Caught In The Act: a Single Mom, Age-Gap Hollywood Christian Romance (Book 2 of Legacy Falls series)

Dax Harlow blinked hard, but the world still pulsed with dancing white spots—tiny fireflies strobing across his vision, like the snowstorm static on his grandparents’ old TV. His co-star’s face wavered behind the haze. He got the lines out, but they slid from his tongue without punch or color.

He took a step toward Lydia and the floor tilted.

“Cut!” the director barked.

Dax steadied himself, heat prickling up his neck.

Darn it!

He lifted a hand to drag it through his hair, then stopped halfway. No use making himself look worse. The Tylenol had barely held the headache at bay—but nothing touched the dizzy spells that came with it, heavy and slow like a tide he couldn’t outrun.

“Dax, I want to see you in my trailer.” Gina Devereaux’s voice carried that no-nonsense snap that made grips scramble and seasoned actors sweat. “Everyone else, take five.”

Ugh. The director’s trailer was the film-set equivalent of the principal’s office.

But maybe it wouldn’t be awful. In the three-plus weeks they’d been shooting, Gina had lived up to her reputation: tough, fair, and so sharp she could carve a better performance out of you with a single word. Under her direction, he’d done some of the strongest work of his life.

This is what it’s like in the big leagues.

At twenty-nine, the golden window of opportunity was closing fast. This film was his big break. The kind actors prayed for. He couldn’t afford to blow it. He owed it to his parents.

Sweat trickled down his spine as he followed Gina up the trailer steps. At the first blast of air conditioning, relief washed over him. Outside, the grips had done their best to rig shade, but nothing neutralized the white-hot California sun.

“Have a seat,” Gina said, pointing to a narrow cot across from the desk that dominated the cramped space. She grabbed two waters from the mini-fridge and passed one to him.

He cracked it open. The first swallow cooled his throat but didn’t touch the overheated thrum inside him.

She dragged a chair around and sat, knees angled toward him. “Are you okay?”

He blinked at the unexpected opener. For a split second, he considered telling her everything—the headaches, the spinning room, the nights spent staring at the ceiling until dawn—but then reality snapped back into place.

Gina was the director, not a friend.

“I’m just… not having a good day.”

Her eyes narrowed, and the excuse sounded just as lame aloud as it had in his head.

“Have you been partying with the crew?” she said. “Drinking too much?”

Only if insomnia counts as a wild night out. “No.”

“Taking drugs?”

“Of course not!” The words came out sharper than he’d intended.

“Then what’s your explanation?” Frustration sharpened her tone. “You don’t go from above-the-cut work to what I just saw.”

He swallowed against the tightness in his throat. “I’ll do better.”

She leaned back, studying him in silence. The scrutiny made his skin itch. His heart kicked against his ribs, trying to keep calm under the weight of her attention.

“Gina!” a gruff voice called from outside.

She closed her eyes briefly. “Shoot. That’s Sylvester.”

Dax stifled a groan. The producer had the uncanny ability to appear at the worst possible moment.

“I’ll be out in a minute!” Gina shouted.

She stood, shoulders lifting in a weary sigh. “I’m going to see what he wants. Until further notice, you need rest and water.”

“Will do.” He rose, longing for the privacy of his own trailer—and for Sylvester to be long gone by the time he crossed the lot. “I’ll wait in my trailer.”

“Fine.” She waved absently and stepped outside.

Only when the murmur of their voices faded did Dax slip out and head toward his own trailer.

The interior was still stifling despite the air conditioner rattling valiantly in the window. He dug through his bag until his fingers closed around the pill bottles.

He’d never been prone to migraines before, so he’d chalked them up to stress. But after the conversation with Gina, one thing was clear: he needed to get himself together. Fast. If the Tylenol couldn’t knock down this monster headache, he might have to resort to the leftover Vicodin from last year’s back injury.

Vicodin it is.

He swallowed a pill and lay back on the cot. The vinyl felt warm against his damp shirt. His forehead was sweaty, the room spinning just enough to unsettle his stomach.

He closed his eyes, willing the pill to work faster.

A knock jolted him upright.

“Come in,” he called, expecting a makeup artist or production assistant.

Instead, Gina blew in like a storm front—and she did not look happy. “I suggested a break, but I’ve been overruled,” she said. “I need you back on the set in five. I’ll send Suzie in to touch up your makeup.”

His stomach sank.

So much for time to pull it together.