#temporary things

It was going well! Aside from whatever whirring now thumps in your chest when Brett comes up beside you. You’re still in good impression mode for another, like, 3 weeks.

“Hi,” he says, a smile and nod when you look up to see him. “Hopefully you’re liking this lot so far?”

“So far,” you nod, appreciative of his inquiry. “But I also heard it takes a few weeks for you all to turn into divas.”

He pulls a hand to his chest in mock offense. The jacket he’s wearing belongs to his character, but the color suits him well. “I usually wait until at least halfway through!”

“Hellooo,” Maggie sidles up and smiles at both of you. Jason’s right behind her and when the four of you stand in a make-shift circle, you’re acutely aware of the way Jason angles himself toward you. 

“We’ve got a lot to get through today--wanted to have you hear all of this as well,” Jason says this to you in particular before Maggie launches into some sort of schedule. She’s listing numbers and tasks and referencing scenes by shorthand lingo that only makes half sense. 

It’s weird, you realize, that while you’re here on set and working alongside them, your job is different in almost every way: it’s focused entirely on him. Which is maybe a bad thing, seeing as your stomach still does this little flip when you notice the dimple on his cheek that you remember from Day 1. 

Lucky for you, though, most of your time on set is spent in Jason’s office. Scheduling his travel and handling his emails and pulling the strings behind the scenes so his actual job here was easier. You’re in constant contact with his manager, his nanny, even sometimes seeing messages from his ex or his friends come through before you pass them right up the ladder.

Briony pops in and out, often passing messages from Jason to you and then in return. She was the coffee kid, still young enough to be excited by that type of task and good enough to never mess up an order.

Poppy hurries by and after you commit the entire shooting schedule of the day to memory, you return to Jason’s office to actually get your work done. Today, primarily, was to be spent going through emails and calendars, plugging in meetings and finalizing his schedule for the next two weeks before filming really picked up.

But there’s a knock on the door that grabs your attention before your inbox is even open. Brendan’s there, a binder in hand and a hesitant smile when you both realize you’ve never been alone in a room together. 

“Hi,” he says a bit awkwardly. “Y’know where Jason is?”

“He was with Paul and Jenna near Rebecca’s office,” you hoped you were getting the names right, blending real people with characters in the same way that didn’t trip up the rest of them. “Anything I can help with?”

He holds your gaze for a second, almost skeptical, but then decides he’ll at least give it a shot. 

“I’m looking for a list of scenes we’re shooting today. Not the actual schedule that got sent out but the list of ones Jason wants to do if we can move more quickly than everyone thinks we can.” 

You stand from your spot on the couch and nod thoughtfully, walking towards his desk as your eyes start to scan the piles of paper. You’ve learned his system bit by bit: the pile on the left is Lasso-related but not urgent. The pile on the right is more personal, with a higher level of urgency. Work-related urgent things get put on top of his laptop, or, if he seems to think it’s really important, sometimes he takes a picture of it and emails it to himself. 

As of now you find it mostly adorable that a guy in his mid-forties is sending himself emails with picture attachments so he doesn’t forget stuff. You’ll have to give him a crash course in the reminders app at some point.

You locate the piece of paper you saw him scribbling on yesterday, the red ink of the pen he clips into his pocket smudged in the corner. Today’s scenes are listed out in the same shorthand code you’ve heard Maggie use, Jason’s chicken scratch is in the margins in red ink.

You hold it up before you look back towards Brendan. His brows are arched when you take a step over and deliver, what you assume, is exactly what he was looking for. 

He scans it. Nods. 

“Three extra scenes sounds ambitious to me,” you try to crack a joke, feeling weird about the fact that you’ve yet to bond with Brendan. 

“You can read his handwriting?” He looks up at you again, more quickly this time, surprise on his face when you nod. 

“Yes--yeah,” you stammer like this is an embarrassing admission. “Should I not be able to?”

“Jessie always complained,” he shrugs, eyes back down to the piece of paper you’d handed over. 

“It’s messy as shit but I figured if I can’t read his handwriting then we’re all fucked.”

The corner of Brendan’s mouth flicks into a smile, a tiny laugh before he salutes you in farewell and his footsteps fade down the hallway.

**

April 2022

The end of March sputtered more rain onto the London streets than you’d ever seen in Los Angeles. Maggie promised it wouldn’t be like this the whole time, but now, on the third rainy Friday in a row, you were beginning to think your friend was a liar. 

“It’s bad luck,” Jason comments as he looks out the window into his backyard, “not bad weather.”

Thunder booms overhead and the British Airways website logo keeps flickering on the page, please be patient while we locate your booking!

“You’re beginning to sound like a London apologist,” you look up at him from your laptop screen, eyebrows arched to challenge his statement. The backyard gets lit up again, the line of trees overhead is visible in the flash of lightning that cracks open the sky.

He smirks at your retort, “forgive me for not wanting you to hate the place you agreed to move.”

His hands are in his pockets but he moves to sit on the couch across from you. You showed up 20-minutes ago, laptop in tow after he heard you mention something on set about your travel plans to Amsterdam. 

“London could have been on fire and I would still have come,” you think aloud as the page blinks back to life. “Okay, here,” you sit up. “Booking 1430-3925-098, business class to Schiphol.”

“Cancel it.”

“You’re sure?” You look up at him now, finger hovering over the trackpad. 

“Positive,” he stands and nods. “Red or white?”

“Hmm?”

You click the button, Yes, I’m Sure!, but then notice he’s waiting for you to reply. 

“Wine,” he laughs. “Red or white?”

You pause, is this a test? Is having a glass of wine with him on a Friday night in his living room crossing a line? No, you decide when he holds your gaze for a moment. If it wasn’t crossing a line with Kyle or Reese or any other boss you’ve had, it’s not crossing a line with him. 

And besides, he’s not your boss, technically. 

“Red.”

He smiles at your answer and makes his way towards the kitchen. “So why would a fiery London not be a deterrent?” 

You set your laptop on the coffee table, a few steps over to stand in the doorway as he pursues his wine rack.

“Sorry?” You’re confused now, still watching when he scans the label of a bottle before he sets it on the Island. 

It was a long week. You’d been on set every morning at 6:30am. Most days you left work around 4 or 5, and Jason was good about making sure you took lunch breaks and had enough coffee and knew all the good places to hide for five minutes of quiet when the set got too crowded. 

“You said London could have been on fire and you would have moved here still,” he reminds you, his eyes watching for your reaction as you lean against the door frame. 

You nod slowly and let your eyes flutter shut in embarrassment. What’s the most professional way to say: I got dumped and fired in the span of two weeks and my life felt like a living hell, so surely London ablaze would be manageable?

You decide there isn’t one, so you bend the truth as he searches for a wine opener. “I was in desperate need of a change of scenery.”

“Christmas in LA does suck,” he nods. 

“Luckily I didn’t have to withstand that torture,” you walk over to the drawer on his right, the one that Jessie’s binder said had miscellaneous kitchen tools and utensils. You open it and pull out an opener and hand it over. “I was in New York for the holidays, left LA right after Thanksgiving.”

He opens the bottle and nods sympathetically. “Something about December in LA always feels…depressing.”

“Yeah,” you let out a breath at that word, one that circled and swirled in your brain for days and weeks before you figured out what the fuck you were going to do. Your parents were worried and your sister was three-seconds and a text message away from booking a flight out there to beat the shit of your ex, as she so kindly offered.

He pours the first glass, stealing a peek in your direction when he thinks you aren’t looking. You are. 

“So--yeah, Los Angeles, change of scenery, back to New York. Now London.” He pours his own and then brings them both over, clinks his wine glass against yours before you both take a quiet sip in the kitchen. “What on earth made you take this job?”

You smirk, sure you can’t say what pops into your mind: a new city, a penchant for spontaneity after a crisis, the chance to work for your friend’s hot boss…

“Oh god,” he laughs, taking in your expression when your cheeks flush. “Did someone make you come here? Have you been kidnapped? Forced against your will?”

“No,” you roll your eyes at his playfulness and laugh. “I just--I really needed a job and a fresh start, I guess.”

He nods in understanding, takes another sip in the quiet. “Yeah, I get that.”

You’re not sure why it suddenly comes out, honest, blunt, a thud on the fancy tile of his kitchen. 

“My boyfriend and I broke up--we lived together--then my job kind of exploded, well, Kyle’s life did too, so, Maggie took pity, I guess, when she realized my life was a shit show.”

He’s a little caught off guard by your confession, his eyebrows are slightly lifted and you can’t read: is it curiosity or concern? Like, did I hire a psychopath concern. 

But that must not be it, because when you take a loud slurp of wine to drown out the awkward silence, he swallows and nods. 

“Just because it feels like a shit show doesn’t mean it is,” he offers, a small smile before he continues. “My fiancé of a decade left me for someone 15 years younger a few years ago and then decided to give a fuck ton of interviews about it,” he smirks. “So--I get the whole shit show feeling.”

Your lips pull into a smile at his show of humanity, but then he gestures for you to follow him back to the living room. You’d known about his failed relationship, saw headlines and heard murmurs but didn’t pay much mind. You didn’t think in a few years time you’d be drinking wine on his couch on a rainy Friday.

“And now you’re single?” He asks over his shoulder, more of a follow up on your recent disclosure than the flirtation you wish it was. He sits down and you watch the way his knees knock together in khakis. 

“First time in 6 years,” you say over the rim of your glass, returning to your spot on the sofa. 

He’s watching you, like you’re throwing him off somehow or he’s intrigued. You realize you like it.

And then you remember why you’re here, tonight, in the first place: Amsterdam. The location shoot for the temp gig. Your temp gig job. Your job, him sitting across the room from you as not the man who writes your checks but still the one who generates them. Your laptop on the coffee table pulls you back to reality. You should probably not flirt with him.

“It’s canceled,” you nod towards the computer and then lift your Apple Watch as proof. “Confirmation email came through a few minutes ago.”

He shakes his head but smiles. “I can’t believe you thought I’d make you fly business class if I’m on a jet!”

You remember Maggie’s words from January, facetime a thousand miles away. Something along the lines of he’s amazing, Y/N, he’s so chill!

“You’d be really disappointed to hear what it’s like to work for Tom Cruise, then.”

He laughs, shifts on the couch and takes another sip. “I think it’s really shitty when people treat their EAs like regular assistants,” he shrugs. “Here’s this person who manages your whole life…arguably that means you’re more competent than I am,” he thinks aloud, a playful glance in your direction. A compliment? Maybe. Flirting? You hope.

Is that shitty? Is that weird and inappropriate or—worst of all—are you fully delusional? 

“I’m going to pocket that for future reference,” you admit with a smirk. 

He sips his wine and smiles, eyes you seriously from behind the glasses he puts on at the end of the day. “Just…know from here on out that you can book yourself as nice of a hotel room as you want, you know, within reason.”

You let your eyes bug out of your head. “Reason, like, the Presidential Suite at a Ritz Carlton, or?”

“Jesus,” a short laugh escapes, a comedic hint of suspicion is his eyes after he checks a text on his phone. “Maggie wasn’t kidding when she said you’ve been primarily A-list.”

“I would never,” you call back, a quick confession to make sure he knows you’re not that type of…employee? Temp? Whatever.

“Great, but still--we’re there for work, but you deserve to enjoy Amsterdam,” he gestures toward your laptop, like the British Airways website itself was a symbol of the upcoming business trip. 

Maggie’s been excited for weeks. She babbled about it in the car on the way from Heathrow and Poppy’s been shouting out nightclubs and restaurants and places she wants to go most mornings in the makeup trailer. 

You’ve never been to Amsterdam, but you’re excited nonetheless for a chance to see a new city in a new country. The last time you and Maggie were in Europe together was on your study abroad trip when you were both 21. Now it’s ten years later.

She bounces in one April morning to Poppy’s trailer while you’re sipping a hot coffee. One from the catering table because the one you sipped on your way here wasn’t enough. 

“You’re exactly who I wanted to see,” her face lights up when she spots you in a chair beside Juno. 

“Good morning,” you coo, grateful that Poppy’s trailer has become a bit of reprieve for you. You were right, a few weeks ago when you went out for your first Friday in London: Maggie and Poppy are tight, Juno and Briony and Hannah and the rest of the make up crew seem to be their own little friend group within the larger cast and crew. Ladies who stuck together.

Luckily, you were beginning to feel like a part of it. 

“I’m thinking pubs and clubs,” she dumps a tote bag on the counter, contents spill out but Poppy doesn’t seem to mind. 

“What?”

“We need to start planning for Amsterdam, babe.”

“It’s a work trip, babe,” you remind her with narrowed eyes, a quick glance around the room to see if anyone else was aware of Maggie’s scheming. 

“Work trip, hah!” Juno pipes up from her chair. She’s got curlers in, eyes still sleepy since the sun’s just made it above the horizon. “Someone tell Y/N about Lasso work trips.”

“Work trips,” Poppy turns to see you--she’s getting a palette ready for Juno, all of her brushes and tubes of lip gloss are organized sociopathically by color, size, and brand. “Are only half work.”

A woman after your own heart, though the results of your organizing episodes usually only last a few weeks. 

“Half work? How does that…work?” You ask, thankful that you don’t have to get mascara swiped on your lashes before your eyes are fully open. 

“We shoot long days and we’re busy,” Maggie nods honestly, she’s strapping her walkie-talkie onto her waist, snaking the wire of her headset up and behind her ear. “But when work is over, it’s playtime.”

You watch your oldest friend closely. “Sounds oddly sexual,” you comment around another slurp of coffee. 

“It can be sexual if you want it to be,” Maggie wiggles her eyebrows now. “If you’re feeling up for getting down and dirty!”

Oh boy. You blink at her a few times, memories of your last trip to Europe come flooding back. Maggie writing your number on the bathroom stall of a club in Rome, encouragement at every hour of the day to get loose and get laid. Unfortunately for you, this trip might be oddly reminiscent. 

“Yeah?” This pique’s Juno’s interest. “Someone in need of a little hanky-panky?”

They all giggle, you choke down more coffee but wipe your mouth when there’s a knock on the door. It opens, the whole trailer goes quiet when Jason’s on the other side.

“Morning,” he nods, a few steps in before he slinks down to the chair next to Poppy with an amused smile. “You know the gossip’s good when it goes completely silent.”

“Not gossip,” Maggie locks eyes with you in the mirror and smirks. “Just some chatter about Y/N’s lack of a love life,” she smiles, an apologetic but excited one.

“I work more than I sleep,” you defend loud enough for the whole trailer to hear—-all six of you in there.

True. Until, about, six months ago.

“Lack?” Jason’s eyebrows are arched in the mirror.

You hope Maggie doesn’t see the way your cheeks flush, a moment where his eyes find yours in the reflection above Poppy’s drawers and drawers of makeup. You wish you could vanish into thin air.

How—in only a few weeks—does it feel like you and Jason are in on your own little secret? 

“This is only my second cup of coffee so why don’t we talk about Maggie’s childhood obsession with webkinz?” You propose, a loud slurp and a ghoulish look in her direction to show her you mean business.

You had just as many years of ammunition as she did. If embarrassing each other was the goal, you could at least play the game. 

“Weren’t you a bit old for that, babe?” Poppy asks with a teasing smile, fingers focused on the curlers in Juno’s hair. 

“I didn’t give a shit that I was 16 and still into it,” Maggie defends, a dismissive eye roll when she picks up her phone from the counter. “The heart wants what it wants.”

A dodged bullet, for sure. You’re able to excuse yourself shortly thereafter to make sure Jason’s got what he needs for the day. Briony did the check of his office, grabbed breakfast and delivered a bagel to the makeup trailer. Which means you’re free to move about in search of the people you need today.

Joan from the location department, Tom from Post-Production—Maggie said he’d be easy to find because he always wears hats but is impeccably bald. 

You get the write-up you need from Joan and that’s when Briony falls into step beside you. She shows you the way down the maze of halls and through the lot to an office where Tom sits at a desk. Once you’ve got what you need from him (a firm answer to a question of Jason’s he’s been dodging all week), Briony sits with you on the sidelines of a scene in the locker room. 

Jason, Phil, Brendan, and Brett are shooting, the set’s loud before someone calls for quiet. 

Briony silently breaks her granola bar in half and offers you some, Greg--who works in sound--offers you both a warning glare: I better not hear rubbish. 

So you munch quietly side by side, feeling somewhat mesmerized by the way that when the camera’s rolling, Jason and his scene partners feel like the only people in the room. The scripted jokes they’re cracking are so good, it makes you regret never finishing season 1. 

You don’t remember finding him nearly as attractive back then as you do now, sitting behind the cameras and the boom, a walkie-talkie on your own hip and a pit in your stomach when you realize this isn’t even a thought you should be having.

But you can’t help that warmth pools in your belly when he rolls up his sleeves or laughs from across the room. Okay, so, maybe this isn’t just jet lag. 

CUT!--the room buzzes back into motion, Maggie’s zipping around the set and shouts to Greg, can we start again at line 47? Poppy goes to powder Brendan’s forehead, Briony’s on her feet and then the whole thing starts again. 

That happens another three times before there’s actually a break. Props weren’t delivered on time and so a different scene is getting staged but it doesn’t mean much to you. You’ve checked your own inbox eight times today and Jason’s twelve. 

But today was quiet. Showing up and making a stellar impression in the first few weeks was definitely a good thing, but had you been…too productive? Had you accidentally fucked yourself over because now you’re sitting here looking like a moron because you didn’t have something to do?

You booked a zoo tour for him and his kids next month, finalized the rest of his schedule for this week, arranged his travel to see friends in Spain later this summer. You’d organized his home office last week, updated his business accounts spreadsheet and even managed to book him an appointment with an eye doctor after he told you it’d been three years (ridiculous). 

Jason walks up and says something to Greg, who’s pretending to give Briony shit about the granola bar. Briony’s smiling up at him like he’s just told her Christmas is coming early.

“Hey,” you greet Jason with a smile, hand him his cell phone that’s been tucked into the bum bag around your shoulders. 

“I saw the tickets to the zoo at Battersea Park--thanks for putting that together.”

You nod, glad you were able to come up with something he could do with his kids next weekend when they’d be in town. An advertisement on the tube is what led you to buying three tickets on a whim, just in case.

You smile and look to your left, for some reason nervous that someone will see how awkward you’re being and misread it. It doesn’t matter, though, because he reaches forward and his hand’s on your elbow in a way that makes your face feel warm. 

“I mean it,” he says, a nod to himself and to you, one that lets you know he’s touched by the gesture. 

“Yes, yeah, sure,” you nod like an idiot, immediately embarrassed by the way his touch leaves your mouth unable to form consonants or vowels.

“Jason, go talk to Mark about camera angles,” Maggie appears and slaps him on the shoulder, a smile on her face when she playfully barks the order. 

Phil’s hand is outstretched suddenly, a reminder that time on set moved faster than anywhere else. “Y/N, could you take a picture of me in this for my mum?” 

You accept the phone and snap a photo, Maggie’s answering a text and then gets tugged away by a PA.

You turn to face Jason when Phil walks away, you’re ready for a request or a task or anything. But he just holds your gaze for a second, a pleased smirk spreads across his face. 

“Anything I can get you?”

He shrugs, “I’m good.”

It dawns on you, right then, that he walked over here to talk to you. Well, maybe not you. Maybe you were just in his way. Maybe he was looking for someone else but he saw you and it reminded him to say thanks. 

But either way, right now it’s just you and Jason standing here and it feels good to think that maybe he just likes being around you. Maybe the smirk on his face is because he sees the way your brain is short-circuiting. Luckily, he pulls you out of your crisis. 

“Can you come to my trailer later, around 3? Before I have to help them shoot at Keeley’s office later? I can text you.”

You’re nodding and agreeing to it as you visualize your own calendar in your head. You’re supposed to get off at 4pm today, an evening to yourself and the idea of a glass of wine on the couch sounds especially nice now that you’ve realized your social skills are such shit. 

“Perfect, great,” he says. “Apparently I have to go talk to Mark.”

You nod, he nods, and then he turns to leave you by the huddle of sound guys handling wires and knobs. You meet him in his trailer and handle the emails and errands he needs, grab a tea on the way home and you’re in the door at 4:49pm--and that’s with afternoon traffic. 

London’s been sunny this week, you had wine with Maggie and Brett and Phil one night and you didn’t feel new. You felt normal.

Winter was fading into spring over the last ten days, it was starting to feel like you were your own little piece in the big puzzle you got thrown into. Brendan knew he could always count on you to laugh at his jokes--especially and specifically when they were aimed at Jason. Brett knows your childhood nickname and threatens to tell Phil every time you get dangerously close to calling him out for flirting with Maggie. 

You don’t always feel like a transplant anymore, you feel like someone who’s starting to have a place. A tiny one, maybe off in the corner, but still, a place.

And when you left Jason’s trailer that afternoon, you thought it’d be the last time you saw him. 

So, naturally, your eyes go wide when you find him beneath the light of your front door this evening. You’re in a sweatshirt and bike shorts, completely unprepared for company. 

“Hi!” he says quickly, almost like he’s startled by the opening of the door, like he didn’t know if you’d be home or expected someone else on the other side of the knob. There’s a smile on his face that mirrors yours almost immediately. “Hey, sorry—to just show up here, like this.”

“How do you know where I live?” You narrow your eyes, a teasing but confident tone. All that does is give him a cheerful smugness that you regret immediately, one that makes his eyes scan your face before he shrugs.

“I know I’m not your boss, but I’m, like, not not your boss at the same time.”

You hold back a laugh and watch him, “what a blurred and confusing boundary…”

He smiles, “Which, all I mean by that is that Maggie sent the listing to me when she found it, I’ve actually known where you live since before you lived here,” he admits casually.

“Got it,” you step aside and he comes in, shuts the door behind himself before he meets your eyes again. 

“How are you?” You ask, intrigued by his surprise visit but also not wanting to scare him off. You like the way he’s looking at you, your heart does a flip at the thought that he wants to be around you. Just like earlier today. Fuck.

“I’m good,” he says, you walk towards the kitchen and wave a bottle of wine in the air and he nods. “I got stuck late at work, I was walking and it started to rain.”

“You live like, two minutes from here…” you’re smiling despite the challenging statement, you grab a glass from an overhead cabinet.

He shrugs when he slinks into a barstool at your counter, apparently unfazed by your accusation when he comes off it easily: “yeah, I just wanted to say hi.”

You reach for a glass in the cupboard overhead and tease him over your shoulder. “Curious to see how Maggie allocated the living stipend?”

He sits up straighter now and plays into the bit, pushing his lips out in thought when he looks around your open concept kitchen and living room. “That and…”

He looks around the room again, his words hang in the air as he buys time. But his hair’s a mess and his watch isn’t on--so you know something’s up.

It clicks. He’s got something on his mind or something and he’s…trying to talk about it? To you? 

Men! Sheesh. You try to relax your forehead as you pour him a glass so your confusion and shock isn’t misread as displeasure. Realistically, you’re touched he feels comfortable enough and the thumping in your chest is a dead giveaway if he can hear it when you deliver the wine.

“Shit day?” You ask, watching as his fingers wrap around the step. He takes a sip and shrugs. 

“Yeah, shit day…shit month, shit year.”

You giggle into your own glass, take your first sip before nodding. “I know the feeling.”

“No, I shouldn’t--” he pauses and stumbles for a second, “I don’t mean to complain or sound like a dick.”

You shrug and offer a smirk. “You’re not a dick if you have a human emotion.”

He nods, watches the wine in his glass as a smirk crawls onto his face. He looks up at you. “My ex could argue that statement for two hours.”

“Could she?” You smile, nodding when you tell him: “I’m a pretty patient person.”

“Are you?” 

“I am,” you laugh, “I like to think so.”

He lets out a tiny laugh at your comment, quiet for a second before he lets out an exhale. “I’m just stressed, really. Being showrunner this season is harder than I thought and it’s not even hard, it’s just more than I’m used to.”

You nod immediately. That makes sense and you see the fatigue on his face. You’d heard Maggie talk about it before: long hours, late nights, location shoots, freezing days, rewrites and props changes. TV wasn’t easy and you were already aware of that, only a few weeks in.

“I get that—but I think it’s normal to notice the learning curve when you’re doing something new.” 

He nods, accepts it and holds his breath for a second. “Yeah, that’s…a good way to say it.”

He smiles at you softly, eyes coming up to meet yours quickly before he shrugs. “I know I’ll survive, it’s just—been a rough go of it, lately.” 

“So what’s your release?” You ask.

His brows furrow together and the crease in his forehead lights something up inside you.

He says it like this hasn’t occurred to him at all. “My release?”

“How are you dealing with your stress?” 

The confusion on his face turns into amusement when the corner of his mouth twitches toward your ceiling. 

“So, nothing?”

He laughs. “I hadn’t thought about—doing anything, really.”

“Men,” you roll your eyes, moving towards the couch with your wine in hand. “The wine’s a nice place to start, but certainly not enough.”

He makes a face for a second, like he’s judging himself or imagining the terrible things you must think about him now that you’ve heard his feelings, but he stands to follow and listens intently when you almost open up.

“When my boyfriend dumped me and Kyle let me go, I stayed in bed for a good…two weeks,” you admit, a grimace on your face because you know it makes you sound like a loser. “But then my sister suggested I go to a rage room and it was amazing.”

“A rage room?” He laughs. “One of those places where you just break shit?”

“Smashing a TV to pieces is surprisingly therapeutic,” you tell him seriously.

He thinks on it for a second, nodding like he’s giving it real thought when he plucks at his lower lip. You can see the smirk he’s fighting, a sip of wine when your eyes dare him to say whatever he’s thinking.

“You don’t have to tell me--”

“But,” you say at the same time as he says it. A flash of embarrassment on his face when you raise your brows, reading him like a book,  just spit it out. 

“Why’d you get fired?”

Right. You knew it would come up at some point and even if Jason wasn’t really your boss, he definitely had the right to be curious. 

“I only ask because I read her reference letter--she loves you.”

“She does love me,” you nod. “But she was having family issues and I wanted a raise and then I found out that her daughter was sleeping with my boyfriend.”

His lips form an ‘o’ involuntarily, the response you got from most people when they hear how the dominoes all fell at the same time.

“Yeah,” you shrug. “Fired might be a strong word, but, certainly how it felt.”

“Well, her loss,” he nods confidently. “I’ve seen the way you organized my desk drawers and it’s either witchcraft or psychoticism and I’m okay with either if it’s always this easy to find shit.”

“I’ll keep it up then,” you smile and take another sip. 

“Sorry to just…show up, by the way,” he looks down at his own glass in hand, “and drink your wine.”

You had been looking forward to a shower and a night of watching trashy reality TV (though now you’d sworn off all of the Real Housewives). Other than that, your night was likely to consist of facetiming your mom and plucking your eyebrows. 

Jason sitting at your counter with a smirk on his face didn’t bother you at all, but you certainly couldn’t tell him you were flattered that he came here.

You nodded to let him know it was no nuisance. “I’m always up for a glass of wine and talking you off the ledge.”

“That shouldn’t be part of your job description, though.”

“Do you know how many times I listened to Kyle complain about her friends or had to send gift baskets to them after fights?”

“I’m guessing a lot?”

“You venting about work stress is a walk in the park,” you reassure.

“Well, I’m glad,” he says solemnly, a moment when he holds your eyes and you feel your cheeks get warm. 

You clear your throat, don’t be stupid, and force out a joke to act like whatever moment this was wasn’t problematic or weird or worse, enticing.

“So unless you have a daughter that will sleep with my boyfriend, we’re probably good.”

“My daughter’s seven,” a beat when he shrugs a single shoulder. “And you don’t have a boyfriend.”

You take a loud slurp from your wine--partly for comedic effect and party out of your own awkwardness--and smirk over the rim to match his. “Right.”

table of contents | talk to me + join the tag list

AN: WOW! HI! It's been a hot minute. I'm so glad to be posting this chappie and so appreciative of everyone's patience as my life evolves and writing has taken up a smaller portion of my time. I would love love love to hear what you think of this chapter and the story so far, I've been writing a lot the last few days as feb turns into march and I'm excited to share more!!!!

A flight attendant reaches for your carryon overhead, you smile and trail behind others onto the jetway. Warmer than New York, you could already tell, but only by a little. 

It dawns on you, as you read the overhead signs and weave through crowds of passengers, that your sleepless red-eye was likely due to the nerves that had been keeping you up all week. 

Had you made a terrible mistake?

No. Probably not, right? 

Carousel 21 is already littered with familiar faces when you get there--the guy from 3F that asked for headphones a whole ten seconds before take off, the woman in 5A who downed about four gin and tonics before the flight was even halfway across the Atlantic. 

You find a spot to stand and try to breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Maybe it was the time change, or maybe it was the fact that both of your feet were now firmly planted on London soil, a whole 3 weeks after this idea had been broached over burrata and Barolo. 

Not the amount of time you usually put into giant, possibly life-changing decisions to move to a new country and start over.

Maggie promised you’d be okay. She swore up and down and back and forth that if you’d handled this type of celebrity before, you could do it again. Hell, you’d handled bigger celebrities, so this should be a cake walk!, she said. And she was someone you could trust. She knew the ins and outs of this world and she knew you well enough to know that this type of chaos was enough to jolt some happiness back into your bitter soul.

An unforeseen break up after six years together will do that to someone. 

So here you are, startled by the aggressive sound of the buzzer when the belt starts moving. 3F grabs his suitcase and makes a beeline for the door. At least you’re not the only one desperate to get out of the stuffy airport. 

And that’s when you hear her yell your name--way too loud for barely 7am in Heathrow and way too loud if either of you had any hopes of blending in. Two Americans were bad enough. Two noisy Americans? 

She trots over to you with excitement, her arms wrap around your neck before you can even mutter a greeting in response. 

“Your mom texted my mom already and I promised photographic evidence,” she pulls away and you smile, being in Maggie’s presence is immediately calming, analgesic to the unease that set in once you reached thirty thousand feet. 

You force a dramatic smile, throw up a peace sign and pose for the camera. She giggles to herself and presses send, stuffing her phone in her pocket in the exact moment that your suitcase appears from the underbelly of the airport. 

“I’ve got it,” she calls again, still too loud. She runs and tugs it off with a grunt, and you laugh again, too, thankful for the distraction of your oldest friend. 

Maggie’s mom and your mom went to college together. Then they married each of your dads and then the two of you came along (Maggie in ‘92 and you in ‘93) and the rest is history. Your early childhood was spent building forts in her basement and by middle school, your favorite pastime was tricking your little sister and her little brother into makeovers. 

She brushes her hair out of her face, stands upright, and takes one look at you. “Okay, tell me everything.”

So you climb in the back of an Uber, Maggie nods and listens intently to details that you hadn’t shared before over facetime. Like the fight you had on your birthday last year, the way he slowly started telling you less and less about work, then friends, the way you should have seen it coming.

Maggie knew your ex, obviously. They got along overall but now she let her lip curl into an expression of disgust, her usual attempt to turn a shitty situation into something to laugh about. 

“What a dumb fucking asshole, Y/N, seriously. I never liked his stupid job or that stupid name,” she turns up the theatrics, a roll of her eyes when she commits to the bit. 

You smile a little, thankful for the 8 weeks that have since passed and the thousands of miles that now stood between you and him, literally. Both of those things made it easier to ignore the stinging in your eyes when his name came up. 

“He’s dumb,” you agree, a swift nod before you take another glance out the window. The London suburbs turn more urban, flats and parks and people on the sidewalks when she reaches over to squeeze your knee with force.

“But now you’re single and in London and your best friend in the whole world got you an amazing temp gig,” she flattered herself and grinned, a text illuminated her screen before she opened it. 

“Which, by the way, I have to be on set around 9am, so I’m dropping you off and then I have to go. But you’ll swing by? I told Jason you’d come for lunch--you know, meet everyone you need to meet.”

“Sure,” you nod, the casual mention of your new boss makes your pulse quicken slightly, you swallow and ignore it. Not your first rodeo. In fact, your lengthy resume that listed all the previous rodeos was surely part of the reason you landed this slightly nepotistic arrangement in the first place.

That and the fact that Maggie was a mid-level producer on the show, had known one of the head writers from a different project, and once upon a time dated one of Jason’s close friends. 

Pair that with your life and career practically exploding when you got dumped with no notice and within only a few weeks you had a first class ticket to London. Maggie called it magic. You called it an impulsive--and possibly irrational--decision.

But whatever. You needed work and a fresh start and hanging out at your parents’ house was getting boring, anyway. 

The car pulls to a stop and the driver helps you out onto the gray sidewalk. Maggie keys in for you and says she came to see the place with a friend to scope it out, you know, since she hadn’t done enough for you recently. 

“Okay, so obviously I got you the best thing I could find in his price limit. This location is great. Same neighborhood as moi,” she flutters her lashes. “A nine minute walk, a four minute jog.”

“Same neighborhood as my boss?” You ask, the real reason your location matters.

It was common practice for assistants to live within a 10-minute radius of their boss. Late night snack? Scheduling emergency? Your job was to meet those needs. Your job was also to handle his schedule, and to--you know--assist in whatever way he asks. 

You’d climbed the latter a bit after starting out in LA in 2012. Previous clientele included one of the Real Housewives, Reese Witherspoon, and, most recently: the famous wife of a Los Angeles Laker. 

You like this job. You liked most of the people. You loved the friends you made and the places you got to travel. And since finally crossing the Executive Assistant threshold in 2019, the pay was killer, the perks were better, and no longer spent most of your time fetching coffees or doing grunt work. 

“Of course,” Maggie rolls her eyes before checking a text message. “And I told him you’re the greatest EA he’ll ever have, he lives on the street behind this one, number 82. You can practically see into his house from your bedroom window.”

You shoot Maggie a glare, glance out the window when she throws a thumb in that direction and mentions his house. “Great.”

She holds your gaze for a second, like she’s reading your mind or something. “Wasn’t the whole point of you coming to London so you’d stop being depressed?”

You mock her childishly, voice high and annoying, “wasn’t the whole point--”

“Okay,” she holds up a hand. “Insensitive on my part,” she admits. “But you know I just want you to be okay?”

She watches you for a moment, her features soften and she blinks a few times, almost like she was unsure if you were broken altogether, with your life stuffed into the suitcase between you. 

You force a smile and open your arms. “When shit hits the fan there’s no place I’d rather be than in a foreign country with you.”

She bounces over and hugs you again, “that’s what I thought!”

**

The March air is cold, the sky’s gotten gloomier with each passing hour and eventually you had to force yourself to leave the house when you tried on your third consecutive outfit. Is there a right or wrong thing to wear on the set of a TV show? You have no clue.

Maggie met you outside a giant building at 1 o’clock sharp--one on the outskirts of town with giant parking lots and film trailers. She used a keycard to swipe in and said your first stop would be the security desk to obtain your own.

Once that was handled she led you down a maze of hallways, pointing out rooms and departments and providing information you knew you’d never retain. But that was fine, because when she pushes open the door to the main sound stage, your eyes go wide.

She watches you take it in, a smile on her face. “Pretty dope, right?”

“I mean, I knew it had to be a good gig if you got you to leave LA,” you tease. 

The room is buzzing with energy. People with headsets carry out missions, walkie-talkies beep and a woman with short brown hair smiles when she sees Maggie. 

“Mag—Brett wanted to talk about a re-write for scene 4, he was over near catering with Brendan.”

“Do you know where Jason is?” Maggie asks the woman, not bothering to introduce the two of you yet. 

“Upstairs, I think--”

“In his office,” a man clarifies when he walks by—in a rush. 

You look up at Maggie, unsure what the right move is.

She looks at the woman with short brown hair and then back at you. “Brave enough to go up there alone since I’m needed for script?”

Yes, of course, fine. You nod quickly and hope Maggie can’t see the fear in your eyes. Something told you she did, but soon she bounces off with Short Brown Hair behind her. 

It takes only a few seconds for you to realize that standing by the door alone looks more awkward than if you, too, move around this giant room like you knew where you were going or what you were doing. You saw another door in the corner, took off in that direction when someone else opened it and you caught a glimpse of stairs. 

That was a start. 

You make your way up one flight and open the door, windows in the hallway look down onto the stage, a better view of the overall set: a locker room, offices, a hallway, a tiny and fictional world with no roof that was born from someone’s imagination. 

You’d watched as a proud friend, never finished the first season after a busy week and an overall disinterest in new TV shows. 

A name plate on the door to your right confirms you’re getting warmer. A few dark offices, then the sound of humming pulls you down the hall to the only room with an open door. 

His name on a piece of paper taped to the wall in bold font, you hold your breath for a second and knock, stepping into view when you hear his voice. 

“What are your thoughts on flowers? Is that, like, too weird?” he looks up, eyebrows lifted when he realizes you’re not the person he expects. 

Standing in front of him suddenly makes you nervous, mostly because you don’t have Maggie by your side to smooth over this awkward moment. You roll with it, your best at your service smile.

“Assuming you’re talking as a gift…thoughtful, somewhat overdone,” you offer an apologetic grimace, “but simple and shows you care. Who are they for?”

He smiles at your answer, leans back in his chair and nods. You were killing it, right? Assisting before a formal introduction? You’re already excited to brag about it to Maggie tonight over a glass of Merlot. 

A tingle down your spine when he laughs a little. “A welcome gift, yeah…for my new assistant.”

“Oh,” you nod, a tiny smirk in surprise when you realize you know something he doesn’t. “Then I’d do tulips.”

Now he leans forward and puts his elbows on his desk. A smirk that he tries to hide when he lets his eyes settle on yours. Is he…flirting? “What makes you say that?”

You shrug casually, “they’re my favorite flowers…and I’m Y/N.” 

“Fuck, hi, sorry—“ he stands from his chair quickly, awkward and embarrassed as he tries to hide his surprise with a smile and extended hand. “I’m Jason. You’re Y/N,” he nods, saying it more to himself than to you. 

“I am,” you smile, watching as he rounds the corner of his desk to shake on it. “Nice to meet you--the set down there is really awesome.”

He smiles, the release of his shoulders tells you he’s glad to move past whatever just happened. His eyes follow your gesture out into the hallway and onto the stage floor. A nod, a quick glance in your direction. “Thank you, yeah—can’t believe we’re already filming again.”

“Hiiii,” Maggie’s voice sounds from the door, a cheerful grin on her face when you both turn to see her. “I see I’m not needed for an introduction,” she waves her hands around and flits her fingers in your direction.

“No, yeah, Maggie--come in,” Jason moves back to sit at his desk, which, you now realize, is just a folding chair at a folding table with a laptop. A couch along the side wall, a mini fridge in the corner and papers and red pens strewn about the table. 

Got it, a makeshift office up here since he was the guy in charge. You wondered where Maggie’s main post was, and you notice that she now has a headset around her neck and a clipboard in hand. 

“Jason, I’m very glad you get to meet my oldest friend, Y/N L/N,” she comes to put her arms around your neck, sloppy kisses to your hairline to show the unbreakable bond. “She’s the reason I work in this field to begin with and I expect that the two of you will be thick as thieves in no time.”

He smiles at that a little, lets his eyes meet yours briefly when Maggie reaches up to pinch your cheek. You swat her away, skin still prickling from the way he smiles at you. 

Maggie was obviously comfortable with him, which you gather when she flops down on the couch and a voice comes through the headset. She pushes it into her ear to get a better listen.

“Few things for you,” Jason points in your direction and searches for something on the table. A three-ring binder after he shuffles through papers, tiny black font that reads Exec. Asst stares back at you when he hands it over. 

“Jessie made this…before her maternity leave,” he informs. “Briony’s here somewhere and she’ll go through it with you, but--based on everything Maggie’s said, I’m sure you’ll jump right in.”

Right, Jessie. The woman whose job you were filling for the filming of this season due to the baby that was about to pop out of her. Briony--no idea who that was--but you make a mental note to bug Maggie for details later. 

A sound buzzes from the hallway, an alarm or something of the sort. Both Maggie and Jason perk up at the sound, you recognize it as some sort of cue that the set will soon be an active filming zone. Maggie stands from her casual position and smiles, “I can bring you around downstairs and introduce you to people, since he’s about to be busy.”

“Perfect,” you nod, a quick glance at Jason to see if that kind of thing is allowed. He doesn’t seem to notice that you’re looking for permission, he smiles when your eyes meet again but then reaches for his phone. 

“Oh, wait--here,” he hands it over, an open new contact page on the screen. You type in your name and number and figure that this will be your main form of communication, instead of the emails with Jessie and Maggie and his manager. 

You hand it back when you’re done, he glances down at the screen--was he checking to make sure you really put it in? Maggie’s nose is in her walkie-talkie again, replying to some kind of garbled request.

“She will report back when I am done with her, Sir!” Maggie salutes in jest and Jason cracks a laugh, a sliver of anxiety melting once her elbow links with yours and she tugs you out of the room. 

You meet set designers and the props team and then hair and make up. You meet the Brett you’d already heard about and get an intro to Briony when she shows up with coffee around 2pm.

Maggie eventually relented to your incessant reminders: Monday was your real first day. For now you had every right to sleep and try to get your body and brain to remember they were on the same continent. Which is why, and probably the only reason why, she eventually let you dip out.

The uber ride home is longer thanks to afternoon traffic, your head is pounding and the king sized bed in your new flat is calling your name before you can even twist the knob. But your nap gets delayed by a knock on the door when you’re rummaging for a sweatshirt in your suitcase. 

You pull it open, sure that whoever is on the other side has the wrong apartment or wrong person altogether. You’re way too new for visitors. 

But it’s not a human, not at first. Instead, a vase of yellow tulips--and a delivery man who smiles from behind them in greeting, happy Friday!, before he leaves you to open the card taped to the side. 

I heard these are overdone. Oh well. Welcome to London - JS

table of contents | talk to me

AN: Hi friends! I've been sitting on the start of this story for a few months and have been v excited to start sharing what I have so far! I do not have a post schedule for this, nor do I know how long it will be, nor is it finished at this time. As I've mentioned recently, I'm focusing a lot more on writing for FUN, so your patience and general kindness is appreciated as I share my writing for free with everyone! There also will not be a tag list for this story but it's table of contents will be pinned on my blog! My inbox is (usually) always open!

“What a cheerful greeting,” she makes a face but steps inside. She shrugs off her coat and pulls off her hat, from the look of her and the fading daylight outside your window, a gloomy London day was about to become a rainy London night. “We got out late, I haven’t even been home yet because…”

You glance at her over your shoulder when you move towards the kitchen, burying the lead. Typical Maggie. You’d already spotted a tea kettle on the stove, a cup would definitely help you wake up.

“Because?” You prompt, moving to fill the kettle. 

“Because…we should go out tonight.”

You glance out the window quickly. Did Maggie forget that your day technically started…yesterday, in New York?

“...Out tonight?”

“Who are these from?” She sees the flowers on the kitchen counter but you’d already put the card atop your dresser. 

“Oh--Jason, actually.” You say it when your back is to her, thank god. You didn’t think you could hide the heat you felt on your cheeks or the curious look in your eye.

Jet lag, you decide. Deliriously tired and completely out of sorts. Your brain had interpreted his smiles as flirtatious when really, he was being polite and professional and you were just jet lagged. 

“What a sweetie!” she coos when you turn around, hands on the island. “You’re going to love him.”

“Yeah, he seems nice.”

“So sweet--he’ll be out tonight, too.”

“Right,” you remember her evening proposition. “I don’t know, Mag, I’m exhausted and I don’t think my brain is fully with it anymore.”

“Everyone from the show is coming,” she pouts. “Not everyone, but like, everyone I like.”

You turn the burner off when the kettle starts to whistle, taking the bait: “Who’s everyone you like?” 

“Poppy and some of the girls from hair and makeup, a bunch of the guys from the cast--the team, they’re a blast. Jason, Brett, Juno, Greg and Briony, I think, too.”

You find cups in the cupboard, pull two out when she offers her best puppy eyes. “Will I look like an asshole to everyone if I say no?”

She lets her head flop from side to side in uncertainty. “No--I mean, you just got here today so I think people understand that you’re jet lagged. But,” she holds up a finger. “Our cast and crew is notorious for rowdy Friday nights, and it is when most of the bonding happens.”

You watch her and let out another deflated sigh, she knows you’re a sucker for team bonding and making a good impression, and she’d never be too proud to use it against you.

Which is exactly how you wound up in the back room of a pub in Notting Hill. You’d already met Briony--a 23-year-old London native who landed the job of a lifetime when she applied to be an Assistant II, the spot right beneath yours. 

Maggie had taken a liking to a Briony, which wasn’t shocking when you watched the two of them down a beer and bicker about the ranking of a local football club. Maggie loved seeing herself in other people, and anyone who looked up to her? Game over.

Briony was young and impressionable but smart and determined, a bit wide eyed at the entertainment lifestyle, still, but that always took a few years to wear off. 

You’d met Hannah right when you walked in, she greeted you with excitement and you pretended she wasn’t intimidatingly beautiful and tall. She’s fucking hilarious, Briony smiled. 

Now you take reprieve in a corner and listen to Phil and Maggie catch up. In a way, being here is work. Existing in the circle, getting to know your surroundings. Especially at this stage in the game.

At some point right before 9pm, Jason strolls in with someone you don’t recognize, a hoodie and sneakers and you wonder if you should have told Maggie about the flowers and the card.

He makes his way into your tiny group and lets an arm slump around her shoulders when he smiles down at you. “You didn’t give a color, so I hope I did okay—you know, seeing as I was left to my own devices.”

Maggie and Phil are too wrapped up in their conversation, so you laugh and decide you’ll match his demeanor. Jet lag plus alcohol? The professional side of your brain recognizes the risk, but your mouth ticks into a smirk involuntarily.

“Next time I’ll arrive early and buy my own,” you tease him, a playful roll of your eyes to let him know how apologetic you were for his trouble.

His eyes scan your face a little now, the pub is loud and you wonder how many hours a person can be awake before they’re deemed clinically insane. 

“Maggie said you worked for a Real Housewife?”

You nod, take a sip of the cocktail that was shoved your way when you showed up. “Kyle Richards—she’s very sweet and she was the best boss I’ve ever had, so—"

“Big shoes to fill,” he comments, a quick pause before he corrects: “high heels?”

“Either way,” you smile.

“I guess, though…” he reaches up and lets a finger comb over his mustache. Did he keep it year round? What did it feel like when—

“I guess since it’s a temporary position, your contract does outline that I am not actually your boss. Your work for your agency, not me.” He lets his eyes meet yours when you smile up at him, a tiny shrug of his left shoulder. 

“Kyle will be very happy she gets to keep her first place ranking, then.” 

“Poppy!” Maggie’s excited shriek makes both you and Jason turn to see her. She dances in place, opening her arms when a petite brunette slams into her.

A big hug--Jason gets pulled aside by Brendan--and you’re introduced to the woman who makes us all look fit as fuck, as Juno puts it when she excitedly trails behind her. 

Poppy's chic—leather flare pants and a blouse that accentuates her waist. Sure, you hadn’t been here long, but there were a few obvious things so far:

Maggie is close with Poppy and Briony. In fact, it would appear that they are some of her favorite people on set. 

Maggie is also friends with Juno and Hannah--two of the stars on the show and the exact type of strong women Maggie is a magnet to. You trusted, for now, that one day you’d be less intimidated by them.

There was an overall sense of unity, specifically between the women (which was dope), and among the entire cast and crew.

All good things, you decide. So you have another gin and juice and then trail behind them when someone suggests a relocation, somewhere more private and less likely to result in hey, aren’t you those people on that show?

So, on your first night in London, you end up sitting on the floor of Jason’s living room when Poppy and Juno ask you a million questions. 

“America--alright, whereabout?” Juno asks with an eager smile and a red solo cup in hand. She's cross legged on the carpet, you swallow another gulp of your drink and realize that the alcohol is likely solely responsible for your consciousness at this point.

Total waking time: going on 22 hours.

“New York,” you nod. “Born and raised, but I’ve been living in LA for the last few years.”

Poppy’s a bit wide eyed, probably from the vodka. “New York, like New York City, New York?”

“Maggie and I grew up in a small town called Peekskill--right north of the city,” you say this and see Maggie glance over at the sound of her name. “Maggie is Peekskill’s biggest fan.”

She rolls her eyes theatrically at this, groans in protest when you giggle at the drama. 

“Oh come on,” you laugh. “If it wasn’t for that town we wouldn’t be FRIENDS!”

“And if you weren’t friends, I wouldn’t have an assistant right now,” Jason says with a smile when he comes in from the kitchen—a glass of wine in hand that he soon offers to Hannah.

“Right, Maggie,” Hannah looks over and points a finger at your friend. “Don’t ruin this for all of us, we need her! Jason won’t be sane without her.”

“That’s gonna go straight to her head,” Maggie looks over at you, an unimpressed glare when you show a toothy grin. 

“Nobody told me I was saving the day,” you flutter your eyelashes in jest and Hannah cracks up.

“Big head already,” Maggie comments. 

“I don’t think I knew you were from New York, Maggie,” Jason looks over at her now, a cup in his own hand when he settles beside Hannah on the giant, modern sofa. 

His house is cool. Modern like the architecture in LA, but decorated with Brooklyn flair cool. You’d probably never admit it to anyone in the room, but you googled the shit out of him before your flight out here. 

When Maggie called and asked if you were even interested in a gig like this--someone less A-list than you previous clientele--you did your best to avoid the internet. If there was anything you’d learned after 8 years in the industry, it was that tabloids and headlines paid no mind to the truth. 

And, besides, you knew yourself well enough that googling Jason for weeks on end before moving across the ocean for a temporary job would only make your anxiety skyrocket. 

So you waited until your ass was firmly planted in the airport and through security. A glass of red wine from the business lounge and a sweatshirt made your internet reading less creepy and more cozy. 

“Oh, unfortunately,” Maggie sighs. “I’m more of an LA girl at heart.”

“That is true,” you back her up. “Which, personally, I won’t ever understand.”

“Me neither,” Jason agrees, his eyes on you when he spoke. “The people are weird, no privacy.”

“Something tells me Maggie loves the flashing lights,” Brett teases, a smile in her direction. Was there…something between them? Maggie rolls her eyes at Brett but lets Briony jump in. 

“Y/N, have you ever been to London before?”

“I have,” you nod with a smile, actually quite touched that the whole group seems to be interested enough to listen. “I’ve been for work a few times, but--never longer than a week or two. I’ve never spent a lot of time exploring.”

“Skip the London Eye,” Brett waves it off. “Gherkin’s much better.”

Another round of drinks and more teasing from Maggie until almost 2am--you smile at the way everyone says goodbye: hugs and cheek kisses and promises of see you Monday!

When you pull on your coat by the front door, Jason has a hand on the knob. “We should probably hang out tomorrow.”

“Yes,” you nod quickly, reaching for your phone to edit a calendar or set an alarm or something. “I can come here, bring coffee, what time?”

He laughs, a smile at your offer while Maggie and Juno giggle about something unintelligible in the doorway. “Yeah--sure, 10am?”

“You’ve got it,” another nod. Now Maggie reaches her hand for yours and looks up at Jason. 

“You’re welcome by the way. You’re going to love her.”

You catch the corner of his mouth pull up into a smirk, heat on your cheeks at Maggie’s choice of words. 

But Jason nods. “I believe you.”

**

The sun glitters through your shutters when you check your phone the next morning. 7:24am. You know within a few seconds that you’re awake for good: the time change and the still-packed suitcase on your floor demands it. 

So you walk to a corner cafe for your first cup, sit cross-legged on your hardwood floor and pull out sweaters and dresses and jeans. You swiped some mascara on and walked the two and a half blocks to Jason’s right before 9:45--your knuckles rapped on the door and you didn’t think, for a second, that being early might be a bad thing. 

Birds chirp in the morning sunlight, brisk and chilly at the start of spring. Steam billows up from the two hot coffees in hand--Briony texted you his order last night when she stumbled home.

“Hey, hi--I…overslept,” he blinks down at you a few times once the door swings open. His hair’s messy, a sweatshirt he must have tugged over at the sound of the doorbell. In a….hot way. 

“I can come back,” you blink up at him, a small smile in awkwardness when he shakes his head and steps aside. 

“No, no, no--it’s my fault, come in.”

You step into the foyer and clock the photos on the wall that you missed last night: family members, friends, moments he wanted a daily reminder of. He takes the coffees from you with an appreciate smile, walks over to the living room and sets them down on the circular table atop the plush rug. 

It’s different in the morning light, a tall plant in the corner and art on the walls, Hannah’s wine glass still sits on the end table where she left it. 

“Sorry that the only London sight you’ve seen so far is my living room,” he laughs a little, the first sip and a nod of recognition when he realizes you already know his order. 

“All good,” you shake your head and sit in the armchair across from him. “I’m happy to be here, excited for a change of scenery. S’only the first 48-hours, anyway.”

“The U.S. just get old, or somethin'?” He teases, another slow sip and a smile in your direction, this one, you can tell, has more curiosity behind it.

It's early. Early in the day, early in your relationship with Jason for you to be divulging the gritty details of how your life cracked open a mere six months ago.

So you give him the 30,000 foot view truth: “That and my whole life, apparently. Seeing as I agreed to this job with, like, two weeks notice.”

He nods now, eyes wide at your joke but still rolling with it. “Yeah,” he sighs when he relaxes on the sofa, “I can relate.”

A moment of awkward silence. He goes for another sip in the exact moments you realize it’s probably up to you to make the conversation start flowing--seeing as Jason’s eyes are still half closed when he takes his second sip. 

“So what made Jessie a great EA?” You sit back and watch as he lets your question sink in. His pointer finger traces along his mustache, like he’s a little caught off guard but still happy to answer. 

“She always laughs at my jokes,” he smiles, a quick glance up in your direction to see how it lands. 

“Okay, so…flattery,” you nod, throwing in a playful smirk. You curse yourself, silently, for the warmth beneath your ribcage at the sight of a dimple on his left cheek. 

“You can call it that if you must,” he rolls his eyes but then laughs and exhales, slowly. “She’s great, organized…which I am not always, by the way.”

You appreciate his honesty, watching when he glances out the window but keeps talking about your predecessor. “She’s very punctual, has a wicked memory--like, really good,” he nods.

You reach for your coffee and narrow your eyes. “That or calendar access, right?”

He laughs at your joke, “right. You had that meeting with her, yeah?”

The meeting that you agreed to even though it was at 6am your time because they were all over here in London. The meeting that you took alongside your morning cup of coffee and the meeting that had you, now, seated in Jason’s living room on the other side of the world. 

“Yes,” you nod, “and I’ve got your work and personal calendar, she gave me a whole binder to study.”

You pointed over to the tote you’d had on your shoulder upon arrival, remembered thumbing through pages before you tried to close your eyes on your flight. 

“If anyone handed me a binder and said, ‘go handle this man,’ I would have run for the hills.”

More melting of whatever anxiety sits in your chest. Levity in the room despite the fact that you still have a good impression to make and a lot to catch up on. You’ve been here only two days, but something tells you his cast and crew moved like a well-oiled machine. Or a friend group. A well-oiled friend group. 

“Yeah, well, Maggie loves coming to work. Which means you must be doing something right.”

He smiles in a way that shows your words mean something to him, like that’s a real compliment and not just your attempt at sucking up to the boss. Who you, under no circumstances, should think is attractive. 

“Can I show you around?” His eyebrows lift when he stands from the sofa, before gesturing over his shoulder to look into the backyard. 

Big glass panels--doors, you assume--that opened onto lush green grass despite the March cloud cover. First he leads you into the kitchen, slick counters and wood grain cabinetry before he shows you the fridge.

“This thing talks--but only sometimes, when it wants,” he presses the fridge. Drawings pinned up with magnets, a rainbow and a soccer ball, three stick figures with a dog. 

“I have two kids,” he says what you already know--it was in the binder. “Owen and Stella,” he smiles. “A lot of back and forth, between me and their mom--but that’s been…doable.”

Recent, you remember Maggie mentioning their split a few Christmases ago and the resulting headlines. Now, standing in his kitchen, you feel bad for the quiet house that was starting to feel more lonely than chic. 

“Onward?”

Another nod before you follow him down the hall to the main suite. A nice space—meant for two but he still left a mark on the otherwise empty room. Books on the bedside table, change beside a bottle of cologne on the dresser and a belt that didn’t quite make it into the closet is lifeless on the floor.

A bathroom with a fancy tub, said closet that was the size of your first apartment, an upstairs hallway with guest quarters and office space. 

“Make yourself at home,” he smiles once you land back on the ground floor. “You’ll have to, y’know, so let’s skip the awkward phase.”

“Skip?” You feel your eyebrows raise as you say it.

He walks towards the living room again, coffee still in hand when he returns to his spot on the sofa. 

“You tell me what I can do to make your life easy and I’ll tell you what you can do to make mine the same.”

“Only I’m getting paid,” you challenge, glad to feel comfortable enough to be yourself. A good sign, really. The same way you felt after you met Kyle.

“True, yes—that’s correct,” he laughs. 

You eye him for a second, the smirk on his face told you he liked whatever was happening between the two of you as much as you did. 

“So then, what should I know about this week?”

He thinks on it for a second, bites his lower lip before he makes eye contact. “You’re gonna get sick of me, fair warning.”

“I believe you,” you nod, borrowing his words from the night before, a twinkle in his eye when he catches it.

“I’m there every morning by 6:30am. Seven if I’m reaaaally draggin’.”

“Got it.”

“First mark’s at 8, usually, but I need that time to look, you know, put together.”

“Uh huh,” you open your phone and jot things down: 8am, 6:30am, 7am, the address of the studio that you’d already memorized. “I’ll need the code to the house and a probably business credit card, I think that’s all you haven’t given me.”

You glance up for a second and catch him looking at you, eyebrows raised, like your aura lit up the room or he wasn’t expecting your demands. Unreadable and you don't like it.

“Yes, yeah,” he clears his throat a little bit but still smiles. “I will get you both of those things.”

This is the moment you decide it’s best to leave, you know, not overstay your welcome since you showed up and he was still in pajamas. You stand and shoulder your tote bag, make small talk as he follows suit and soon you’re standing in the doorway just like you were last night. 

“I hope the first forty-eight have been okay.”

Your eyes narrow from momentary confusion, your head tilts. 

“Hours,” he clarifies. “In London.”

“They’ve been good,” you answer genuinely before adding a dose of sarcasm. “Been stuck in one guy’s living room, so I’m excited to see some sights today with Maggie, catch up on some sleep this weekend.”

He chuckles quietly and smiles, a wave of anticipation in your gut when you realize how good it feels to make him laugh. He’s got a hand on the knob and tugs it open, adding: “Brett was wrong, by the way.”

Your brow furrows when you step into the cool morning. 

“The Gherkin’s good, but my favorite view is this hotel--The Shard--they’ve got a great bar at the top.”

The corner of your mouth pulls into a smile, a feeling in your gut, again, that has you desperate to know more about Jason and the show and this world Maggie loved living in. But for now you have to leave. 

One last smile and wave in farewell, “good to know.”

**

Sunday morning had you at brunch with Maggie and Briony, mimosas poured in Notting Hill when you applied chapstick.

“Okay,” you cap it and smile between them both before you bring your drink to your lips, cool, calm, collected. 

They’re desperate for details, you can tell Briony wants to hear about your meeting with Jason and Maggie will take anything. 

She’s already certain you’d soon be thanking her for the gig of a lifetime. You tread lightly: “So, Jason’s pretty nice, seems cool so far.”

“Right,” Maggie narrowed her eyes for a second, looked over to Briony for back up before asking: “why do you sound so weird while saying that?”

You shrug and sip before redirecting, thankful for the sunglasses on your face due to sunny sidewalk seating. “Just settling in, Mag. I spent a solo hour with him yesterday.”

This tumbles out of your mouth before you realize you kept this from Maggie for hours. A whole afternoon of London by tube and dinner with Poppy last night and your morning at Jason’s didn’t come up.

Or maybe you didn’t bring it up because you walked home with a smile on your face and felt like an idiot for realizing that you had a very stupid schoolgirl crush on your new boss. Or, not boss?

A crush that would fade, no doubt. One that was sure to be chalked up to a rush of adrenaline that came with a new city and a new season and your newfound status: single. Or, super fucking single, as Maggie reminded you yesterday.

Briony leaned in, “he’s so cool, such a fun boss.”

“He seems fun,” you say with a nod. “I brought coffee.”

“You brought coffee?” Maggie leans in like you might as well have just told her you showed up naked on his doorstep.

“Yeah…” you eye her, aware that Briony’s head is on a constant swivel between the two of you. “Should I not have brought coffee?”

“No, no,” she shakes her head. “I’m just shocked to hear you’re such a kiss-ass for once. Especially with your new boss.”

“Technically,” you hold up a finger. “He’s not my boss.”

“What do you mean?” Briony asks. 

“I got this job through an agency,” you remind her. “And Maggie, obviously.”

“Obviously,” she takes a sip of her mimosa before leaning back in her chair. 

“So since it’s contracted out, I work for them, technically. Which makes Jason…”

Maggie understood, she’d worked long enough in Hollywood to fill in the blanks for Briony. “The guy you work with and the guy who’s orders you follow,” she giggles now.

“But not the guy who writes my check,” you smile. 

“Ugh,” Briony groans, jealous of the perks that come along with the EA title and the years of grunt work you’d already put in. “One day I’ll make it to the promiseland.”

“And until then you have Jason as your boss, so, I think we’re all doing okay,” Maggie teases. “Anyway,” she redirects. Leave it to Maggie to not give it up that easily. “What did you guys talk about yesterday?”

Her question feels casual, but you’re not sure how much to tip your hat. “Work,” you shrug. “And I’m not a kiss ass.”

“Y/N L/N?” her eyes go wide in jest. “Never!”

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