An Actor Prepares... To Fall in Love

§01

The text message lit up my phone screen, a tiny, glowing executioner’s axe.

FINAL NOTICE: Your credit card payment is overdue.

I stuffed the phone back into the pocket of my threadbare jeans, my stomach twisting into a knot.

Out on the soundstage, the air was thick with the smell of hot lights and manufactured dreams.

I was supposed to be part of one of those dreams.

Instead, I felt like I was in a nightmare.

“Alright, Milo, on the bed! Let’s see what you’ve got!” the director yelled, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.

I took a deep breath.

I, Milo Banks, a self-proclaimed straight guy, was about to perform a seduction scene.

On a bed.

With another man.

All to pay for my mom’s soaring medical bills and keep my sister in community college.

I climbed onto the king-sized bed, the silk sheets cool against my skin.

The scene required me to arch my back, presenting myself.

My towel, strategically draped, was meant to look like it could fall off at any moment.

The set was buzzing with crew members, a sea of indifferent faces.

Then, a low, cutting voice sliced through the noise.

“Let me see just how desperate he is.”

I froze.

I didn’t expect the director to be so blunt.

But for the money they were paying? I could be desperate.

I swallowed my pride, arched my back lower, and pushed my hips up, making the towel strain against its knot.

The same deep voice continued, finishing its thought.

“Let me see just how big the breach of contract penalty is. I’ll pay any amount.”

The buzz on set died instantly.

Silence.

“Who let you sign me up for this garbage?”

The voice belonged to Jude Kincaid.

Oscar winner. Hollywood royalty. My co-star.

And he had just arrived.

“I have standards,” he snarled, his voice dripping with contempt. “I don’t do… *this kind* of project. Tell the nobody to put his pants on and get off my set.”

The air turned to ice.

Every eye in the room swung to me. The “nobody.”

My scene, my paycheck, my family’s last hope—all gone.

I untied the towel, my hands clumsy, and pulled on my jeans.

My phone vibrated again.

Probably another final notice.

I sighed, the sound loud in the dead-silent studio.

Was this it? Was I really going to have to call back that 300-pound producer, Barbara Wexler, the one who’d slipped me her hotel key card last night?

I started walking towards the exit, my career already a ghost.

Suddenly, a tall figure blocked my path.

I stopped.

I looked up into the face of Jude Kincaid.

It was a masterpiece of a face, all sharp angles and burning intensity.

But right now, it was flushed a deep, shocking red.

His eyes darted away from mine, unable to meet my gaze.

He cleared his throat.

“Director,” he called out, his voice tight. “Roll the cameras.”

§02

A movie star’s mind is a strange and mysterious place.

What just happened in his?

Professionalism.

It had to be professionalism.

Even after his own furious outburst, his own deep-seated revulsion, his ironclad sense of professional duty had won.

This man was a true artist.

Filled with a newfound respect, I seized the opportunity, holding out my hand to him.

“Mr. Kincaid! I promise I’ll do my absolute best!”

Jude flinched as if my hand were a hot iron, snatching his own back.

He shot me a look of pure, wide-eyed horror.

Wow.

He really hated physical contact between men.

And he was still going through with it.

That made his professionalism even more admirable.

I couldn’t be the one to slow things down.

I quickly stripped off my jeans and shirt, re-wrapping the towel around my waist.

Jude watched me, his expression unreadable, his jaw tight.

So focused.

So dedicated.

The first scene was the most intense one.

The cameras rolled, but Jude, perched on the edge of the bed, remained silent.

He didn’t deliver his first line.

This must be it.

The famous Kincaid method.

He was immersing himself, building the emotion from a place of deep, artistic truth.

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