Hook, Line, and Sinker (Bellinger Sisters, #2)(52)

Her voice traveled across the harbor, the wind seeming to carry it out to the water. When the song was over, Sergei started clapping and everyone joined in. It was so unexpected, the crack of sound firing her back into the present, that she recoiled and almost fell on her ass, earning her an eye roll from Christian. But she didn’t have a chance to thank everyone or hear Sergei’s opinion about Henry’s song before Brinley tossed down her legal pad. “Look, I have been working on synchronization rights to our songs for weeks. Our sound-mixing team has already approved the sequence and outline. I hope you’re not taking this seriously, Sergei, because it would mean starting from scratch, and we’re already over budget and behind schedule. It’s a terrible idea. From a kid.”

A chorus of ooohs went up behind Hannah.

Hannah’s face flamed. With embarrassment, yes, but mostly indignation. There was nothing terrible about this idea. About Henry’s songs. And it was that anger that drove Hannah to double down. Why be nice and try to keep things smooth sailing with Brinley? Obviously that wasn’t going to happen, so she needed to fight for what was important. What she could control.

Hopefully.

Hannah did all the paperwork for Storm Born. She knew the numbers, had been reading through Brinley’s cue sheets and sync contracts for years. She used that knowledge to her advantage now.

“No. Actually, using the shanties would put us back under budget. And the rights would be exclusive.”

Sergei liked the word “exclusive.” A lot. He looked back down at the folder, that creative vein worming around in his temple.

“We could provide a flat fee of twenty thousand to the artists for the recording session. Currently, we’re spending more than that on the rights to one song. I’m not taking a broker fee, but my grandmother will take fifteen percent off the top of any profit from the soundtrack over the next ten years. We’d be saving the producers money this way and possibly putting an indie band on the charts.” From the corner of her mouth, she whispered, “Exclusive,” for good measure.

“But the time it would take—” Brinley argued.

“At the very least, I would like to hear a demo. These songs give the film historical value, they enrich the backstory.” Sergei executed a dramatic walk through the silent crew, fanning a hand out over the water. “I’m picturing a fast-motion sunrise while the haunted voice of a sailor calls from beyond the horizon. We open with purpose. With gravity. The audience is pulled into the time and place with the voices of the people who live here. The men who trod these waters.”

One couldn’t technically tread on water, unless one was Jesus, but Hannah didn’t think now was a good time to point it out. Sergei was in full inspiration mode; everyone held their breath, and Brinley looked about two seconds from stabbing Hannah with a Bic.

Sergei turned on a heel and faced the group. “Brinley, let’s continue in the direction we’ve been heading. But I’d like to pursue Hannah’s angle, as well. We are already behind schedule and over budget. Brinley is right about that.” He stroked his chin thoughtfully, a move that used to make Hannah swoon but that she now observed objectively. Please don’t be because of a certain emotionally complicated relief skipper. “Hannah, if you can really have these songs recorded and make them digital on a smaller budget, I’m going to take the change of direction under advisement.”

“Let me make it simple for you,” Brinley said sweetly. “If you do that, I quit.”

A hiss of collective breath went up in the crowd, and some of it came from Hannah. This was definitely not how she’d envisioned this going down when she woke up this morning. Instead of bonding with Brinley over the discovered shanties, she’d now been pitted against a woman whose work she actually admired.

Sergei let the threat hang in the air for a few beats. “Well.” He brushed a hand over his dark hair, unbothered, possibly even appreciative of the drama. “Let’s hope you don’t have to put your money where your mouth is.” He strode through the parted sea of gaping crew members. “Hannah, could I speak to you privately?”

Oh Lord.

Was he trying to get her killed?

Hannah thought of asking if they could speak later, like when she wasn’t under intense—in one case, homicidal—scrutiny, but didn’t want to seem ungrateful for the opportunity he’d just given her. Although, the word “opportunity” might be pushing it. He wanted her to record Henry’s songs. To possibly end up on the film score. God, she didn’t even have contact with the Unreliables yet. For all she knew, they’d broken up. Faking it until she made it had seemed like a great idea in the moment. But the making it part was going to be a challenge.

Was she able to do it?

Hannah increased her pace to catch up with the director. “Hi,” she said, drawing even with him on his brisk walk along the water. “What did you want to speak to me about?”

“You’ve been very assertive lately,” he said, slowing to a stop, tugging on the sleeves of his turtleneck. “I confess, I was going to be selfish and keep you as a production assistant forever, but I’ve . . . had my eyes opened recently. I’ve been paying closer attention, and I can see you’re taking on responsibilities far beyond your pay grade.”

She scratched the back of her ear. “I can’t argue with you there.”