Hook, Line, and Sinker: A Novel (Bellinger Sisters Book 2)
Hook, Line, and Sinker: Chapter 14

Hannah shifted in her sneakers, curling and uncurling the blue folder in her hands, waiting for Brinley to finish talking on her cell.

There was a good possibility this wasn’t going to go well. But the more Hannah turned over the idea of recording Henry’s shanties, the more it felt right. Inevitable. At the very least, she needed to voice the concept. To try. For Henry. For herself. And maybe she needed to try for Fox, too. Not because he expected or required her to make leading-lady moves, but because she couldn’t encourage him to reach beyond his capabilities if she wasn’t willing to do the same.

Speaking of Fox, she had a serious itch to hear his voice. Right now, while her nerves were trying to get the better of her. Normally her go-to person would be Piper if she needed a verbal chill pill, but she found herself pulling up her miles-long text thread with Fox, instead, her stomach calming simply from seeing his name on the screen. Keeping Brinley in her sights, she punched out a message.

HANNAH (1:45 PM): Hey there.

FOX (1:46 PM): Hey Freckles. What’s up?

H (1:46 PM): Not much. Just saying hey.

F (1:47 PM): If you miss me so much, tell them ur sick and come home. I’ll take you shoe shopping with me.

H (1:48 PM): Play hooky with a fisherman? Sounds dangerous.

F (1:48 PM): You won’t feel a thing.

H (1:49 PM): Lies. Back up. Shoe shopping? Did I accidentally text my sister?

F (1:50 PM): I need some new XTRATUFs. Rubber boots for the boat. At the risk of diminishing my insane sex appeal, mine are starting to reek.

H (1:52 PM): Sex appeal maintained. Unbelievable.

F (1:54 PM): It’s a curse.

F (1:55 PM): I can see you from the window. Turn.

Hannah’s upper half twisted to replace Fox looking back at her from his upstairs apartment, and an involuntary smile spread across her face. She waved. He waved back. And a powerful yearning to spend the day with Fox caught her so off guard, her arm dropped, a king-sized knot forming in her throat.

H (1:58 PM): Is it weird I want to sniff your boots to judge exactly how bad they are?

F (1:59 PM): It’s your funeral.

F (2:00 PM): You’re one of a kind, Hannah.

H (2:01 PM): So they say. See you later. Thanks.

F (2:02 PM): For what?

Hannah started to respond, but up ahead Brinley ended her phone call.

No guts, no glory. And her guts didn’t feel quite as liquified after texting with Fox. It helped to see him there in the window, a reassuring presence, there when she needed him.

Putting some starch in her spine, Hannah picked her way through the set in the other woman’s direction, doing her best not to look queasy. When she reached the music coordinator, the woman took a full minute to look up from the note she was writing on a legal pad. “Yes?”

“Hi, Brinley.” Hannah rolled her lips inward, turning the folder over in her hands. “So I brought something I thought you might be interested in—”

“Is this going to be quick? I have to make a call.”

“Yes.” Hannah resisted the impulse to blow off the whole thing, tell Brinley it was nothing and walk away. “Actually, I don’t know if this will be quick? But I definitely think it’s worth carving out a few minutes.” Hannah exhaled and flipped open the folder. “These are original sea shanties. Written by my father, actually. And they’re good. Really good. A lot of them are about Westport and family and love. Loss. They capture the themes of the movie, and after speaking to my grandmother this morning, we have permission to use them. I think . . . well, I was hoping you would consider approaching Sergei about using these original songs? I know it would be some extra legwork getting them professionally recorded, but—”

“Exactly. How much are you planning to pile on top of this budget, Hannah?” Brinley’s laugh was exasperated. “Your last suggestion dragged us to the Capital of Fish. And now you want to record an original soundtrack? Maybe you want to hold the premier in Abu Dhabi—”

“I’d like to see the songs, please,” Sergei said briskly, stepping out from behind the trailer to Hannah’s right, almost startling her into dropping the folder. His gaze was hard on Brinley, who’d gone a ghostly shade of white, but his demeanor softened when he reached out to take the folder from Hannah. “May I?”

This kind of upstaging scenario was the last place Hannah wanted to end up. Brinley was good at her job, and she respected the woman. She’d been prepared to hand over the songs and let Brinley claim the original score as her idea.

That wasn’t going to happen now.

Hannah tried to communicate a silent apology to Brinley, but the coordinator’s attention was focused on Sergei as he read through the first couple of shanties. “It’s hard to get anything from just the words,” he said, sounding disappointed. “There is no way to hear them set to music?”

Brinley shot triumphant daggers at her.

“Well . . .” Hannah started, once again experiencing the urge to take back the folder, laugh, apologize for the bad idea. Instead, she took a deep breath and kicked down the door of her comfort zone. “I’m in the process of doing that. I’ve already arranged to have them recorded. It’s just a matter of whether Storm Born wants them for this project or not.”

That’s right. Hannah lied. Just a little.

She was planning on replaceing a way to record the shanties, wasn’t she? Sure, that ball had been set in motion only a matter of hours ago. There was also a strong chance the Unreliables wouldn’t be interested, or they would be unavailable when Shauna got in touch. If so, eventually she’d replace somebody else. But bottom line, she was making it sound as though having the end product was imminent—and it wasn’t.

Sergei had a severely short attention span, though. And she had him semi-hooked on this idea she believed in with her heart, her soul, her gut. If she didn’t feed the director something real, something substantial, right now, it would blow out of his consciousness like white fuzzies from a dandelion.

And this was entertainment, baby. Fake it till you make it.

Sergei eyeballed her, right on the verge of interest. One more push.

How?

“I can . . . you know,” she mumbled into her chest. “I can sing one of them—”

“Yes, let’s do that,” Brinley said, beaming, resting her chin on her wrist. “Hey!” She leaned sideways and called to a group of crew members. “Hannah is going to sing us a sea shanty.”

The way everyone swarmed, she might as well have been Hailey Bieber walking out of LAX, suddenly the focus of rabid paparazzi. “Uhh.” She cleared her throat, reaching out to take the folder back from Sergei. This song had reduced her to tears last night. Was she really going to sing it in front of all her coworkers? Not only was she worried about having the same response in public, but her love for music didn’t exactly extend to sterling vocal abilities. “So . . . this is called ‘A Seafarer’s Bounty.’”

For once on the boisterous set, a pin could have been heard dropping.

Even Christian looked interested in the proceedings.

The first line of the song came out flat, kind of hushed. And then she happened to lift her eyes and see the Della Ray bobbing in the water just ahead in the harbor. Something moved inside her. Something deep and unknown, a little scary. A bridge to the past, to some other time. Her father had made his livelihood on that exact boat. He’d met his death on it. And she was singing one of his songs, so maybe she’d just better do it justice. She’d been handed all his words and thoughts. She’d never meet him, but in this small way, wasn’t she bringing him back to life?

Hannah didn’t realize how much her voice had risen until the song was nearly over and still no one spoke or moved. In no way did she fool herself into thinking her talent kept them as still as statues. God, no. Their inaction was probably due to the fact that she’d put more effort into the song than she’d put into anything before, except maybe creating the perfect playlist.

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.”

He laughed, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

Come on, hormones. Last chance to get excited.

They remained obstinately dormant.

“I’m curious to see if you can deliver on these additions to the score. I wasn’t lying when I said they could bring a lot of character to the piece. That . . . final aspect that has been missing.”

It was gratifying and kind of a relief to know she wasn’t the only one who noticed the lack of magic. “Thanks. I won’t let you down.”

Sergei nodded, pulled on his sleeves again. “Separate from that. Completely separate . . . Look, I don’t want you to think I’m giving you this chance because I . . . like you. Or expect something from you . . .”

Hannah almost asked him to repeat himself. Did he just say he liked her? It didn’t sound as though he’d meant that in a platonic way, either. In fact, he couldn’t seem to make eye contact with her. Was this for real? She dug frantically for excitement, for the former version of herself that pined for the moody director all hours of the day and night, but . . . if she was being honest, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d doodled his name on a napkin or stalked his Instagram. “Yes?” she prompted him slowly.

“It’s probably not a very professional question, but I replace myself”—he blew out a puff of breath—“extremely curious to know if your relationship with the fisherman is serious. Are you two doing the long-distance thing or . . . will you be available to see other people when we’re back in LA and not so . . . distracted?”

Was her relationship with Fox serious?

That was a really good question. Hannah guessed neither of them would know which answer to give. Yes or no. And yet all signs pointed to yes. They’d kept up a ritual of texting each other every night for seven months. They knew each other’s deepest insecurities. They’d slept in each other’s arms, and hey, they talked freely about masturbation. So there was that.

When she thought about Sergei, her brain made muffled beep-boop sounds. She liked his drive and his creativity and vision. His turtlenecks flattered his slim physique. They would have mutual interests if they ever really engaged in a personal discussion. Fine. It would be just . . . fine.

But when she thought about Fox, her stomach turned into a bouncy ball. So many emotions rolling around at once—longing, protectiveness, confusion, lust—and on top of those humdingers, she was infinitely more excited to see him at home tonight than go on a date with Sergei upon returning to LA.

It was entirely possible her interest in the director had started fading around seven months ago, when a certain Fleetwood Mac album showed up on the doorstep, and now it was completely null and void.

Still, as far as an answer to the question, was her relationship with Fox serious? She didn’t know.

But she found herself taking a deep breath and saying, “Yes, it’s serious.”

And somehow, saying it out loud felt entirely right.

* * *

Later that afternoon, Hannah walked slowly to Fox’s apartment.

She’d rushed back to Disc N Dat after filming to impress upon Shauna the urgency of getting in touch with the Unreliables and stood there while her friend placed the call. She left copies of the shanties for Shauna to pass on, along with the exciting (and hopefully enticing) news that Storm Born would be able to pay the band.

It would be pretty crushing if they didn’t come through, since they had the perfect sound, but worst-case scenario, she’d start hunting down other options bright and early tomorrow morning.

Toward the end of filming, the clouds overhead had darkened, settling a gloomy mood over Westport. Rainstorms always made Hannah want to go crawl into bed with her headphones, but after turning down Sergei—by telling him she was serious about Fox—she needed a minute before coming face-to-face with the fisherman. Would he know just by looking at her that she’d voiced such an impossibility out loud?

But maybe it wasn’t completely impossible.

She couldn’t stop replaying what Shauna told her. She supposed it wasn’t crazy unusual that Fox would stop into Disc N Dat. It was a small town. He’d been the one to introduce Hannah to the shop in the first place.

The fact that he’d been buying records, though . . .

To the casual observer, Fox’s purchases wouldn’t be a big deal. Only he knew what they would mean to Hannah. It made no sense to keep it from her, unless there was some important reason. On set this afternoon, she’d scrolled back through their text messages and found the one that had tickled her memory, made her pulse click in her ears.

F (6:40 PM): Apart from being dark and dramatic . . . what makes a man your type? What is eventually going to make a man The One?

H (6:43 PM): I think . . . if they can replace a reason to laugh with me on the worst day.

F (6:44 PM): That sounds like the opposite of your type.

H (6:45 PM): It does, doesn’t it? Must be the wine.

H (6:48 PM): He’ll need to have a cabinet full of records and something to play them on, of course.

F (6:51 PM): Well obviously.

Record collecting wasn’t an interest he’d enjoyed before they met last summer. Him buying albums now was pertinent information. Where was he keeping them? And if he was hiding them from her . . . what else was he hiding?

Either he didn’t want Hannah reading too much into his new collection or there was a lot to read into it and he needed more time before admitting that.

Unless, of course, she was completely nuts and he was just a dude who’d forgotten about buying a few albums. But for a man who never purchased anything for his apartment, wouldn’t they have stood out? Been remarked on by now?

Lube had been a main topic of interest, but not a stack of vinyls?

Let’s say, hypothetically, he’d started collecting records because he had a low-key interest in being Hannah’s type. Never mind that her knees trembled over that possibility. How far did his interest go? She didn’t know. But the same intuition that had led to calling their relationship “serious” was buzzing now. Telling her to wait, to be patient, to stay the course with Fox.

That if he was hiding records, he was hiding a desire to be . . . more.

Despite his assurances of the opposite.

Deep in thought, Hannah carefully wedged the new albums she hadn’t been able to resist under one arm and let herself into the apartment. When she walked inside, she was immediately greeted by the spicy scent of aftershave—and when Fox walked out of his bedroom in dark jeans and a slate-colored button-down, she knew.

He was going on a date.

Hannah’s stomach plummeted to the floor.