Wildest Dreams

6. Pierre

PIERRE

I get to Cattywampus Brewery early. It’s in an old red brick cotton mill on the river with faded white lettering on the side. I park my rental car in the gravel parking lot, quickly glance around the spacious inside bar area to make sure Kendall hasn’t arrived yet, then head to the back porch.

There aren’t many people here, which I’m grateful for. The last thing I want is to be mobbed right when Kendall shows up.

The patio to the rear of the brewery is long, stretching the whole length of the place, and outfitted with rocking chairs and little wrought iron tables. I walk to the end and sit down in a creaky chair, taking comfort in the knocking sound as I settle into a rhythm.

This place is more peaceful than I could’ve imagined, though I shouldn’t be surprised, given how idyllic the rest of the town looks. There’s a long staircase going down to a massive dock with picnic tables at the water’s edge. Somewhere close there’s a barbeque grill going, sending the aroma of juicy pork to where I’m sitting. My stomach roars. I should’ve eaten before I came.

It’s warm out, so I’m wearing a crisp white collared shirt with the top few buttons undone, khaki shorts, and boat shoes. As always, my baseball hat is pulled low and I don’t remove my sunglasses.

I probably check my phone a hundred times before I catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Kendall walks onto the patio, looking amazing in the sweetest dress I’ve ever seen. Her long brown hair is down with loose, heavy curls at the ends, and though she’s wearing make-up, it’s minimal enough to not take away from how effortlessly stunning she is.

I stand up and take off my glasses so she’ll see me. She walks with a short, quick stride, her hair bouncing over her bare shoulders.

“Hi! I hope you weren’t waiting long.”

“No, not at all. I’m always early.”

“Okay.”

We stare at each other. We’ve got to stop with this awkwardness. She’s going to think I’m a moron. I’ve never been uncomfortable with women, but she makes me so nervous.

“Should we go in and get a drink?” I ask.

“Absolutely!” she says with a toothy, tight smile. I think she’s as tense as I am.

When we walk in, the freezing air conditioning makes the skin on my arms prickle. Behind the bar, a weathered middle-aged lady takes our orders. She obviously recognizes me but doesn’t make a big deal out of it, which I appreciate. She chats for a minute with Kendall and asks about her family while she pours our beer. Kendall gets the Pussycat Blonde and I get the Swamp Ass Stout. After we get our drinks, I open a tab and we settle at a table in the back corner of the room, where I face the wall so only Kendall can see me.

“I love the beer names,” I say, grateful to have a conversation starter.

“Oh yeah!” she said, her face lighting up. “When they opened a few years ago, they did a whole contest in the weeks leading up to the grand opening. People came to get samples and cast ballots for names. If your idea won, you got a huge gift card. It was fun.” She shrugs her shoulders. She seems giddy, though still a little uneasy.

“Sounds like a great idea. So, have you always lived here?” I ask.

She takes a sip of her beer and politely wipes her upper lip. “Yep. Born and raised. What about you? I guess you live in Hollywood or something?”

I laugh. “Bel Air.”

“Wow. Sounds fancy. You must think we’re a bunch of hicks.”

“No, not at all! Apart from the whole alligator-trying-to-eat-me thing, I’m actually loving it so far.” She giggles and my heart turns to putty. She’s so sweet. It’s refreshing. “It’s quiet here,” I continue. “I went to the grocery store without having to dodge photographers in the parking lot.”

“For now. Once people find out you’re in town, you can expect more attention. In fact,” she pauses and motions towards the bar, “Calista has pointed you out to everyone who’s ordered a drink.”

“See,” I say, “and they’re not bothering me.”

“Yet.”

“Fans I can handle. Paparazzi, not so much. It’s exhausting.”

“Fair enough.” We each take another sip of our beer. It’s ice cold and delicious, some of the best craft beer I’ve ever had.

“So you’re here for a movie?” she asks.

I nod.

“Tell me about it.”

“It’s a drama called Gossamer Road . It’s set in a small Southern town, obviously. I play a single father who reunites with his high school sweetheart after she moves back to town. They pitched it as an updated Hope Floats , if you ever saw that. Except, in this one, the guy character is the one with the kid.”

“I love Hope Floats ! I bet it’ll be great!”

“It should be. We have a good director and the script is strong. I’m excited to shoot here in Magnolia Row. It should make for a gorgeous film.”

“Who else is in it?”

My stomach sinks. I don’t even want to say her name. “Marina Breton is the female lead.”

“Wow!” she says, her eyes wide. “Magnolia Row is not going to know what to do with all the star power.”

I chuckle. “I hope we don’t disrupt things too much. Movie productions tend to take over everything in a place this small.”

Another awkward silence settles between us, and she fidgets with the condensation on her glass. “So…” she says, then bites her bottom lip. “Do you want me to help you rehearse or something?”

“No, I’m good. We have table reads next week.”

She looks confused. “Oh. You’d said you wanted help with your accent. I’m not a dialect coach, but?—”

I can’t help but laugh at how na?ve she is.

“What?” she asks with a confused little grin.

“I said that as an excuse to hang out with you.”

She blushes, sits back in her chair, and gives me an uncomfortable, bewildered smile.