by Lila Monroe
“You would?”
He nods. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he asks, looking hopeful. “Do you have more work to do, or can you sneak away for a little bit?”
“It depends,” I say, tempted. “What do you have in mind?”
“I have to drive down to LA for a couple of meetings,” he says. “But maybe . . . you could come with me?”
I pause. “Like a date?” I ask, checking.
“Yes.” He grins. “Like a date.”
“OK,” I hear myself say. I’m still a little dazed from the tea and the kiss and the improbability of being here with him at all, all these years later. But I can’t deny that I want to spend more time kissing him. I can’t deny that I want to see how this all plays out. “It’s a date.”
12
Wes
I half-expect Katie to find an excuse and bail last minute on our LA road trip, but when I head outside the next morning, I find her making her way up from her guesthouse, a giant bag slung over her arm.
“I’m sorry, are you planning to head up to Joshua Tree and camp for a few days?” I tease, but Katie laughs.
“I like to be prepared,” she tells me. “And also, am I really going to turn down fresh-baked snacks from Brooke?”
“Good point,” I grin. My nerves melt away, and suddenly, I can’t wait to get the day started—or to get Katie alone. She’s a vision in dark jeans and a silky sleeveless button down, her dark hair held back with a vintage-looking scarf. Enormous tortoiseshell sunglasses take up the whole top half of her face. She looks like an old-fashioned movie star on a day off from filming, and I can’t stop stealing glances at her as I take her bag and head in the direction of my Jeep.
“Hold up,” she says, nodding in the opposite direction. “Change of plans.”
“What do you mean?”
“Selena got . . . excited when she found out I was going with you today. She wants us to take one of her cars,” Katie says, grinning widely.
I pause. “How many does she have?”
“Don’t ask,” Katie says. “The best part is that she doesn’t actually have a driver’s license. But the girl is generous.” She nods at a bright red Porsche convertible, then flashes me a brilliant smile. “Meanwhile, I do have my license. And I’m driving.”
I laugh, charmed. “Go right ahead.”
The car is amazing, and Katie hits the gas hard once we get on the road, weaving expertly in and out of traffic on the freeway. She’s obeying the speed limit, but only barely. She looks perfectly at home behind the wheel, nodding along to the beat of the stereo, her hair streaming out behind her like a dark flag. The whole effect is sexy as all hell, and I think she knows it.
“Whoa there, Fast and Furious,” I say when she speeds up to zip past a giant delivery truck trying to crowd in on our lane. “When you said you were driving, you meant it.”
Katie laughs. “A client of mine was a Formula 1 driver,” she explains. “She gave me lessons as a thank-you gift.”
My eyes widen. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. I have many talents you don’t know about.” She shoots me a flirty grin. “I can also speak passable Cantonese and make pretty decent French pastry.”
“I’ll bet you can.” I gaze at her for another long moment, I can’t help myself. I can’t get over how different she seems these last few days. I think again of what she said the other night in the kitchen, that back when we were dating, she was too insecure to let me get to know the real her. She seems to have gotten over it, that’s for damn sure—and I can’t get enough of what I’m seeing.
“You must meet a lot of interesting characters. It sounds like fun,” I say now, leaning back in my seat and getting comfortable. It’s a beautiful day for a ride in a convertible, sunny and warm—and the view from the passenger seat doesn’t hurt, either. “Being the Breakup Artist, I mean. Or maybe fun is the wrong word, but definitely an adventure.”
“It’s never boring, that’s for sure,” Katie allows, the ghost of a smile playing across her full pink lips. “You meet all kinds of people, get a window into all kinds of relationships.”
“What’s the craziest one you’ve done?” I ask, curious.
“This one,” Katie says immediately. Then she laughs. “But there have been others that come close: the couple who was having wild, BDSM-style sex on the sofa when I walked in, for example. Or the ones who mostly just wanted me to mediate custody of their collection of furry costumes. Oh, and then there’s the couple who’ve called me on four separate occasions, gone through the process four separate times—then gotten back together as soon as I walk out the door.”
“Four times?” I let out a low whistle. “They must really love each other.”
“I mean, maybe,” Katie says, sounding extremely dubious. “Or they’re just too locked into their own toxic patterns to realize they’re all wrong for each other.”
“That’s pretty cynical.”
“I’m not a cynic at all,” Katie says with a smile. “I just think it’s important to learn from your mistakes, that’s all.”
She says it lightly, reaching into the cupholder for one of the iced lattes Brooke made, but I can’t help but take a second look. It sounds like she’s just chatting about her client, but her face is mostly hidden behind her sunglasses, and it’s hard to tell.
I can’t help hoping that she’s not talking about us. Because I want a second chance for us. I just hope that she’s open to it, too.
Traffic is light, and it doesn’t take long to reach LA. “I should only be an hour or two,” I tell her, directing her through Beverly Hills toward the studio offices. “And then we can do whatever you want.”
“You say that now,” Katie says with a grin, “but you’ll be singing a different tune when I sign us both up for the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills behind-the-scenes tour.”
I would laugh . . . except I have a sneaking suspicion she’s not kidding.
“Celebrity-wrangling is kind of a big change from what you were doing in New York, isn’t it?” Kate continues. “Hostile corporate takeovers, or whatever?”
“Mergers and acquisitions,” I agree. “And this is definitely more interesting. Always a fire to put out.”
“Or a bunch of A-listers to calm.”
We pull up outside the building, and I grab my messenger bag. “Will you be OK to kill some time until I’m finished?”
“Oh, I’m sure I’ll think of something to do with myself.” She grins. “Is Rodeo Drive a thing in real life, or just in the movies?”
I laugh. “Guess you’ll have to go see for yourself.” I hesitate for a moment, then think fuck it and kiss her.
Katie’s mouth is soft and sweet, and damn, I can’t get enough. She reaches up and pulls me closer, opening her lips against mine. By the time I stand up on the sidewalk, I feel drunk as hell.
One thing’s for sure, I think as she peels off into traffic, tires squealing: she’s one of a kind. And I can’t get her out of my head. I’m still thinking about her as I head upstairs, heading past the plush reception area lined with framed movie posters before stopping to check with Alana, the assistant for this corner of the office. “How’s my favorite amateur banjo player?” I ask once she’s passed along a seemingly endless list of messages for me to return.
“The best,” Alana reports, holding her cell phone up so I can see a picture of her two-year-old daughter standing on a wooden stepstool, posing with a kid-sized instrument. “She’s very into Jonny Cash right now.”
I laugh. “I mean, who isn’t?”
Alana grins, then lowers her voice. “Better tread lightly,” she warns, nodding in the direction of the corner office. “Tripp’s on the war path.”
Uh-oh.
“Just generally?” I ask with a grimace. “Or over something specific?”
Alana makes a face like, Who can tell? “Good luck with your meeting,” she says. “Send up a flare if you need me to pull the fire alarm.”
Sure en
ough, the main conference room is packed when I step inside. Lawyers and studio execs and panicky-looking assistants are buzzing around like flies at a picnic. An untouched platter of bagels and cream cheese sits forlornly at the center of the table while one of our IT guys sets up the TV screen, and another frantically tries to patch three different offices in over speakerphone.
The chaos doesn’t settle down once the meeting actually gets started: “This whole thing is a clusterfuck,” Tripp moans, his suit rumpled and his hair askew. He looks like he’s been sleeping in his office—which is always a possibility, given that his wife only seems to tolerate him about half the time. “My Heart Will Go On? More like, my heart is going to stop, sending me to an early grave. Test screenings are miserable. Awareness is in the toilet. We should have abandoned ship months ago and bet on the Ben Affleck thing with the killer bees.” He frowns, looking thoughtful. “Is it too late for that, actually? Could we get Ben and the killer bees?”
“I think it’s in development at Warner Brothers,” a bespectacled assistant reports sadly. Tripp sighs.
“Then we’re fucked.”
“I don’t know,” I venture cautiously. “The premiere is still months away, isn’t it? There’s plenty of time to turn this around.”
A blonde from the New York office eyes me coolly. “Is there?” she asks. “There’s almost no buzz, and what we’ve got is terrible—bloated budget, on-set fighting, a script that was rewritten so many times it’s basically Frankenstein’s monster.”
I cringe, thinking of Jackson’s hard work. “I don’t know if that’s completely—”
“The only saving grace we’ve got is how much people love Selena and Ryder,” she continues. “They’re carrying this entire thing.”
“Which is what Wes is here to talk to us about,” Tripp breaks in. “He’s going to put all our minds at ease, right, Wes?” He glares at me.
“Uh, right.” I clear my throat and glance around the table. “I certainly hope so, yeah. We’re doing all we can to mend the relationship and keep them together, but you know Hollywood types, always acting on impulse, right?”
I’m trying for a laugh, and get exactly nowhere. “I’m confident true love will win out,” I finish lamely.
“You better be right.” Tripp scowls. “Because Trish here has run the numbers on what a breakup would mean for us. Trish?”
A woman from marketing launches into a bunch of PowerPoint slides that basically boil down to “Breakup=bad, Money=good.” Finally, the meeting wraps, but as I’m collecting my papers, Tripp lays one meaty hand on my shoulder. “Stay behind a minute, would you?” he asks, though we both know it’s not actually a request.
“Look,” he says, once the room clears out and it’s just him and me. “I’m not screwing around here. This Selyder shit is for real.”
“I know,” I promise. “And I can assure you, I’m doing everything—”
“We’ve got too much invested in this movie for it to fail,” he interrupts. “And I’m going to hold you personally responsible if it all goes to hell.”
Wait, what?!
I blink. “Me? Tripp, I’m a mid-level studio lawyer. You can’t possibly expect me to—”
Tripp shrugs. “You know how it is around here,” he says flatly. “They’re going to need someone to blame if the movie is a stinker. Somebody’s head will have to roll, and it sure as hell isn’t going to be mine.” Then he gives me a toothy shark’s smile. “But don’t worry about it too much, OK, kid? You’re smart. You’ll think of something.” He slaps me on the back so hard I barely manage to hold back a cough, then strides out of the conference room in the direction of his office, the smell of his cologne drifting along in a noxious cloud behind him.
Fuck.
I’ve seen the way this game is played, and Tripp’s not wrong. If this all comes crashing down, then they’ll want a fall guy. And since I’m the one running point on the happy couple . . .
Double fuck.
I won’t pretend I’m not rattled as I take the elevator downstairs. I guess this just means I have to make extra-sure Selena and Ryder stay heart-eyed and swooning.
Cupid, I remind myself, stepping out onto the sidewalk. Right.
A horn sounds, and I turn as Katie pulls up curbside.
“Somebody call for an Uber?” she calls. Then she looks at me a little more closely, frowning. “Are you OK?”
“I am now,” I tell her truthfully, opening the passenger side door and sliding in beside her. I can worry about Selena and Ryder and the conference room full of panicking suits later. I’m not going to waste one minute with Katie. “Want to go have some fun?”
13
Katie
“I have to admit,” Wes says, slouching down low in his seat and pulling an LA Dodgers ballcap down over his eyes. “I thought you were yanking my chain when you threatened to take me on the Real Housewives tour.”
“Oh, I was,” I grin. We’re sitting on the top of a double-decker tour bus, surrounded by middle-aged midwestern moms and teenage girls hoping to get a glimpse of Channing Tatum sunbathing shirtless on his front lawn. “This is Extravagant Hangouts of the Rich and Famous. There’s some overlap in content, admittedly, but it’s much more dignified and educational.”
“Oh, for sure,” Wes laughs. “It’s basically an afternoon at the Getty.”
“Shh,” I tease, nudging him as I strain to hear the tour guide. He’s pointing out Justin Bieber’s CrossFit gym on our left. “I want to be sure to get my money’s worth.”
Wes looks at me, clearly amused. “How are you just getting around to doing this now, anyway?” he asks. “Haven’t you ever been to LA before?”
“Sure,” I say, “but only with friends who are, frankly, much cooler than me. This time I want the full, cheesy, no-shame tourist experience. I’m going to go put my hands in Paul Newman’s outside the Chinese Theatre after this.”
“And visit the Hollywood Sign?” Wes asks with a grin.
“And have drinks at the Chateau Marmont,” I agree.
“The hotel? Now that has possibilities . . .” he says, and there’s something about the tone of his voice that makes my stomach skip with pleasure.
“We’ll see,” I manage to say. “Now be quiet. I don’t want to miss the inside scoop.”
Wes looks over at our tour guide, an aging boomer in a fisherman’s hat, a Hawaiian shirt stretched over the paunchy drum of his belly. “You think this dude is giving you the inside scoop?”
“I do, in fact.” I hide a smile. “He looks very knowledgeable.”
Wes smirks. “OK.”
“What?” I raise my eyebrows like a challenge. “Are you telling me you can do better?”
He shrugs, affecting modesty. “I mean, I’m a studio lawyer, am I not?”
“Oh, I see how it is.” I laugh. “OK, Perez Hilton. Hit me with your best shot.”
Wes makes a big goofy show of limbering up, stretching his arms and shoulders before unleashing a truly impressive torrent of deliciously juicy celebrity gossip—everything from Christina Aguilera’s incognito performances of Britney Spears hits at dive bar karaoke nights, to Tom Cruise’s penchant for early morning strolls around the Scientology center dressed in nothing but a pair of women’s underwear. It’s exactly the kind of scandalous insider info I’ve been hoping for, but the truth is, I’m so distracted by the heat of his body beside me and the low rumble of his voice in my ear that it’s not until he gets to the part about Frances McDormand holding peyote-soaked orgies with the Jonas Brothers at her house in the Hollywood Hills that I realize it’s possible he’s not telling the entire truth—and also that the gaggle of old ladies beside us are shamelessly listening in.
I nudge Wes’s thigh, letting him know we have an audience. He winks, then raises his voice. “Now,” he says, in a tone of great authority, “have you heard about Gwyneth Paltrow’s secret affair with the lead singer of Creed?”
“Are you sure you never wanted to be an actor?” I a
sk him as we finally scramble off the bus, laughing. “Because I think there’s a career for you in show business yet, my friend.”
“Thank you, thank you,” Wes says grandly, taking a dorky little bow right there on the sidewalk. “I played Pippin in high school.”
I shake my head, trying to picture it. “No, you didn’t.”
“Nah, I didn’t,” he agrees easily. “I was in the ensemble. I can’t carry a tune.” He winks, mischievous. “Are you hungry?”
“Always.”
He takes me to Pink’s, a funky hot dog stand with a line snaking clear down the block. The people-watching here is incredible, folks from all walks of life briefly united in their hankering for greasy, messy street food: from Hollywood agent-types in suits and sunglasses to teenagers with green hair and piercings to a couple in their nineties with not one, but two tabby cats on leashes trailing behind them. I smile, tilting my face up to the sun and soaking in the Vitamin D as we wait. “One thing I will say about you West Coasters,” I tell Wes, “is that you’ve got your weather figured out.”
He reaches out and hooks his index finger on the bridge of my sunglasses, pulling them down slightly so he can see into my eyes. “It doesn’t suck,” he agrees with a grin.
My whole body flushes at the gesture. All day I’ve felt ridiculously attuned to him, like there’s an invisible string connecting his body and mine. “So, you like it out here?” I ask as he slides a casual arm around my waist.
Wes nods. “I do,” he says. “There’s a little bit of everything—whether you’re a beach person or a hiking person or a museum person or whatever.”
“Oh yeah?” I ask, raising my eyebrows. “Which are you?”
“A hot dog person,” he replied.
We get our food and find a place to sit on the crowded back patio, a couple of little kids chasing each other through the maze of tables and music spilling out the windows of passing cars. The conversation meanders easily as we eat—from the creepy mystery novel I read on the plane to whether he should get a dog (“Obviously,” I declare, though he worries his hours are too unpredictable) to a gorgeous multi-story bookstore downtown that he thinks I’ll like. I can’t help gazing at him across the table, thinking how nice it is not to be worried about pretending to be some perfect version of myself so he’ll like me.