Love is Always Write Anthology Bonus Volume

bit," he said a few strides on.
    "It would make things easier," I agreed, blessing Lilia. If the food was good, anyway. If it wasn't… this could still end badly. Alan reached into the basket and came out with something wrapped in foil. I took the basket back as he unwrapped a sandwich. Lilia was safe making sandwiches.
    "That goddess!" he said. "Ham and Swiss on rye with brown mustard!"
    "Ew."
    "Foolish mortal."
    "How does she know what you like?" I asked.
    "She asked me weeks ago, sneaky woman. Didn't you know your aunt was emailing me? My electronic wooing proceeds!"
    "She's still a girl," I pointed out.
    "Any human who can make a decent ham sandwich has overcome the limitations of his or her gender."
    I snickered. Alan's hand dove into the basket again, and came out with a sports bottle. "Iced tea?" he guessed. "Or lemonade?"
    "If it's tea, I wouldn't." Lilia made sun tea like she made coffee, then tried to correct the problem with lots of sugar. She did better with lemonade.
    "Speak no word against my lady!" Alan warned. "Lest I prove her honor upon your foul carcass." He tugged the squirt-top open with his teeth. "Lemonade. Good stuff."
    "Are you going to be able to climb if you eat all that now?"
    "I'll waddle up somehow," he snapped.
    I thought of his lithe body wriggling up into the tree and I didn't doubt it.
    "I got some footage of the graveyard," I blurted, trying not to think about his lithe body. "And a picnic at the new church."
    "You should direct," he said.
    Call me contrary. I'd been sorry I gave the job to him, now I didn't want it back. Especially not now that I'd seen what he could do. "Why? You have a great eye."
    "Because I'm a drama queen who screws up his own shooting calendar over one stupid little nothing. Because we're six effing weeks in and we barely have shit. Tania thinks I'm a jackass and Mallory thinks I'm pathetic and you—" He stopped short of telling me what I thought of him.
    "Mallory thinks you're awesome," I said, "and Tania doesn't dislike you any more than she dislikes nearly everyone. We have a lot of footage and the research you've directed and a T-script that's looking good. The group is fine with following you— not to mention you have Darren thinking about showing up before December and got actual work out of Matt Brinks. I think you're doing fine."
    "Yeah, well, I think you're a dumbass and too fucking nice."
    "I'm not fucking nice enough to direct just so you can keep being a drama queen." Crap! How did he get under my skin so fast? I never talked to anyone like that, and now— I fumbled for an apology before he turned around and left, but instead he tossed his head and walked up and over a small boulder he could have gone around.
    "Fine," he said.
    What? I swore at him, and he just… agreed.
    "Mal and I can do the interviews this week," he said.
    "My schedule is a bit full, but I can arrange—"
    "We'll use her camera," Alan said. "The interviews will look more sincere with less-than-perfect production anyway. While we're on that, you can work on a script revision. Use 'notes' when you go through it, not 'track changes' or we'll have a hell of a mess."
    He'd rather run the camera himself than have me there. I told myself it was probably for the best. It would give things time to work out.
    "All right," I said. "Tuesday at the Mug Shot?"
    "No. We don't have to meet weekly. Everyone has something to work on."
    "I've found that—"
    "Maybe you have, but you're not directing, are you?" Alan smacked the sports bottle closed with the palm of his hand. "So. Two-Face. It has, I assume, two faces?"
    "It's a cliff that comes out on an angle over the river. The southern face has routes ranging from five-five to five-eleven." The Yosemite Decimal System made it sound like there wasn't much difference in the routes, but that wasn't true. It was more like differences between software versions. The jump between 5.9 and 5.10 was big, between 5.10a and 5.10b even worse. "The southeastern face is easier except for a solid five-eight on a buttress, and a five-ten-b next to it. What's your rating?"
    "What's yours?" Alan asked.
    The way he returned the question made me suspicious. "Five-seven," I lied on a whim.
    "Liar," he said. "I checked out the club's website. It has a great pic of Lukas Blake all hot and sweaty, grinning at the top of his first five-ten climb."
    "That was over a year ago. I'm probably—"
    "Out of shape?" he asked. "When you're always mowing lawns and trimming