From the beloved author of Just My Type and Lease on Love comes a new romantic comedy in which a former actress-turned-screenwriter finds herself back in the spotlight, only for her romantic lead to be the one man she can’t stand.
Intrigued? Well read on to discover the synopsis and the first chapter from Fallon Ballard’s Right On Cue, which releases on February 27th 2024.
Hollywood darling Emmy Harper is considered the queen of writing romantic comedies. That is, until tragedy struck and she swore she’d never write another happy ending again. After some time away, and lots of encouragement from family and friends, Emmy is finally ready to dive back into the genre with her latest project. But more is riding on this movie than just her return to the big screen. This time, Emmy’s also been convinced to star as the lead, dusting off acting skills she hasn’t used in over a decade.
Emmy’s nervous, yet excited, to give performing another shot, until a last-minute injury benches her trusted co-star. With filming about to start, there’s only one other actor available on such short Grayson West. A blockbuster action star known for his mega-watt smile and impossible abs, Grayson is anyone’s dream of a romantic lead. Anyone except Emmy that is, who still blames him for her disastrous first movie and the early end to her acting career.
As filming begins, the friction between Emmy and Grayson is palpable and it’s anyone’s guess if it’s unresolved awkwardness or simmering sexual tension. The two are pushed to get their acts together—and quickly—or they risk tanking the entire movie, but if working things out leads to sizzling chemistry on screen, what might happen when the cameras stop rolling?
Chapter One
It becomes clear as soon as the pretty blonde opens her mouth that she is not the one. The whole room knows it, with everyone shifting subtly in their seats and shooting one another knowing glances. But she keeps going, and so does her scene partner, although Jonathan does glare at me from across the room.
Everyone is glaring at me, actually, if the tiny daggers I feel digging into my back are any indication.
Eventually, the poor, sweet actress finishes her scene and leaves with a wave and a smile. The room lets out a collective breath when the door bangs shut behind her.
“That was the last one for today.” My best friend and now producing partner, Liz, pushes back her chair with a loud scrape. She stalks to one corner of the small room, pivots sharply, and then marches to the opposite side.
Everyone waits for her to finish before speaking; that’s the kind of power she commands.
She comes to a halt in front of where I’m sitting, at the end of the table of exhausted and frustrated production team members. Her hands grip the edge of the plasticky wood, and she leans toward me with that look in her eye. “Emmy.”
“No.” The word is an immediate reflex—I know what she wants before she even asks for it.
She brings her eyes level with mine. “I’m a half second away from begging.”
“I can’t do it.”
“She’s not the only one about to beg,” Kurt, our executive producer, says from his position at the other end of the table. “To be frank, Emmy, we’re getting to the point where begging is going to morph into insisting.”
I swallow down another automatic no because Kurt sounds more serious than usual. And he’s the one who controls the purse strings. “You guys know I can’t. I’m not an actress; I’m a screenwriter.”
Jonathan Brentwood, our adored leading man and a college friend, joins Liz at the front of the table. “You could have fooled me, Em. When you read with me at my audition, your performance seemed pretty perfect.”
“I agree.” Kurt rises, and his already imposing presence looms over me even further. “We’ve been stuck in these auditions for weeks, and we haven’t seen anyone nearly as strong as you were. We’re scheduled to start filming in two weeks. We don’t have time for this anymore.”
Liz crosses her arms over her chest, but she doesn’t appear to be worried about Kurt’s declaration. “What are you saying, Kurt?” If I didn’t know better, I’d almost say there was a hint of smug in her question.
“You have twenty-four hours. Find me our Isobel, or I’m pulling the plug.” He claps what is probably meant to be comforting hand on my shoulder. “You know how much I care about you, Emmy. Your dad was like a brother to me, and I’ve watched you grow up, but I’m not about to put my name and my cash in jeopardy because you’re holding on to some baggage from the past.” He swings his bag over his shoulder and strides toward the door. “Let me know what you decide.”
The rest of the production team, along with Jonathan, scurry out of the room behind Kurt, leaving me alone with the woman who knows me better than almost anyone.
“Pancakes?” Liz asks.
“Pancakes,” I agree.
We arrive at Village Bakery a half hour later, ordering our food before finding seats in the back of the café.
“I can’t do it,” I say the moment our coffees have been dropped off. I know well enough by now not to deliver bad news to Liz before she has caffeine in her hands. “You know I can’t. And you know I won’t.”
“I understand that you think you can’t. But I know with one hundred percent certainty that you can. And not only that, but you should.” She tousles her white-blond pixie cut, which perfectly frames her pale, heart-shaped face, and turns her piercing blue eyes on me in what I know is a challenge.
I blink first, turning my gaze to the brightly colored chairs, the art on the walls, and the bud vase sitting in the middle of the table. “I’m not an actor, Lizzie, you know this. I haven’t been in front of the camera in more than fifteen years. And I prefer it that way.”
We accept our food from a server, two stacks of pancakes as big as my head. Liz doesn’t say anything while she butters hers and pours on an avalanche of syrup. The stress must really be getting to her, because Liz is one of the most health-conscious people I know; she only calls for pancakes in the most dire of circumstances. She shovels in a huge bite, chewing slowly before she turns her puppy-dog eyes back on me.
I hold up a hand in front of my face so I don’t have to see her. “No. Do not even try that. I am immune to your begging.”
“Then why are you hiding?”
I lower my hand, peering out cautiously, only to be hit with those big, baby blue buckets of sadness. “Liz. I can’t. You know what happened last time.”
She puts down her fork and reaches across the table to take my hand in hers. “Last time you were just a kid, Em. Look at how far you’ve come, at this amazing career you’ve had. You won a goddamn Oscar last year, and you’re going to let something that happened a million years ago keep you from doing what you love?”
“That’s the thing though: I don’t love acting. At least not anymore. I’m a writer. And I’m perfectly happy doing what I’m good at and nothing more.” I squeeze her hand before pulling mine away, lest the simple touch somehow reveal the fact that I’m lying. Not about being a writer. I do love it, and it does make me happy. Just maybe not totally and completely happy.
“You might not love acting—although the way you jumped at the chance to read for Isobel in Jonathan’s audition begs to differ—but you love this character.” She shovels another bite into her mouth, but I don’t fill the silence while she chews. “I know you do, Em, because I could hear it in your performance. And I know how much this movie means to you.”
I purse my lips to hold in my retort. She’s not wrong. Isobel, the female main character in No Reservations, is one of my favorites I’ve written. When we found ourselves in need of a reader for auditions for the male lead, I did jump at the chance. But it was meant to be a one-time-only, special-occasion, never-happening-again performance. Even if it was the most fun I’ve had in a really long time.
Unfortunately, I may have filled the role a little too well. Liz has been on me to play the part ever since, especially as we get closer and closer to our scheduled start date and seemingly further and further from finding our Isobel. I never would’ve pushed for my best friend to direct this project if I knew how much whining and cajoling would ensue.
I’ve been stalling, certain that the perfect actress would make her way to auditions. Meanwhile, I’ve had to tell Liz at least once a day that there is no way in hell she is casting me in my own movie.
Safe to say, things are not going as planned.
And the most annoying part is that I don’t want Isobel in the hands of someone unqualified. Someone who doesn’t get her, doesn’t get my words.
But I don’t know if any of that is enough. Yes, I love this movie and this script and this character. But do I love her enough to forget about the past and try it all again?
Liz can tell I’m wavering. I know she can because there’s a hint of a smile pulling on her stupidly full lips. “You know you and Jonathan would be awesome together, and he’d be an incredibly supportive costar.” I open my mouth to speak, but she holds up her hand. “Don’t make any decisions right now. Take some time to think about it. But not too much time.” Her hint of a smile fades. “You heard Kurt.”
“Do you think he was serious about the twenty-four hours?” The thought of losing our funding on this film is a knife to the heart. It took me a long time to fall back in love with writing about love, and if No Reservations doesn’t even make it to the screen, I don’t know how I’ll push through to write another.
“I think Kurt is always serious.” She hits me with her most formidable stop-being-an-idiot look, one I’ve been on the receiving end of frequently during our many years of friendship. “So promise me you will seriously consider doing this. We need you.”
“Fine. I’ll think about it.” I grumble, happy to put a pin in this whole conversation. “But don’t get your hopes up. I’m sure the right actress will come along just in the nick of time.”
The all-too-knowing smile she gives her pancakes makes me come close to hurling up my own.
After we leave the café, I sit in my car for a solid ten minutes, unsure of what to do next. I probably would’ve sat for longer if some asshole hadn’t started honking at me to give up my parking spot. If I’m being honest, I know there’s only one person I really need to talk to about my dilemma. And I’m dreading it, not because I don’t want to talk to her, but because I’m pretty sure I already know what she’s going to say.
Pulling into the driveway of my mom’s house in the Hollywood Hills brings on its usual flux of competing emotions. Her house is adorable and perfect for her and the fresh start she desperately needed after my dad passed away four years ago. It’s also an overpriced reminder that I’ll never step foot in my childhood home again. And although I understand why she needed to leave—not to just to escape the memories, but because the house was too much for her to care for on her own—it doesn’t take away the sting of losing one of my last tangible connections to my father.
My parents had the kind of relationship you don’t often see in movies because it’s what happens after the film ends, when the two people so perfectly suited for each other build a real life together. They had a classic showmance, one of the few that lasted well beyond the first movie they ever made as costars, one that landed them on every list of Hollywood’s top power couples. It was easy to write epic love stories when I had my very own example to study. It’s been a lot harder since my mom lost her partner and best friend.
I would sit in my car for another ten minutes here, too, but I know she’s already seen me pull up. If I don’t climb out soon, she’ll have no problem coming outside to find out why. So I trudge up the steep steps to her front porch and push open the door she’s already unlocked for me.
“I’m in the kitchen,” she calls, as if I wouldn’t have been able to easily locate her in the tiny two hundred square feet that comprise her living room, dining room, and kitchen.
I kick off my shoes and sink onto the couch, swinging my feet up on the ottoman that doubles as a coffee table.
“Coffee?”
“No, I’m good. I just had one with Liz.”
She comes in a minute later, two mugs in her hands, passing one off to me before folding herself into the armchair across from me.
“Why do you even ask if you’re going to bring me one anyway?”
“I thought writers subsisted solely on coffee.” She flashes me a smile while trying to disguise her look—you know the one, the one moms level at you when they’re trying to figure out what you’re hiding. When I was a teenager, I hid secret crushes and an occasional bottle of alcohol. As an adult, I stick to hiding my emotions. Not that it ever works.
I ignore her alien brain probing and focus on taking a long sip of coffee, which of course is prepared exactly how I like it.
She clears her throat and raises her eyebrows in some kind of mom power move. “So, to what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Can’t a daughter just swing by and check on her mother for no specific reason?” I shift my body, angling myself slightly away from her just in case her brain probe is real.
“Yes. But you obviously have a reason.” She sets down her coffee on the side table next to her chair and clasps her hands together in her lap. “Why don’t we skip the song and dance and you just tell me what’s going on?”
Purely on instinct I open my mouth to argue with her, but then I think better of it.
“Liz wants me to be in the movie.”
The lack of surprise on her face makes it clear that Liz has mentioned this to her already, which is honestly rude and should be illegal. My mom and Liz hit it off the moment they met on move-in day back during our freshman year of college and have had their own pseudo mother-daughter relationship ever since. “And?”
“And I don’t want to be in the movie.” I study her face, watching for even the smallest of hidden messages in her reaction, but the woman is a three-time Best Actress Academy Award winner and gives away nothing.
“So tell her no.”
“I did. Several times.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
I glare at her for being purposefully obtuse. Is this what it’s like to have a child? Because no thank you. “The problem is she keeps pressuring me.”
“If you don’t want to do it, then who cares? Liz is your best friend. If you don’t want to be in the movie, she’ll find someone else to be in the movie.” She picks up her mug and watches me carefully over the rim as she sips.
“What if she can’t find someone else?”
“You mean to tell me that in the entire city of Los Angeles, the entertainment capital of the world, esteemed director Liz Hudson can’t find a single actress to be in her film? Back in my day, girls would’ve been lining up for the chance to audition.”
“It’s our movie,” I grumble. “And there are girls lining up to audition. They’re just not exactly what we’re looking for. And Kurt threatened to pull funding if we don’t make a decision, like, today.”
She shrugs. “Then pick whoever’s second best.”
I grit my teeth and try not to snap the handle off my mug. “I don’t want someone who’s second best.”
“Then I guess that means you’ll have to play the part.” Her smile is as sweet as my coffee.
“Your mind games don’t work on me, Mom. I’m not thirteen anymore.”
Her eyes open wide with false innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sweetie. I’m just trying to help you figure out your problem.”
“You’re a menace.” I carefully set my coffee cup on the gold tray sitting on the cushioned ottoman.
She leans forward, resting her arms on her knees. Thanks to the small space, it leaves only about two feet between us. “Why are you hesitant about taking this part, Emilia?”
“Ouch, okay, there’s no need to full-name me here. I’m not in trouble or anything.”
Instead of responding to my deflecting, my mom simply holds my gaze.
I sit back in my seat with a sigh. “I’m a writer, not a performer. And you know I hate being on camera.” It’s even harder to lie to her than it is to Liz.
“Is this about that idiot boy?”
A small smile tugs on my lips. When it comes to holding a grudge, I learned from the very best. We Harper women do it well. “No, this is not about that idiot boy. At least not directly.”
She reaches across the short divide between us, taking my hand and gently pulling me forward so my position mirrors hers. “If you really don’t want to do this, you know you don’t have to, no matter how much Liz is pressuring you. She’s a big girl; she’ll get over it.”
“But?”
“But if you’re saying no because you think you can’t do it, because you think you might fail, then that’s bullshit and you need to get over yourself.”
“Wow, Mom, thanks so much for your love and caring support.”
She gives my hand a squeeze before returning to her upright position. “You know I’m right.”
I remain folded in half, elbows resting on my knees, head hanging down. “There’s a part of me that does want to say yes. Mostly because I feel like Dad would agree with you and encourage me to do it. He’d tell me to fuck the haters and not to be afraid to try something different, to go for what I want.” A tissue appears in front of me, and I didn’t even realize I was crying. I take it and blot at my eyes.
My mom rises from her chair and joins me on the couch, tugging me into her embrace. “I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what he would say.”
My head falls onto her shoulder.
“But you also can’t do this only for him, Emmy. Just like you can’t do it for Liz, or even to get back at that idiot boy.”
“Is this the part where you tell me I need to do it for myself?”
“Hey, it may sound after-school-special, but it’s true.”
I let her hold me for longer than I probably should, telling myself she needs to deliver this comfort as much as I need to receive it. It makes me feel better about being over thirty and still needing my mom. Although, in her very own words, fuck the haters; you’re never too old to need your mom.
I finally sit up when the crick in my neck starts to hurt. Because yeah, that position definitely isn’t as comfortable now as when I was younger.
“So you’re going to do it?” She tries to hide the glee in her voice but doesn’t do a very good job.
And because I’m still a petulant teenager at heart, I lie. “I’m not sure. I’m going to take the rest of the day to think about it.” I stand, taking my mug to the kitchen and rinsing it out before grabbing my keys and crossing the few steps to the front door. “Thanks for listening.”
She pulls me into a hug. “Literally my job.”
“Do not even think about calling Liz when I leave.”
She opens her eyes wide in mock outrage. “I would never.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You know how much Liz hates talking on the phone. We text.”
This time the outrage is mine and hardly mocked at all. My own mother shoves me out the door, and I can see her tapping away on her phone before the door even closes behind me.
“Traitor!” I call over my shoulder as I bound down the steps and slide into my Prius.
Well. Fuck.
Screen Scandals
In some delightful casting news today, we are happy to report that everyone’s favorite rom-com writer Emmy Harper is going to be stepping in front of the camera in her brand-new love story No Reservations—a classic rom-com about a big-city girl who gets stranded at a small-town inn and finds herself falling for the charming owner. Harper has penned some of our favorite romance movies of recent years (not to mention her killer foray into the more dramatic space with her brilliant and Oscar-winning Midnight Sunset), but this will be her first time on-screen. Or, I guess we should say, this will be her first time in a long time.
That’s right! Not only has Harper starred in a movie before, but she had the pleasure and good fortune of starring opposite our ABSolute (emphasis on the abs, always) favorite action hunk, Grayson West! How have you never heard of this cinematic masterpiece before, you might be wondering. Well, the simple answer is it’s terrible. No really. Both West and Harper were just starting out in their careers, and their chemistry is all over the place—from jumping off the screen during their one shared kiss to borderline murderous in basically every other scene. It’s no wonder it’s been all but stripped from our memories.
Lucky for Harper, she’ll be starring opposite super hunk Jonathan Brentwood in her upcoming, hopefully triumphant return to the screen. We can’t wait to see some sexy small-town hijinks from these two hotties!
