“You need the male POV of this Mission Inn and its amenities, and no one knows Jax better than I do, so it just makes sense for me to accompany you.”
It might make sense, but I have absolutely no intention of going away for the weekend with the man who broke my heart four years ago. I don’t care if it’s for business or not. That would be way too much together time. And we’d have to spend the majority of it doing romantic, couple-y things, the thought of which makes me want to jump out of this car and run straight into oncoming traffic. Feeling a surge of panic course through me, I start randomly pressing buttons on the car’s console.
“What are you doing?” my passenger wonders.
“Trying to find the EJECT button. James Bond’s cars always have them.” I envision the sunroof sliding open and Alex’s seat shooting up in the air with a blast of smoke. Don’t worry, in this scenario, the seat has a parachute so that Alex will have a safe landing in the middle of the Pacific where the aforementioned seat could be used as a floatation device until he’s rescued by the Coast Guard.
Alex chuckles. “That’s funny, but this isn’t an Aston-Martin tricked out by Q. So I’m not going anywhere.”
Scowling, I ask, “Don’t you have important publicist things to do this weekend? You can’t just take off and leave all your clients high and dry.” Lord knows I tried to lure him away from his job for fun weekend jaunts to places like Palm Springs and Santa Barbara while we were dating, but he was always too busy.
He shrugs. “There’s nothing pressing on my agenda for the next forty-eight hours and I’ll only be a FaceTime away if anyone needs me. Shouldn’t we get going? Traffic on the freeway is always a nightmare on Friday afternoons.”
“But-but . . .,” I sputter while my brain searches frantically for anything else that will deter him from wanting to come with me. “You don’t have any luggage.” Yes! Good one, Vanessa! “No clothing, no toiletries. You can’t spend the entire weekend in a suit, and you’ll never survive without any hair product.” I wave a hand at his pomaded ‘do that doesn’t have a single hair out of place.
“I’ll manage,” he assures me blithely. “The hotel probably has a gift shop with everything I need.”
“Your car!” I exclaim in desperation. “You can’t leave it in one of the lots overnight or it’ll get towed.”
“Thanks for the reminder.” Alex pulls his phone out of the pocket inside his suit jacket. “I need to text my assistants to let them know I’m going out of town. They can pick up the Jag and take it home for me.”
“Ugh!” I groan in frustration. “This is not going to work, Alex. Do you hear me?” I raise the volume of my voice when he continues to type away on his phone. “I don’t want you tagging along with me on this trip.”
Glancing up, he says, “When you agreed to help me reunite the Js, we became a team—a very good one as it turns out. So I think it behooves us to see this thing through to the end . . . together. We can both be professional, can’t we?”
Narrowing my eyes at him, I ask, “Is that dig you made about Ian earlier what you consider to be professional behavior?”
“It was not,” he admits, “and I apologize. That’s your personal life and I should keep my comments to myself, but—”
I silence him by holding up my hand. “Stop while you’re ahead. I don’t want to hear anything you have to say about Ian or my relationship with him.”
“Suits me,” Alex counters. “We can just pretend he doesn’t exist while we’re in Riverside.”
“Ian still exists,” I snap back as I remove the cap on my water with an overly aggressive twist of my wrist. “You’re just not allowed to mention him this weekend.” I take a quick gulp of the water before adding, “Ditto for any topic of a personal nature because this is a business trip.”
“So you’re saying I can go?” Alex flashes me an impish grin.
He won’t get out of my car, which doesn’t leave me with much choice in the matter. “Yes,” I reply through gritted teeth. “As long as you abide by my rules.”
“Absolutely. I will respect your boundaries and treat you like any other colleague while we’re out of town.”
“Good. Thank you.” Turning to the side, I pull down my seatbelt and fasten it, then lift my head. “Alex!” I screech when I see what he’s doing.
“What?” he queries after swallowing the mouthful of vitamin water he just chugged.
“Co-workers do not drink out of the same water bottle!” That’s an intimacy on par with kissing since his mouth was just where mine was.
“Sorry. It’s not like we haven’t swapped spit a million—” My glare stops him from finishing that sentence. “Your rules prohibit the sharing of beverages. Got it.” He places the vitamin water back in the cup holder and raises his hands in the air as if he’s surrendering.
Saying nothing, I start the car.
“It’s almost four,” Alex remarks upon seeing the digital clock on the dashboard come to life. “I missed Love Is on the Air this morning. Mind if we listen to the rebroadcast?”
Anything to avoid having to make conversation with him for the next hour or so. “Knock yourself out.” I gesture at the radio before shifting the car into reverse.
CHAPTER 33
“I agree with your mom. That’s a total deal-breaker,” Alex declares as we walk through the Mission Inn’s impressive entryway, which is a Spanish-style stone arch covered in vines and topped by a bell tower. “A woman breaks into my phone and starts reading texts without my permission and we’re done.”
“But Annie from El Segundo thought her man was cheating with her best friend!” I argue on the radio show caller’s behalf. “She tried to talk to him and instead of denying it, he said she was being paranoid, which would set off alarm bells for any woman. If he’d been a better communicator and hadn’t dismissed Annie’s feelings out of hand, the whole debacle could have been avoided.”
“He probably just expected her to trust him,” Alex says while we traverse the stone pathway that bisects the courtyard outside the hotel. The branches of the overhanging trees on either side provide shade from the late afternoon sun, making for a pleasant stroll.
“Trust has to be earned,” I assert, stopping next to the pair of old bronze cannons that “guard” the entry to the Mission Inn. “And Annie did come clean and apologize for what she did. Now that I think about it, she’s better off without that unforgiving jerk.”
With a sharp inhalation of breath, Alex clutches his chest and staggers back. “Did LA’s premier romance concierge just say that a couple’s breakup was a good thing?”
Directing a pointed look at him, I say, “When a person’s emotional needs aren’t being met, then yes, I do think it’s best to end the relationship and move on.” I’m also talking about our ill-fated romance, which I’m sure he knows, so I don’t belabor the point. Instead, I continue toward the inn, stepping onto the carpet that runs beneath a green awning leading to the door.
“I wonder if Love Is on the Air gets contact info from its callers?” I muse aloud when Alex rejoins me. “If so, I could reach out to Annie from El Segundo and suggest Jacqueline’s matchmaking services to her. If anyone can help Annie find her soulmate, it’s Jacqueline. She did a wonderful job matching Ezekiel’s ex with a new guy, and if it weren’t for her, I never would have met Ian.”
I notice Alex rolling his eyes as he moves ahead of me to push open the door.
“I saw that,” I reprimand, lifting my rolling suitcase over the door’s threshold.
“You forbid me to comment on your boyfriend this weekend. You didn’t say anything about facial expressions,” he reminds me with a wry twist of his lips.
“Leave it to you to find a loopho . . .,” I trail off before completing my sentence because I just stepped inside the Mission Inn and am stunned by the old-world grandeur of the lobby.
“Wow,” I say in awe, glancing around, trying to take in everything from the dark wood beams and ornate, crystal teardro
p-dangling chandeliers above our heads to the black diamond–patterned floors beneath our feet. There are inviting lounges to our right with beautifully crafted fireplaces, luxurious tufted couches, and dark curtained windows. Framed portraits of historical figures and gorgeous landscapes adorn the walls and I want to go examine each and every one of them. I’ve always loved museums!
There will be time for that later, though, as I have a hotel tour planned for the morning and in whatever spare time I have this weekend, I intend to explore all the nooks and crannies of this amazing place. Right now, I need to get checked in, so I march purposefully toward the reception area, which is cordoned off with velvet ropes. Since Alex and I are getting here late in the day, we’re able to reach the head of the line in no time.
“Welcome to the Mission Inn. How may I assist you?” We’re greeted with a smolder by a handsome male clerk, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Antonio Banderas circa The Mask of Zorro which seems appropriate given our surroundings. I’m tempted to ask if he can tango.
“I have a reservation under the name Vanessa Hart. It was arranged by your GM,” I tell him.
Antonio (his name badge reads “Joe,” but I prefer my version) quickly types something on his computer keyboard. “Ah, yes, here we are.” Raising his dark eyes to meet mine, he says, “You and your guest have been booked into our best suite.”
“This man . . .” I flutter a hand at Alex. “. . . is my colleague, not my guest, and he will require his own room.”
“Of course.” Antonio nods and his fingers are about to descend on the keyboard once more when Alex chimes in.
“That won’t be necessary. I’m sure the suite is big enough for both of us.”
“It is quite sizeable at seventeen hundred square feet,” Antonio helpfully supplies that stat.
“And I will enjoy having all of that space to myself. Please find Mr. Farr his own room, preferably one that’s on a different floor and near a very loud ice machine,” I issue the order with a distinct edge to my voice.
“I won’t be able to give you a male’s opinion of the suite unless I’m staying in it,” Alex murmurs close to my ear. “Plus, I’ve known the Js a lot longer than you have, so I’m better-versed on what they do and don’t like.”
Turning my head to the side, I say in a hushed tone, “Maybe so, but—”
“You don’t trust yourself alone in a room with me for two nights. I understand.”
The twinkle in Alex’s eyes along with his smug smile make me want to gut punch him.
He’s basically thrown down the gauntlet. Either I share my suite with my annoying ex, or admit that I’m still attracted to him and might have trouble resisting the urge to rip off his clothes once we’re behind closed doors together. I certainly can’t have him thinking that, so . . .
“There’s only one bed in this suite, correct?” I question Antonio who’s doing his best to pretend like he hasn’t been listening to Alex and me going back and forth about this.
“Yes, ma’am. We can offer your guest a rollaway—”
“He can sleep on the couch,” I assert, handing over the AmEx I use for business expenses. “I hope it’s hard as a rock and full of dust mites,” I grumble low enough so that only the man standing next to me can hear, and he chuckles.
“Your key cards.” Antonio slides one across the marble countertop to each of us. “And Miguel . . .” He raises his hand in the air to signal a nearby bellhop. “. . . will show you to your suite. Enjoy your stay at the Mission Inn.”
The inn’s employees exchange a few words before Miguel reaches for my luggage. “It’s fine. I’ve got it,” I assure him. As I told Alex earlier when he wanted to carry my bag, I am a self-sufficient woman who is quite capable of transporting her own luggage.
A few minutes later we’re being ushered into our suite on the top floor of the hotel, which is every bit as magnificent as it was touted to be by Rodney Masters, the general manager. The large living area boasts vaulted ceilings, mahogany furnishings, and a massive fireplace with a widescreen TV mounted above it. Alas, the vine-patterned sofa facing that fireplace is large enough to comfortably fit Alex’s six-foot frame and the cushions appear to be soft and plush. So much for my evil fantasy of him tossing and turning all night and waking up with an aching back tomorrow.
Leaving my luggage and my unwelcome roommate behind in the entryway to deal with tipping Miguel, I pull my phone out of my pocket and turn on its microphone so that I can make some notes as I inspect the suite. “Have a bottle of the hotel’s most expensive champagne on ice and a bowl of strawberries waiting for Jax and Jaz when they arrive. Also contact local florist about doing arrangements of fresh flowers for the suite’s coffee and dining room tables, possibly in the bedroom as well. Ask Jax what type of flowers he and Jaz had at their wedding.”
“Jax is a guy,” Alex remarks, suddenly appearing at my elbow. “He’s not going to know anything about flowers. I’ll send you some pics from the wedding.” He starts tapping on his phone’s display screen. “Do you want the flowers that were in Jaz’s bouquet, at the church, or on the tables at the reception?”
“Send me everything, then I can figure out what’ll work best in here. Did you attend the Js’ wedding?” I query while I roam around the room, checking out all the little details like the fully stocked wet bar in the corner and the switch on the wall that makes the gas fireplace flame up.
“Mmmm hmmm,” Alex murmurs as he slides his finger down the phone, presumably scrolling through a gallery to find the photos I need. “Jax fired his previous publicist just two weeks before the big day because he got pissed at her for leaking a sketch of Jaz’s wedding gown, which meant Jaz had to scramble at the last minute to get another dress everyone hadn’t already seen. I’d given Jax my card at a party, hoping he’d keep me in mind if he ever wanted to make a change, and he called to see if I was up for playing ringleader in the media circus surrounding the wedding.”
“Wow, so you got dropped in at the deep end.”
“Pretty much,” he says, glancing up at me when I return to stand in front of him. “And everything that could go wrong over the course of that wedding weekend did. One of the bridesmaids ODed on pills and had to be rushed to the hospital to have her stomach pumped; the castle’s old septic system got backed up, so there was foul-smelling, black water coming out of every faucet, showerhead and toilet in the place; and the wedding cake, which was a traditional French croquembouche, arrived covered with sugared almonds—the one food that Jaz is deathly allergic to.”
“But all the press coverage made it sound like the wedding was a perfectly executed dream come true for the Js.”
“David Copperfield isn’t the only master of illusion,” Alex informs me with a wry twist of his lips, then presses his finger down on his phone.
I hear a corresponding beep on my device, telling me that I’ve received an e-mail, but I ignore it to say, “No wonder Jax has so much faith in you. And now I understand why saving the Js’ marriage has been so important to you. Pulling off that wedding was your first big success as a senior publicist.”
“It was the defining moment in my career. I proved to myself and everyone in the business that I had what it took to be an effective member of an A-list celebrity’s team. I had several big names calling me to talk about representation as soon as I got back from France.”
I feel a strange mixture of pride at all that Alex has accomplished and melancholy that I didn’t get to experience any of it with him. His choice, of course, and that’s something I can never forget . . . or forgive.
“You’ve come a long way in the last four years,” I reflect aloud, leaving it to Alex’s imagination as to whether I think this is a good, or bad, thing. “I’m going to check out the patio. I was told it has a fountain.”
Turning my back on him, I stride to the far side of the living area and pull aside the semi-sheer drapes that are hanging over a pair of glass doors. I unlock and push them open, gasping with delig
ht when I see the private patio with the three-tiered stone fountain in its center. We’re up high enough so that all I can see when I look out at the view are red clay rooftops and a cerulean sky dotted with palm trees. It’s lovely and feels very intimate, which is something I’m sure Jax and Jaz will appreciate. Outside of their own house, there probably aren’t many places they can go where they don’t have to worry about the press or gawking fans intruding on their couple time.
There’s a set of high-end patio furniture off to the side of the fountain, which makes this the perfect setting for . . . “They can have a quiet, romantic breakfast out here, just the two of them, in their robes, bathed in the rays of the morning sun. I’ll order an array of decadent dishes—eggs Benedict smothered in Hollandaise, powder sugar-dusted Belgian waffles, apple-wood bacon, cinnamon sausage, the hotel’s award-winning brioche bread pudding with an apricot glaze and dulce de—”
“Woah!” Alex stops me from reciting the entire room service menu, and yes, I have the majority of it committed to memory. “That’s a ten thousand calorie breakfast you’re describing and Jax needs to show up on the red carpet for the New Frisco premiere, looking as lean and mean as he did in the movie. So ixnay on all of the fatty, sugary food. Doesn’t this place have some healthy, carb-free options for Hollywood types?”
“Healthy food isn’t sexy. Do you want to kiss someone who has a mouthful of gloppy oatmeal, or lick chia seed pudding off that person’s naked flesh?” I make a face before answering my own question with an emphatic, “No! Every meal the Js eat while they’re here needs to be a feast for the senses—the food should look, smell, and taste sublime and they should savor the experience of eating every tantalizing morsel together.”
“Well, now you’ve made me hungry, and I don’t have to worry about my waistline.” Alex pats his abdomen, which he’s never had any trouble keeping flat since he’s always on the go and not much of a junk food eater. “So when is that dinner reservation?”
“Seven-thirty.” I check the time on my phone and see that I have an hour until then. “I need to unpack and change clothes beforehand.”
Straight from the Hart Page 31