Not in the Script (46 page)

I grab as many couch pillows as I can to hide behind. “I'm getting pretty good at this acting thing, aren't I?”

“You sure are!” Emma pries away one pillow at a time, preparing to clobber me. But then she pauses, smiles, and tosses them aside. “You know, I actually wouldn't mind having the past few hours on film. I'd watch this scene over and over. I'd never get tired of it.”

“Yeah?” I say, and scoot a bit closer. “Then let's go again, from the top—make sure we get it right.”

“But let's skip the part where we talk about the weather,” she says, slipping her fingers through the back of my hair and whispering against my cheek. “Jake and Emma's awesome make-up scene …”

I kiss her. “Take two.”

All of my love and appreciation goes to Shawn, Aubrey, Kailey, and Ella, who have been both supportive and patient while I chased this dream. Also to my parents, Don and Ann Marie, and my in-laws, Wayne and Valerie. You've pretty much sacrificed your retirement years to help out whenever I've needed you. And I have to include Gabby Pribil among my family because she's cared for my daughters almost as much as I have over the past several years.

I offer my sincerest gratitude to my fabulous team at Bloomsbury, especially Caroline Abbey, my lovely editor who called me with the
best news ever
while I was at Costco, and turned out to be the best deal I ever got there. Also Laura Whitaker, who I was lucky enough to acquire along the way as both an editor and a friend (and it's an extra bonus that she likes a good romance as much as I do). Sarah Shumway, Cat Onder, and Michelle Nagler, thank you so much for the roles you each played in bringing
Not
in the Script
to life. Ilana Worrell, Erica Barmash, Emily Ritter, Lizzy Mason, Courtney Griffin, Donna Mark, and Lisa Novak—few readers are aware of how hard
you
work to provide them with awesome stories, so this is your well-deserved shout-out.
Thank you!

Erin Murphy … where do I begin? I would've never dared to dream that an agent like you existed. You have given me 24/7 customer service, nonstop encouragement, and a lifetime supply of new best friends—the fabulous EMLA Gango! You treat me like I'm your only client who matters (but let's face it, you treat
everyone
that way).

Joy Peskin, your unwavering confidence in this novel is the reason it finally escaped my laptop and is now on bookshelves. And your confidence in
me
has at times been the only thing that kept me writing. But it's our irreplaceable friendship I treasure most. By far.

Sara Watkins, how can I ever thank you enough for your late-night reading marathons, laughing at the same jokes over and over again, and putting up with my endless “Sorry, but I've gotta write” excuses? It's pretty fair to say I owe you lunch. Like, forever.

I've had many other friends and mentors who have cheered me on throughout these long years of learning (and hoping), especially Jessica Day George, Heather Moore, Kim Thacker, Kristyn Crow, Alison Randall, Jennifer A. Nielsen, Carol Lynch Williams, Ann Cannon, Jen White, and Amy Efaw. You are all exceptional writers and even better pals.

Many thanks to Rachel Parkin and Tyler Atkinson for helping out with the technical details that were needed to write this book, as well as reviewing the manuscript for accuracy. And my
highest-pitched fangirl squeals go out to the cast and crew of
Parks and Recreation
,
Parenthood
, and
Melissa and Joey
for allowing me to tour your studios, watch you film, and best of all, bask in your glory!

I also owe a lot to the many friends I made on Kryptonsite.com, where strangers from all over the world knew me as ajfinn and made me believe that my writing could one day find an audience outside of the three people who previously liked it. A very heartfelt thank you to Cardinal, SVSlueth, MOOman0618, Binkys711, NYC300Z, Ketchup, escout, Dr. Jekyll, LuvClana, Mythos, Superman_lives_on, booze_is_me09, itsallinthespelling, iLuvClana, 4EverSmallville, Spacewalker_33.3, and the rest of my ever-faithful fan fiction readers. Long live Clana!

And a BIG thank you to the readers out there! I hope you enjoyed
Not in the Script
and will continue to be a part of my life. Please stop by to say hello on Facebook (Amy Finnegan, Author) or on Twitter at @ajfinnegan. I'd love to get to know you! And you can also follow the characters of
Not in the Script
on Twitter at
@onlyhre4thefood,
@EmmaTayAllDay,
@actorincognito,
@SoooooOverIt,
@Crazy4Hollywood, and
@NotInTheScript.
They'll follow you back and will often reply to your questions or comments. And since I'm obviously not ready to give them up, I will occasionally be posting extra scenes at AmyFinnegan.com, where you can also find news about author events and additional books. I hope to see you around!

Amy Finnegan
writes her own stories because she enjoys falling in love over and over again, and thinks everyone deserves a happy ending. She likes to travel the world—usually to locations where her favorite books take place—and owes her unquenchable thirst for reading to Jane Austen and J.K. Rowling.
Not in the Script
came about after hearing several years of behind-the-scenes stories from her industry veteran brother. She's also been lucky enough to visit dozens of film sets and sit in on major productions such as
Parks and Recreation
and
Parenthood.
This is Amy's debut novel.

www.facebook.com/AmyFinneganAuthor
@ajfinnegan

The
line

Wish You Were Italian
by Kristin Rae

Fool Me Twice
by Mandy Hubbard

Not in the Script
by Amy Finnegan

Read on for a glimpse at another romance filled with gorgeous cowboys, a touch of amnesia, and an epic revenge plot against an ex-boyfriend!

 

 

“I pledge allegiance, to the flag …”

I stiffen, my grip on the pitchfork, tightening so hard the wood bites into the still-developing calluses on my palms. The voice behind me is the very one I've waited to hear for the last week. … But he's
mocking me.

I slice a glare in Landon's direction. He's standing in the entry to the empty stall, his lanky, all-too-muscular body a silhouette against the fluorescent fixture hanging behind him. The dust kicked up by my work swirls in the light hugging his body.

I wish I could make out his expression, to figure out if it's the same sneer he gave me that first day back at school last fall. When he broke my heart.

I smirk, saying, “Ha, ha, ha. You must think you're super clever.”

“Actually, I do.” He puts a hand to his heart. “You really wound my ego.”

I roll my eyes. “ ‘No tears, please. It's a waste of good suffering.' ”

He drops his hand back to his side. “Are you quoting
Hell-raiser?”

I blink. “Um, no?” I turn back to the pitchfork, hoping he buys it, and toss another scoop into the overflowing wheelbar-row. I should have emptied it already, but this is the last stall.

“Since when do you like classic horror movies?” His voice has that old familiar drawl to it, that same twang I loved when he whispered to me, his breath hot on my ear. His family is from Texas. They moved to Washington State six years ago, but he's never let go of the accent.

“Since when do you care what I like?” I scoop at a pile of manure near his toes, daring him to stand still as it slides dangerously close to his battered Justin cowboy boots. He doesn't move. “I mean, I was
just
getting used to the silent treatment.”

“Meh, I got bored,” he says.

Bored. I scowl. “I'm sure there's a
real
flag somewhere in desperate need of your allegiance.”

I scoop up another forkful of soiled bedding. Maybe he thought he'd get away with just waltzing up, that I'd somehow forget what he did, like I'd fall at his feet at the first sign of his interest.

When I look up at him again, he hasn't budged, he's just chewing on his lip. He licks his lip, and for a second I forget I'm staring, thinking about how it felt when we'd kissed, when he'd traced his tongue across
my
lips. When he grins, I realize he's caught me.

Ugh. I should not be thinking of how good he is at kissing. Actually, scratch that. I should be thinking of how good he is at kissing
other girls.
That made it pretty easy to stay angry. Like he did in the halls the first day of school last fall. I wore this adorable Zac Brown Band T-shirt because he said they were his favorite band, and I was practically bursting with excitement to see him after a few days apart … and then I saw him, but it didn't go the way I'd pictured.

He was leaning in to kiss
her,
while I stood there dumb-founded. He knew exactly what he was doing because mid-way through their steamy makeout session, he saw me staring, a strange gleam in his eyes as he watched the way I unraveled. It was like he enjoyed watching me shatter, just like little boys love burning ants with magnifying glasses.

And it sucks to be the ant. I am
so over
being the ant.

“Nah, you're a little more … lively.”

I snort, shaking my head. Lively. Yeah, I could show him lively.

“What?” he asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorway. The effort makes his muscles bulge. He probably practices the move in his mirror in the hopes of using it to ensnare his next summer fling.

I toss the pitchfork onto the heaping wheelbarrow. “Just leave me alone, okay?” I grab the cart's handle and yank.

But he doesn't move, and I back right up into him, our bodies colliding. Instead of stepping aside, he grabs my elbows to keep me from knocking him completely over, and then actually removes me from the stall and slides me into the aisle, like I'm a kitten that's run into his path.