"You're lucky you chose today to work out, or you would have gotten an earful, too," she continued, looking more harried than he could ever remember seeing her. "Ignore all your voicemails, by the way. I'm fielding everything."
"It's that bad." He said it as a statement, not a question. All these years he'd been so damn careful. Then one woman slips in through the cracks in his armor, and suddenly everything he's worked for is on the verge of shattering.
"Hell yes, it's that bad."
"Hold on." Riley's attention had been on Natasha, who'd moved back to lean against a wall as she tapped on her phone, presumably answering emails. Now, however, he stepped forward. "The studio actually gives a rat's ass about one photo of our boy and a blonde?"
"With the money they've invested in this picture, they care about what brand of toothpaste he uses. You're under a microscope, Iowa. You know that. Hell, we talked about it just a few hours before this photo was taken. So do you want to explain to me how this happened?"
"Not really, no. But I'll fix it."
"Too late. I already fixed it. Or, at least, I put a Band-Aid on it."
Lyle stiffened as trepidation shot through him. "What did you do?"
"What I told you to do yesterday. Congratulations, Iowa, I got you a girlfriend."
Lyle stared at her, uncomprehending. "Hang on. You got me a--how? Who?"
"The woman in the photo, obviously. I told Ronald she was your girlfriend, that you've been seeing her for months, but that she's not in the business and doesn't like the spotlight. And, most important, that you're not going to cheat on her just to make Frannie or the publicity department happy."
He opened his mouth, but no words came out.
"As for Frannie, so long as the relationship seems serious, she'll leave you alone. She screws around, but she's also got a romantic streak. As long as you bring this girl to Wyatt's opening tonight and look madly in love, I think we'll be back on track."
"Tonight?" He was already planning on attending the opening of his friend Wyatt Royce's highly anticipated photography show. But he'd intended on going stag.
She stared him down. "That photo's all over the internet. Right now, it looks like you're cheating on Frannie. Pull the girl into the spotlight--get a few shots of you and her and Frannie having drinks and a few laughs--and everything will be smoothed over."
She pointed a well-manicured finger at him. "Remember Ace, filming hasn't started yet. It's not too late for them to replace you."
"Great," Lyle said. "Just great." He pressed his fingers hard against his temples. "And if the girl doesn't want to join our merry band of players?"
"Then find another blonde," Evelyn said dryly. "At this point, I think any girl will do."
About that, Lyle thought, she was absolutely wrong.
He watched as Evelyn strode away. Nat hesitated, her eyes on Riley. A moment later, she blinked, as if realizing she was staring, and turned her attention to Lyle.
He glanced at her familiar red portfolio. "Anything we need to go over?"
She shook her head. "Nothing that can't wait until tomorrow. Do I, um, I mean, is there anything I need to do about tonight? About the girl?"
Despite his frustration, he almost laughed. Nat was the most efficient assistant he'd ever had, and he could hear in her voice how much it bothered her that she didn't have a clue how to solve this particular problem for her boss. "Don't worry about it," he said. "I've got it covered."
"Good. I'm glad to hear it. In that case, I'll see you at the opening tonight."
"Thanks."
Riley took a step forward. "Nat--"
Her brow rose as she cut him off curtly with, "Have a good evening, Mr. Blade." Then she turned and walked out without another word.
Lyle turned to Riley. "Something you want to share with the class?"
"Not really."
As far as Lyle knew, there'd never been anything between Riley and his assistant. But maybe that was the problem. "You know, if you're interested, you could ask her out."
Riley tilted his head with what looked like sudden interest. "She's not seeing someone else?"
"Not that I know of. You're free and clear. Ask her." He grinned. "What woman has ever said no to you?"
"Natasha has," Riley said flatly.
"Wow," Lyle said, genuinely surprised. "I didn't realize it was the apocalypse."
That got a smile from Riley. "Yeah, well, my female problems don't hold a candle to yours." He cocked his head toward the door. "Go on and give this girl a ring and get tonight squared away. Then we'll get in the rest of your workout."
"Love to. But I don't have her number."
Riley chuckled. "So Evelyn was right. Who is she? Someone you picked up at a bar?"
"No," Lyle said evenly, watching his friend's face. "I didn't pick her up at a bar."
"Then where'd you--oh, fuck, Lyle. I thought you told me that was over."
Lyle raked his fingers through his hair. "It is. Mostly. But sometimes I need--"
He cut himself off with a shrug. "Sometimes, it's just hard."
"I get that it's fucked up, man. But you have to find another way to deal all the shit. Jenny's death. The pressure of living under a microscope. Whatever it is, you gotta find another way."
"I know." He paced the gym, back and forth between the bag and the chin up bar. "I know," he repeated. "But it's not just about me burning off steam. It's about the girls, too. You know that."
"The hell I do. Do you think I don't get it?" He caught Lyle on a pass and held him still, getting right in his face. "I was there, remember? I know what your life was like. What you and Jenny ran from."
Riley backed away, pain written on his face as he continued. "You think I don't have my own ghosts to deal with? But you can't screw call girls and think that's a substitute for a relationship.
Lyle winced, but Riley just kept on talking.
"And you can't toss money at them and think you're saving them. You're not. You can't save them any more than you could save Jenny."
"Is that your great wisdom talking?" Lyle snapped, because Riley's words were hitting just a little too close to home. "Because you're so damn good with relationships?"
"Watch yourself, buddy."
Lyle deflated, feeling like a total prick. "Sorry. Shit, you're right. I know you're right, and I don't much care for having reality thrown in my face, especially when it's a mirror for all my fuck ups."
"Lyle--"
"No." He held up a hand. "I don't need to be psychoanalyzed right now."
"Fair enough. What do you need?"
Lyle drew in a breath as he lifted a shoulder. "Haven't you been paying attention? Apparently, I need to get myself a date."
7
By mid-afternoon, I've finished my shift at Maudie's and have scoured Mrs. Donahue's kitchen from top to bottom. I feel sticky and gross and I'm pretty sure I smell like grease. And that's really not the way I want to smell during a business meeting.
Not that I expected to even be in a business meeting. I'd come to Greg's house anticipating an afternoon of bathroom renovation followed by two hours of eating popcorn and watching a movie.
But here I am, in all my greasy, stinky glory, sitting at Greg's kitchen table, my T-shirt splattered with paint and my manicure ruined, while Anderson Morton-Gray sits across from us, looking positively dapper in a dark blue suit.
I've met Anderson before, of course. His husband, Steve, is a working screenwriter and a friend of Greg's. So we've met over drinks a couple of times, and I know that he's a real estate broker who lives in West Hollywood. What I didn't know was that he'd asked Greg if he could come over today.
I also didn't know that his company owns the house Greg lives in.
And I definitely didn't know that he's seen pictures of the work I did on my own house, a lot of which was with Greg's help.
I know all of that now, though. And, in fact, my head is spinning a little bit as Anderson wraps up his proposal. "So that's the id
ea," he says, glancing at Greg and me in turn. "What do you think?"
What I think is that it sounds amazing, and tell him so. He has a client who's buying a rundown bungalow in Santa Monica as a flip. But the client's not interested in doing the work. As for Anderson, he's not only a real estate broker, but like Greg, he grew up in his family's construction business, so he's offered to act as the general contractor for the work. Work that Greg and I will do, with the exception of stuff like plumbing and electrical, which we'll subcontract out. Then, after the sale of the house, we all take an agreed-upon share of the profit.
"And having a buyer as part of the mix is just for this initial job," Anderson says. "Assuming it all goes well, in the future I'll buy the properties through my company. That means more profit for us, because we'll be splitting it with one less party."
I glance at Greg, who looks as giddy as I feel. Anderson has just put on the table the very business that Greg and I have been dreaming of--and with the added value of not having to come up with the money and the credit to buy that first property.
Greg's eyes widen just slightly, but I know him well enough to understand the question. I nod, knowing that he'll understand my answer.
"Yeah," he says to Anderson as I grin. "We're in."
"Excellent." He pushes back from the table. "Well, all right, then. I'll get some pictures and floor plans of the property for you, and arrange a walk through. The buyers close on Tuesday, so we can jump right in next week. He smiles, wide and charming. "I think this is going to be great. Fun and lucrative."
"Can't beat that," I say, and both men laugh.
We walk Anderson to the door. "Tell Steve I'll see him tomorrow morning at the group brunch," Greg says, referring to his screenwriting critique group.
"Will do," Anderson says as he shakes my hand. Then he's out the door, and Greg surprises me by grabbing my waist and swinging me around until I'm laughing and begging him to stop.
He puts me down, and we're both breathing hard.
Can't say I blame him. The opportunity is exciting, and I'm practically giddy.
Then he leans in, and in that moment I know that Joy was right about Greg wanting more. It feels like the world is shifting into slow motion, and I press my hand to his chest and lean back, whispering, "Greg, no. I'm sorry, but no."
I see the mortification color his face as he practically leaps backwards away from me. "Shit. Fuck. I overstepped. The moment. I didn't--"
"It's okay," I say. "It's just that I--"
I pause, because how do I tell a guy that there's no zing with him? Especially when I'm measuring that zing factor against a guy I'm never going to see again, and probably shouldn't even think about. A guy who's obviously broken, and yet who keeps popping into my thoughts at all the most inconvenient times.
A guy who's now set the standard for zing, and it's a bar that Greg just doesn't reach.
"You just want to be friends," he says, saving me from finishing.
"Is that so bad?"
For a moment, he simply looks at me, and I wish that I could read his thoughts. Then he shakes his head. "Honestly, it's probably better. I've got too many ex-girlfriends who aren't even in my life anymore. That would suck if it were you."
"It would," I agree as relief sweeps through me. "Especially since we're going to take the real estate world by storm."
"True, that." He tilts his head, as if trying to find an answer to some unknown question.
"What?"
"Is there someone else?"
"Greg..."
He holds up a hand, pushing away my words. "Not jealous, I swear. I'm just curious."
"No," I say, because it's true.
But what I don't tell him is that even though there's no man in my life, for the first time in forever, at least there's the idea of one.
* * *
"Terminator or Casablanca?" he asks, holding up two DVDs.
After Anderson left, we'd tried to get back into the groove of painting the bathroom, but we were both too distracted by the possibility of the business. And, to be honest, after Greg's mini-pass, I don't think either one of us wanted the close quarters of his tiny bathroom.
"These are my choices?" I ask, wondering if he's realizes he's picked two doomed romances. "Pass me your list."
Since he keeps his list of movies to study on his phone, he forwards it to me by text. I'm pulling my phone out of my purse to read it when the phone rings in my hand.
I glance at the screen, then almost drop it. Marjorie.
Even though I'd told Joy to tell Marjorie I was down for another job, I wasn't expecting to hear from her quite so soon. For a moment, I consider letting it go to voicemail, because maybe I was acting rashly.
Then I think about Lyle. Except, of course, she won't be calling about him. One girl, one time. That's how she said he rolled.
Which means she's calling about a new job. A job with a guy who's not Lyle. A job I don't really want to take even though I need the money. But at the same time, I do want to take it, because I need the money.
It's just that I'm not sure if I can do it, and--
"Aren't you going to answer?"
I yelp, startled, then press the button out of reflex. "Hello," I whisper, then hear Marjorie's relieved voice.
"Oh, good. I was afraid I wouldn't catch you, and this is extremely time sensitive. I have another job."
I lick my lips. "I figured."
"It's a little unorthodox," she says. "I'm quite surprised he called, actually."
"Oh," I say, confused. "Who?"
"Mr. Z," she says. "He wants to hire you again. For tonight, actually."
"Tonight?" I glance at Greg, manage a weak smile, and indicate the back door. Then I scurry outside and shut the door behind me.
"Five thousand dollars for the evening," she continues, as my knees go weak, and I half-fall, half-sit on the concrete step. "He needs you to be his date at an art opening."
Date.
"Oh." I frown, thinking about everything I know about Lyle, including the fact that Marjorie told me he never uses the same girl twice. "Why me?"
"Apparently you two were seen together. Hang on," she says, and a moment later my phone buzzes in my hand, signaling an incoming text message. I put the phone on speaker long enough to look at it, then immediately wince.
"Oh," I say. "Oh, dear."
"Mmmm," she says, the low sound surprisingly thoughtful. "I confess I was surprised. From what I've learned of him over the years, he's usually much more protective of his privacy."
"Yeah, I guess." My words are nonsense, of course. Instead, my mind is going a million miles an hour. This is my fault. I refused to sleep with him. I shifted the whole dynamic around. I broke the rules and messed him up. All because I was nervous and scared and didn't want to do exactly what he'd brought me to that hotel room to do. What he'd paid me to do.
And because I'd been scared and selfish, now he's at risk of his secret being blown.
"I'll do it," I say quickly. "But I want to do it for free."
"Excuse me?"
"Not you--I mean, whatever he pays you, he should pay. But I'll do the party tonight for free."
"I see," she says slowly, and I don't think she sees at all. "Are you certain?"
I consider the question. Because the truth is, I need the money. But he's already paid me ten thousand dollars plus a rather hefty tip. And for that, what did he get? Not sex, that's for sure. Just a couple of kisses, a girl he barely knows castigating him about his issues, and then a photograph of a private moment that's suddenly gone viral.
Not exactly a great return on his investment.
"I'm sure," I say.
"Very well," Marjorie agrees, though I can tell from her tone that she doesn't understand. "My team will be at your house in half an hour to do make-up, wardrobe, and to get you to the restaurant where you'll meet Mr. Tarpin."
"Not Mr. Z anymore?"
"I think we're past that," she says, and I can imagine he
r smile. "Good luck," she says before hanging up. "And have fun."
I think about Lyle. About that zing. And even though I'm not entirely sure how tonight is going to go, I can't deny that I'm looking forward to it.
And I'm really not sure if that's a good thing ... or a bad one.
8
It was four forty-five when I told Greg I'd landed a last minute temp job and had to run.
It was five when I raced through my door, just minutes before Marjorie's team arrived, armed with cases full of make-up and curling irons, shiny rolling racks crammed with dresses, and gigantic suitcases stuffed with shoe boxes.
That's when the whirlwind began. And by five-forty, I'm showered, buffed, dressed, coiffed, painted, and bejeweled. I've never gotten dressed that fast in my entire life, and I feel about as flummoxed as Skittles looks, staring at me through narrowed eyes from his cat tree in the living room, which has become wardrobe central.
Now I'm standing before the trifold mirror the team set up in front of my fireplace, and I have to admit I look pretty good. The cocktail dress is flirty, yet classy, in black and white chiffon with a low-cut bodice that shows off the ruby necklace that's just low enough to draw the eye to my cleavage. And the red gemstone perfectly matches the ruby earrings and tennis-style bracelet.
The shoes are also a deep blood red. And, as an ironic plus, they're Christian Louboutins. Too bad I can't keep them and wear them to Blacklist someday when Nessie's working.
Of course, even though they look amazing, I have to wonder how well I'll survive the night. With so much waitressing on my resume, I tend to live in flats, not heels, and I'm pretty certain I'm going to be wincing by the time I hit Blacklist and can change back into flats for my ten o'clock shift.
As for my hair and make-up, I look like I could be on the cover of Vogue, with my cheekbones contoured, my eyes smoky, and my lips a soft red that complements the jewelry. I look pretty. Glamorous. And the way my blond hair frames my face in bouncing waves only accentuates the look.
"Amazing," Franko the hair guy says. "I'm a genius."
"Only because she's such a stunning canvas," Marianne, the make-up and wardrobe woman, retorts. To me, she says, "You're absolutely lovely."
She glances at her watch, then frowns. "All right, then. We'll be packed up and gone in ten minutes. Lionel will be here in fifteen to drive you downtown. You're expected at six-thirty for a drink and appetizers before the opening."