EPOV

For the millionth time this week, my mind travels back to Sookie Stackhouse. I've checked my phone at least as many times to see if she called or texted me; I've even had my PA Laura take it in to the Apple store to have it checked out. It is, in fact, working correctly. Skit. Why is it that I finally meet a fantastic woman, and she cant even stay through a catnap?

S-Day, as I've come to think of it, had started out pretty typically wake up in strange hotel room, manage to groom myself (leaving just the right amount of stubble you never want too much or you look like George Michael in the Faith video), and have a car take me to a photo shoot. As my career has progressed, I've gotten more comfortable with days like these. The typical-ness was shot to hell as soon as I opened the door to that studio, though. Ive worked with a lot of photographers, but never one as pretty as Sookie.

When she turned to the door and introduced herself to me, I was momentarily stunned. It was a bit of shock to see a woman with curves - all actresses seem to aspire to be a size negative 2. I managed to squeak out my name and shake her hand; well, it sounded squeaky to me, but she didn't seem to notice anything. Or maybe she was just too polite to mention it. She also didn't say anything about my posing, which I'm sure was horrible.

I had a fantastic opportunity to ogle Sookie while she flitted around, adjusting her set up. She was focused and professional, and totally absorbed in what she was doing, so I took complete advantage and shamelessly checked her out. I think I may have made some small talk, but all I remember is Sookie. When she was ready, I managed to get it together enough to at least try to pose for her shots. At one point, I know she came over and adjusted my shirt, because she was close enough for me to note that she smelled like vanilla and sugar. I could tell by the way she carried herself that she was completely unaware of her beauty not in a bad way, like low self-esteem, just that she never used her beauty like many women would.

After she got enough shots, she immediately went to work editing. Watching her work, and sitting close enough to breathe in her sweet smell, was intoxicating. All her little tics were so sexy and yet so unintentional. I was cognizant enough to realize that she was very good at what she did she had managed to get some really good shots of me. And seeing what she could do with a photo was amazing she made it so much more perfect, yet still real.

Seriously, what is it about this woman that has me so wound up? I've been distracted and off my game since I met her. I was late getting to set one day after I overslept, due to an extremely appealing dream about her. I keep forgetting my lines and missing my marks. This is totally unlike me - I pride myself on being professional and prepared. Maybe its the fuck-me pumps that are throwing me. There's something about red heels that seems to say, I will rock your world. How she managed to move around so fast in those, I will never understand. Women in high heels are like their own rule of movement, balance, gravity... whatever you want to call it, it was always sexy to watch.

I was sitting in my directors chair on set, staring moodily at my iPhone screen yet again, when I felt a body slink into the chair next to mine. Great.

"Hello, Eric darling. Puss puss," a voice purred at me, attempting to sound sexy. You do one video where you speak Swedish, and suddenly everyone thinks they can speak Swedish! Or rather, some people only choose to remember key phrases.

My eyes slowly rolled in the direction of the voice, towards my co-star. Pamela Ravenscroft (which has to be the worst example of a stage name ever, in my opinion) sat, in all her 90-lb bobble-headed glory, staring at me like a cat that ate a huge bowl of cream. Well, she would be if she ever went anywhere near dairy - or meat, or carbs. But I digress.

"Pam, how are you this morning?" My eyes went back to my phone. I wonder if there's an iPhone app that can show you how many times someone has thought about dialing your number. That might make me feel better. I started searching.

"No kiss?" Pamela is persistent, her bony cheek turned towards me. She's been relentless in her pursuit of me since we started production. Her star is a bit on the down turn these days, and she's desperate for any press she can get. Its no mistake that her initials are P.R.

"Umm, think I'm coming down with something," I threw out as a way to avoid the requisite Hollywood cheek kiss. There's no way her anorexic ass would come anywhere near a germ. As expected, she visibly paled to an even more unhealthy shade and leaned away from me, digging into the giant bag of crazy that never leaves her side.

"Here, you should take this. And this. And these," she said, flinging bottles at me. "They'll help you feel better." How typical that she carries a mobile pharmacy with her. Her immune system must be nil; all her body's energy is probably devoted to carrying her too-large-for-her-frame skull around.

"You just take these, and you'll be feeling better in no time, she attempted a mothering tone. But since you aren't feeling 100%, I'll talk to Jake and see if we cant re-arrange the shot-list today. I think were scheduled for a scene together and I just know Jake wouldn't want both his stars sick." Jake is our much put-upon director. But, what the heck? If it gets me out of dealing with her for a while, I'll work this cold until I'm at pneumonia's doorstep.

"Yeah, that might be good. Thanks, Pam." I tried to look feeble and less than the picture of health. I even sniffled a bit. That did the trick - she was out of her seat and rushing to find poor Jake as fast as her knobby knees could carry her.

Another voice popped up over my left shoulder. "So what did you say to make Ravenswhore run for it?" I turned to see my grinning blond assistant, Laura, give me a knowing smirk. I laughed at our nickname for Pam.

"Fake cold. Worked like a charm."

"Hmm, well, I might know just the thing to cure you, boss."

"Yeah? And it was already like Christmas morning today. What ya got?"

"Sookie Stackhouse called for you." Laura thoughtfully avoided my uber un-cool beaming grin. "She called Mark, actually, who gave her my number, and I, in turn, gave her your trailer number. She's calling back in 15." Mark is my manager. Why would she call Mark and not my cell? Still, I'm not about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"It's okay, you can say it. I know I'm awesome." Laura gave me a smug grin. As I shot out of my chair towards my trailer, I yelled back over my shoulder.

"Laura, you ROCK!"

SPOV

ARGH. Stupid Sophie-Anne, my boss, is insisting on having me glamour retouch Eric's photo. You know, you forget to get a guy to sign an approval waiver just because you're rushing off to the afternoon of your dreams, and suddenly your boss thinks she can make you do anything she wants.

"I'm telling you, Sophie-Anne, Mr. Northman did not want to be glamoured. We specifically discussed the area under his eyes and I gave him a quick version of what it would look like, and he declined."

"Frankly, Sookie, you have no documentation to back this up which I completely fail to understand, as our policy clearly states that all subjects must sign a waiver. And the bags are driving me crazy. So, either produce a waiver or do it my way." She spun on her skyscraper heels and stalked off.

Ugh. I'm going to have to call him now. His number has been burning a hole in my purse for a week, and I still haven't gotten up the courage to call him. This is business, though, so maybe I shouldn't call his cell. I quickly dug out his file and found his manager's number.

"Hello, Mr. Sullivan? This is Sookie Stackhouse..."