by S. M. West
“Hi, Mom. Harley was here and just left.”
“You’re at the penthouse?”
“Uh-huh.”
She blathers on about the thermostat, air conditioning, and something about the housekeeper, but I tune her out, selecting a vibrant pink polish for my nails.
“Prudence?” Her annoyed tone suggests she asked me something.
“Relax, Mom, I’ll hardly be here. I won’t damage anything.”
“If you do, repairs will come from your trust.”
“Fine.” I wasn’t a difficult child or an unruly teenager, not that my mother was ever around to know.
During high school, we lived in Switzerland and then Paris, leaving little chance for me to make any lasting friendships, let alone throw parties or go to many. Yet Priscilla acts like I’m planning a huge rager and all of Manhattan is invited.
“Pris, stop.” The abbreviated use of her name shuts her up. It always does.
She hates it but instead of railing on me, she gets her own dig in. “This Carmichael business is an utter disaster. You shouldn’t have gone to NYU.”
Yes, Mother, my choice of university is the cause of all my failings.
Like anything I want, she was against NYU. Her choice was the Sorbonne. Not because she was in Paris and we’d be together. Ah, no. At the time, she was moving to Chile for work.
No. She insisted on Paris simply because she could. And while she’d never admit it, she also hated I’d be close to my grandmother, a woman I so desperately wanted to know.
My grandfather had passed away several years before, and throughout my life, I’d seen my grandparents and my uncle’s family only a handful of times. I ached for my mother’s family. For a connection. My family.
But Priscilla avoided them with the precision of a well-executed military operation. No room for error. Visits were timed down to the millisecond, and we never stayed longer than was necessary.
I never understood it. From the way I saw things, my mother was adored by her family, and a child out of wedlock didn’t matter to them.
And no surprise, no matter how much I asked, she never offered any answers. I wondered if she felt pressured to marry and have more kids, so it was easier to stay away than disappoint them.
“Mom, I’ve got to get some sleep. Tomorrow is a long day.”
“Why? Because you’re pounding the pavement, looking for a job?” Her sarcasm causes me to grimace.
She doesn’t know about the dialect coach position, and I intend to keep it that way.
“Something like that. Bye.” I end the call.
Once my nails are dry, I scroll through my contacts, looking for Hugh Wilby’s number, and hit call. He’s a friend and at one time, a business partner with CE.
Now he’s got a few companies up and running, and before the CE catastrophe, not even two weeks ago, he’d approached me about a business venture. He’d wanted me to go out on my own, and I’d told him I’d think about it.
“Wilby.” Despite our two years apart in age, his stiff tone makes him sound decades older than me.
“Hey, Hugh. It’s Pru Edwards. How are you?”
“Uh, Pru. I’m fine.” There’s an odd pause as he hems and haws. “Ah, um, why are you calling?”
“Oh, well, we usually talk once a week, and last we spoke, I said I’d get back to you. Are you still looking for investors for your spin-off company? If so, I’d love to hear more about the business model. From what you’d said, it sounds interesting, and I’ve got some questions about its projected growth.”
“Um, ah, well, I’m no. That’s all good. No longer needed.” It’s as if he’s making it up on the fly, and the hairs on the back of my neck rise.
This conversation sounds a lot like the other calls I’ve made to other business contacts over the past week.
“Okay. Well, I’d also love to take you through some ideas I have for the straight through processing issue you’d mentioned one of your bank clients was having.”
“Pru…ah, this isn’t easy to say given our history. I appreciate the call, but we can’t do business with you.”
“Pardon?” Suddenly I’m filled with a mix of anger and betrayal, reminiscent of the day Ross kicked me out of our company.
Why won’t he let me move on? No, this isn’t him. He likes people to think he’s got a backbone, big man on campus, but he doesn’t have any balls. This is all his wife.
“How you conduct yourself is your call, but it goes against our code of conduct. Pru, I can’t…sorry.”
“Hugh, what’s going on? It feels like you know something I don’t. What have you been told and by whom?”
I want to make an accusation, but I might come off like I have an ax to grind, only adding fuel to the fire started by the Carmichaels.
Maybe he’ll tell me. Hugh could be the first person to give me something I can work with.
“I’m not getting involved. This is an unfortunate situation, and I’ve always had the utmost respect for you. I valued your opinion and had hoped one day you might partner with me, but…” He lets out a snort of frustration as if his back is against a wall. “I have to go. The best of luck to you.”
Eyes damp, I blink and release a shaky breath as he ends the call. Whitney Carmichael strikes again. I didn’t plan on talking to her husband anytime soon, but she’s giving me no choice, unless I go directly to her.
She’s vilifying me and I want answers. I was half kidding when I said I was blacklisted in the city. Now I’m sure of it.
Whitney’s ruining my reputation, and I have to put a stop to her.
4
Pru
Sexiest man alive
Despite the clash with my mother—which usually leaves me restless and moody— and the upsetting call with Hugh Wilby, I sleep well and am out the door with time to spare for my first day of work.
I exit the elevator into the lobby of the building and nearly run into Whitney Carmichael. Well, if it isn’t the devil herself.
As usual, she’s the quintessential Upper East Side socialite—immaculately put together in her Miu Miu dress with the Peter Pan collar, makeup applied to perfection, and hair swept back into a low bun.
While we’re the same average height of five six, she puckers her lips and glares down at me in her three-inch Saint Laurent sandals.
“Good. I’m saved the trouble of having to fetch you.” She adjusts the Hermes’ Birkin Bag on her arm.
“Whitney. We need to talk.” I want nothing more than to haul her upstairs and have this out, but I’ve got work. “I’m on my way out and don’t have the time right now. But when are you available?”
I can be mature and civil about this. I will put aside the damage she’s wreaking and figure out how we can both go on with our lives.
“I have no desire to talk to you about anything.”
“You came to my building.” I’m sure I look stunned at her stupid comment and then it hits me. How did she know I was here?
While Manhattan is a big city in population if not in land, our social circle is small. We both come from money, and it wouldn’t take much for her to know I moved from the loft and ended up here.
It irks me that she’s so well informed. What is her problem with me?
“Stay away from my husband.” She leans into me, getting in my face and also raising her voice.
An elderly couple, the Hermans, stop on their way to the door, and I want to clamp my hand over her big mouth. My smile is unnatural as I force a cheery hello to the couple and grab Whitney by the elbow.
I drag her into a corner, away from the main walkway and hopefully closer to more privacy.
“I haven’t seen or spoken to Ross since…since…”—I grapple with a word that isn’t as pathetic and painful as the truth, but there’s no way to soften the blow—“he fired me.”
There’s a flash of surprise or something unexpected in her eyes, and she lifts her chin higher. “I’ve never liked you.”
“Well, I n
ever had a problem with you until now. And as of right now, the feeling is mutual.” Bitterness curls my upper lip, and I lower my voice, failing to maintain my composure. So much for the higher ground. “I was the one fired and yet you’re the one going around telling lies about me.”
“Don’t think you can destroy my life and play the victim.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not playing at anything. You set out to take everything from me, and you got it.” I stare past Whitney at a few more residents, all of whom are itching to come closer. “I won’t have this conversation with you here, but if you don’t stop—”
“What? You’re going to ruin my reputation? You’ve already done that.”
“Whitney, I’ve done nothing of the sort.” My phone buzzes with the alarm I set to ensure I left on time for work. “I have to go.”
Without giving her the chance to make a further scene, I dash out the door. While I’d planned on taking a cab, at this time of the morning and my lead time all but gone, the train is quicker to get downtown.
To my amazement, I arrive at the studio fifteen minutes ahead of my call time, and a security guard calls someone to come get me. Not long after, a short, busty brunette marches my way. She can’t be any taller than five feet three, wearing a headset, a black T-shirt, jeans, and running shoes with a clipboard in hand.
“Hi, I’m Lydia.” She offers an automatic smile and shakes my hand. “Like I said in my text, I’m a PA and assigned to you for the duration of your time on set. Here’s your schedule for this week. My contact details are at the top.”
She thrusts a piece of paper at me, giving me no time to look it over before she walks away. Not bothering to see if I’m behind her, she disappears through a doorway, and I sprint after her.
“Look this over and confirm your contact and payment details are correct.” She shoves another sheet of paper at me. “Craft services is set up over here.”
Lydia points to a room where a few people mill around tables with coffee, fruit, pastries, and other assortments of breakfast food.
“Restrooms.” Another quick point to a set of closed doors. “Bryce is on set right now, but he’ll come see you when he can.”
She opens another door into a small nondescript room with a loveseat, desk, and two chairs. “This is yours. You won’t spend a lot of time here, but it’s a place for you to put your stuff.”
“Okay.” I glance around, relieved to learn I won’t be cooped up in this windowless closet.
“Let me introduce you to Tristan, and by then, Eli should be finished with his scene.” In a flash, she’s out the door once more. “They both prefer their own space, so you’ll most probably work in their trailers. But let them decide.”
“Lydia. Wait.” I jog to keep up, seriously reconsidering my outfit.
A pencil skirt and high heels were a bad choice, especially if I’m to keep up with my PA.
“What?” Confusion colors her face.
“I need you to back up a bit.” My stomach rolls, queasy as if at sea, and for a moment, I regret agreeing to this. I’m out of my depth. “I’m not really sure what the job entails. I was told I’m teaching Spanish and Russian.”
She nods, crinkling her brow in what looks like irritation. “You’ve read the script, right?”
This position happened so fast. Following Ross’s virtual introduction to his brother, Bryce Carmichael, the script was couriered to me a few hours after I replied with my address and résumé.
There was no formal interview. A few email exchanges with Lydia and I was hired. Clearly, Bryce was desperate for a foreign language coach, and I was foolish enough to take the position without understanding what it entailed.
But at the time, Ross was drowning in guilt or something close to it, insisting I take the job, and I couldn’t imagine slinking off unemployed. My pride wouldn’t let me.
“Yes. It’s good.”
She rolls her eyes and in turn, my lips thin, nerves coiling around my windpipe. I’m getting sick of her brusque behavior.
Lydia must pick up on the shift in my demeanor because she relaxes her posture, suddenly appearing more approachable.
“Look, I’m here to help. I’m trying to get you through the introductions.” She forces a thin smile. “Bryce will explain more to you. In the script, the scenes in Spanish and Russian are what you’ll be working on. Your job is to coach the actors to say their lines as naturally as possible.”
My cheeks heat at the obvious task description. “I can do that.”
“Great. Let’s meet Tristan Kingsley.” She’s midturn when my feet stutter.
“What?” I croak at the mention of Hollywood’s hottest star, and my insides fill with dread not excitement.
“Prudence, let’s walk and talk.” Her clipped tone and the use of my full name snaps me out of my trance.
“Pru. Call me Pru.”
“Fine. Let’s go. He’s waiting for us.”
“So, um, I didn’t know…um, Tristan Kingsley?” I sound like a bumbling idiot, and it isn’t because I’m starstruck.
Movie stars and other celebrities are people too. It’s just, the script didn’t have any of the actors listed, and foolishly, I didn’t think to ask.
And I’m only now realizing the caliber of people I will be teaching. If I play this right, I could use this to my advantage.
Maybe Whitney Carmichael isn’t a threat after all. If I do my job well and make solid connections over the next few weeks, I could have another job in no time.
“Yes.” She whips around to glare at me. “Please tell me you know who he is?”
I nod, and she’s happy with my response, continuing through another door. Of course I know who he is.
The Kingsleys are Hollywood royalty, and they wield a lot of power both on and off the screen. Tristan is one of many in a line of Kingsley actors and I think some producers or directors as well.
My phone chimes as Lydia knocks on the door clearly marked with the celeb’s name. Her stare is pointed. “Silence your phone.”
Properly admonished, I flush and mutter apologies while pulling the offending phone out of my handbag to glance at the text.
Ross: Good luck today.
Screw you, Ross.
Instead of responding because there’s far too much I want to say about his wife, I silence my phone and drop it into my purse. I’m not even close to forgiving him.
The trailer is at least ten times the size of the dingy room I’m assigned and decked out like someone’s home with a leather couch, large flat screen TV, and a small kitchen area. Everything is top of the line.
Lydia introduces me to the man standing in a plain white T-shirt and faded blue jeans. “Tristan Kingsley, this is Pru Edwards, your foreign dialect coach.”
“Pru?” He takes my hand, donning a dimpled, flirty smile that I’m sure has women throwing themselves at him. “What kind of name is that?”
Ignoring the all too familiar question, I smile. “Yes, Pru. Nice to meet you.”
Recently named the Sexiest Man Alive, Tristan is tall and handsome and a year or two younger than I am, if my memory serves me right.
“Alina tried her best with me, but I need all the help I can get. My Spanish is rusty and Russian, forget it. Please tell me you’re going to make me sound good.” He chuckles, and underneath his swagger, I detect a hint of genuine nerves.
Alina? Who is she?
Learning a new language, even if only several pages, can be daunting, especially if you’ll be on film for millions to view.
“I’ll do my best, and I’m sure you’ll be fine.”
Lydia’s headset crackles and she says into the mouthpiece, “I’ll let him know and I’ll bring her over in five.” My PA then looks to Tristan. “Cliff has your scheduled times with Pru, starting this aft. And you’re needed on set in thirty.”
“All right. I’m off to wardrobe. See you later.” He winks at me.
Lydia exits, and I quicken my pace t
o walk alongside her. “Who’s Cliff?”
“Tristan’s on-set PA. You’re meeting Eli now, and you two will have ninety minutes. Hopefully, Bryce can see you after. If not, we’ll do it after lunch.”
“Okay. I’m coaching Eli?” I recall the film has three characters who speak in languages other than English—two male and a female. “Isn’t there also an actress?”
“Tristan and Eli are the only two you’ll be coaching. Sonia already speaks Spanish and she has no scenes in Russian.”
“Oh. Okay.” I have so many questions, but I struggle to focus on one at a time. “So Tristan is which character?”
“The younger brother.” From her long, drawn-out sigh, she can tell I’m still clueless. “Tristan plays Daniel, Eli is Adrian, and Sonia is Martina.”
“Sonia? Do you mean Sonia Crowley?”
Apart from Tristan, I don’t know any of the other lead actors. Eli isn’t familiar, but Sonia is a model turned actress who’s making waves both in the Spanish and American film industry.
“Yes.”
I’m about to ask about the third actor, Eli, but I never get the chance. Lydia raps on a door and the familiar name embossed on the outside of it steals my words.
No. It can’t be.
Dazed, I follow her inside, nearly tripping over my feet. My eyes must deceive me. There’s no way I’m about to meet one of my favorite rock stars.
Several feet in front of me is the man I can’t get out of my head or my dreams. The person I’d easily say is the sexiest man alive.
This can’t be real.
“Eli Lansing, this is Pru Edwards.” Lydia swings her hand in my direction. “She’s the new foreign dialect coach.”
I stand there, slack-jawed and stunned, unable to take my eyes off him. He’s perfection in casual black pants and a crisp, white button-down. The expensive cotton stretches across his defined chest, just enough to hint at the taut muscles lurking beneath.
His jawline is cut like granite, dusted in sexy stubble, and his lips are full and firm. Thick, dark hair carelessly mussed and warm brown eyes melt my insides.