your life?

Hannah had been playing second fiddle so long, she was getting arthritis in her fingers. Her sister, Piper, had demanded the spotlight since childhood, and Hannah was always comfortable waiting in the wings, anticipating her cue to walk on as best supporting actress, even providing bail money on more than one occasion. That was where she shined. Bolstering the heroine at her lowest point, stepping in to defend the leading lady when necessary, saying the right thing in a pivotal heart-to-heart.

Supporting actresses didn’t want or need the glory. They were content to prop up the main character and be instrumental in their mission. And Hannah was content in that role, too. Wasn’t she?

A memory trickled in without her consent.

A memory that made her jumpy for some reason.

That one afternoon six months ago at a vinyl convention in Seattle when she’d felt like the main character. Browsing through records with Fox Thornton, king crab fisherman and a lady-killer of the highest caliber. When they’d stood shoulder to shoulder and shared a pair of AirPods, listening to “Silver Springs,” the world just kind of fading out around them.

Just an anomaly.

Just a fluke.

Restless, probably because of the nine cups of black coffee she’d drunk throughout the day, Hannah returned Christian’s cold brew to the fridge and waited on the periphery to see what kind of curveball Sergei was about to throw the team. Honestly, she loved his left turns, even if no one else did. The tempest of his imagination could not be stopped. It was enviable. It was hot.

This guy was her type.

She just wasn’t his, if the last two years were any indication.

“What do you mean you no longer see Los Angeles as the backdrop?” one of the producers asked. “We already have the permits.”

“Am I the only one who saw the rain falling in this scene? The quiet melancholia unfolding around them?” Who didn’t want to date a man who dropped that kind of terminology without batting an eyelash? “We cannot pit the raw volume of Los Angeles against them. It’ll drown them out. We need to let the nuance thrive. We need to give it oxygen and space and sunlight.”

“You just said you wanted to give it rain,” the producer pointed out drily.

Sergei laughed in that way artists do when someone is too dense to grasp their vision. “A plant needs sunlight and water to grow, does it not?” His frustration was causing his normally light Russian accent to thicken. “We need a more subtle location for the shoot. A place that will lend focus to the actors.”

Latrice, the new location scout, raised her hand slowly. “Like . . . Toluca Lake?”

“No! Outside of Los Angeles. Picture—”

“I know a place.” Hannah said it without thinking. Her mouth was moving, and then the words were hanging in the air like a comic-strip quote bubble, too late to pop. Everyone turned to look at her at once. A very un–supporting actress position to be in, even if it was refreshing to have Sergei’s eyes on her longer than the usual fleeting handful of seconds. It reminded Hannah, rather inconveniently, of the way someone else gave her his undivided attention, sometimes picking up on her moods simply via text message.

So she blurted the next part in an attempt to block out that useless thought. “Last summer, I spent some time in Washington. A small fishing town called Westport.” She was only suggesting this for two reasons. One, she wanted to support Sergei’s idea and possibly earn herself one of those fleeting smiles. And two, what if she could sneak a trip to see her sister in the name of work? Counting their brief visit at Christmas, she’d only seen Piper and her fiancé, Brendan, once in six months. Missing them was a constant ache in her stomach.

“Fishing village,” Sergei mused, rubbing his chin and starting to pace, mentally rewriting the screenplay. “Tell me more about it.”

“Well.” Hannah unwrapped her hands from inside her sleeves. One did not pitch a genius director, a location scout, and a panel of producers with her fists balled in a UCLA sweatshirt. Already she was cursing her decision to pile her straw-colored hair into a baseball cap this morning. Let us not add to the kid-sister vibe. “It’s moody and misty, set right on the water. Most residents have lived there since they were born, and they’re very, um”—set in their ways, unwelcoming, wonderful, protective—“routine-oriented. Fishing is their livelihood, and I guess you could say there’s an element of melancholy there. For the fishermen who’ve been lost.”

Like her father, Henry Cross.

Hannah had to push past the lump in her throat to continue. “It’s quaint. Has kind of a weathered feel. It’s like”—she closed her eyes and searched through her mental catalogue of music—“you know that band Skinny Lister that does kind of a modern take on sea shanties?”

They stared back at her blankly.

“Never mind. You know what sea shanties sound like, don’t you? Imagine a packed bar full of courageous men who fear and respect the sea. Imagine them singing odes to the water. The ocean is their mother. Their lover. She provides for them. And everything in this town reflects that love of the sea. The salt mist in the air. The scent of brine and storm clouds. The knowledge in the eyes of the residents when they look up at the sky to judge the oncoming weather. In fear. In reverence. Everywhere you go there’s the sound of lapping water against the docks, cawing seagulls, the hum of danger . . .” Hannah trailed off when she realized Christian was staring at her like she’d swapped his cold brew for kitty litter.