“No,” he said aloud. “No.”
Jillian popped up at his side. She’d pulled her pink-and-blonde hair up into a ponytail today, and she was dressed for comfort, jeans and a hoodie; she looked too impossibly young to be an award-winning director, even though they’d been friends for over a decade and Colby knew she was nearly fifty-two. Nobody’d believe it. “No to what? The scene? The lighting? Do you think we need a closer shot of Jason’s reaction, just there?”
“Yes, in fact, but that wasn’t it.” He waved the script pages at her, a motion that covered up a tugging-down of one sleeve. “It’s not quite right. The ending. What were you all laughing about?”
“Leo can’t tell the difference between port and starboard. He thinks you can drink both. What do you think of Jason?”
“He’s very good. He want
