“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 stories.”

“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.