That last part was true, because Jessie wanted to read it when I was done. The silence between us stretched, so I cleared my throat and said, "You must be in town for the film festival."
"Yeah. A Night in Venice is playing. You remember, I got that role right when —" He scratched the side of his nose. "Back around, when…"
"I understand." I knocked some coffee grounds against the trash a bit too violently and sent some clumps flying to the floor.
Poppy was off studying the pies in one of the side displays, but she strutted over then, her nose in the air. "I thought we were getting a coffee," she said. Snarled, really. She kept her profile to me.
"We are," Griff answered. "I thought we'd stop here."
Clearly, Griff had failed to run the reunion by Poppy. She leveled a glare at him that I could see even through those sunglasses. "No, I thought we were going to a coffee place."
"This is a coffee place," he said.
To my left, Jessie was counting out change from the register. "To translate to Neanderthal, I think she finds it strange that you're in here talking to your ex-girlfriend," she said. "Frankly, she has a point."
"Who asked you?" Poppy snapped. She lifted her Ferragamo bag higher on her shoulder. "This town is such a dump."
Jessie slammed the register drawer shut. "Sorry, are we not living up to your standards, princess? At least people around here know better than to go trolling for men in other people's bedrooms."
It was at about this point that I began praying for something to knock me unconscious until they were gone and Jessie had calmed down. I rubbed at my temples. "So, can I get you anything?"
Griff's eyes widened with confusion. "No. I just wanted to say hi."
"Do you see that line behind you?" I waited while he turned. "Those are all paying customers who have things to do today, and I don't want to be the one who delays them."
When he continued blinking, Jessie leaned over and added, "That means the interview is over, buddy. She's moved on."
A cloud passed over Griff's face, but he didn't respond except to say, "Fine. Have a nice life, Wren."
He grabbed Poppy's hand and they left. When they reached the sidewalk, he made a show of kissing her right in front of the window. I bit my lip. It hurt.
"What a snake," Jessie snarled. "Can you believe the nerve of that guy?"
Dad called from the kitchen. "Wren? Phone call."
Jessie and I exchanged a glance. "Who would call me?"
She looked at the line. "Might as well go. Please hurry back."
"Of course."
I was still shaking when I reached the phone. "Hello?"
"Hello, gorgeous," crooned a male voice.
I'd had just about enough of games for one day. "Who the hell is this?"
"Hey, easy now. It's Jax."
"What the —? How did you get this number?"
"It's on the Internet. And so is our love affair."
I groaned. "I have no idea what you're talking about, and I have better things to do."
"Meet me for lunch."
"I can't. I'm working."
"Then come by later, I don't care. Whenever. I'll be here."
"What's this about, Jax?"
"I want to thank you for last night. And I want to apologize."
"Apology accepted. Don't worry about it."
"Wren." His voice was insistent. "Please. Stop by the inn later. There's something I need to tell you."
I slumped my shoulder against the wall, all the while thinking about Jessie alone behind the counter. I could have argued, but what was the harm in stopping by to see Jax, anyway? And really, did I think I had something better to do?
"Okay," I said. "I'll stop by at some point this afternoon. I'll give you a call before I leave."
"Good. And Wren? Be sure to wear the hat."
He hung up before I had the chance to respond.
It was nearly three o'clock before I arrived at Archer Cove Inn. The previous night's lousy sleep and the humiliation at the bakery were weighing on my muscles, but I felt better after a hot shower. I'd put on what I felt to be a presentable blue sundress. When I arrived at the inn, I went in without saying hello to anyone and proceeded directly up the stairs to the VIP suite. I only had to knock twice before Jax opened the door. He grinned when he saw me, striking one muscular arm against the doorjamb. "Well well well," he said, running his gaze across my figure. "Look at you."
"Don't be gross." I swept underneath his arm. "So? I'm here. And I wore the damn hat."
"Good." He drew a circle in the air with his finger in my direction. "Interesting dress. The casual look."
"I like this dress." I tried not to sound injured.
"Of course. I sometimes forget that not everyone enjoys couture."
He closed the door behind us and locked it, and for a second I thought that maybe I should have mentioned to someone that I would be seeing Jax. Maybe he was going to kill me now. "Jax —"
"I ordered you lunch." He gestured to a silver tray on which sat two silver platters. Beside it, champagne was chilling in a silver bucket. "Let's go out to the balcony."
I followed his gesturing arm to a set of French doors that opened wide to the outside. A small table for two waited for us, covered by a linen tablecloth and set with silver, china and crystal. A vase in the center held a single red rose. It was altogether too romantic.
I turned to him. "Look, I think there's been a misunderstanding —"
He reached up to stroke my cheek. "There's no misunderstanding. Let's have lunch." Sensing my hesitation, he sighed and said, "Come on. When was the last time you ate filet mignon and lobster tail with a movie star on a balcony overlooking the ocean?"
He continued past me, not waiting for my response. Assuming the sale. I doubted anyone told a man like Jax no. The woman in me had her dignity hanging by a thread. The writer in me wanted to see what he was up to. The writer won.
Jax was gentleman enough to pull out my chair, and he even gave me the better seat so that I had a full view of the water. He then set about uncovering our lunches, setting out a fragrant meal of filet mignon, lobster, and rosemary-seasoned fingerling potatoes. Then he presented a bowl filled to the brim with bread rolls, still warm from the oven. He was grinning again as he sat across from me and set the linen napkin in his lap. Beaming, really. I should have been suspicious, but I was also half-starved and began devouring my meal.
"See? Just two people having lunch and pleasant conversation. Oh!" He snapped his fingers. "The champagne."
He pushed back his chair and swept through the French doors. A moment later, I heard the pop of the cork and he came back to the balcony. "For you, madame." He filled my flute generously.
"Thank you."
He helped himself to some champagne before resuming his seat. Then he lifted his glass. "To us."
I set my fork and knife down on the plate. "All right. What gives, Jax? What's this all about?"
That grin again. I'd thought it was happiness, but now I realized it was the cat that swallowed the canary. My stomach clenched. Was he making a fool out of me?
"You haven't seen, I presume?"
"Seen? Seen what?"
Instead of answering, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a cell phone. He focused on the screen, typed something, and then handed it to me. "Celebrity Burn, baby doll. You and I are setting the blogosphere on fire."
I squinted at the screen, then enlarged it. No. The photo — oh, good lord. It was a picture of me leaving the hotel that morning, my head down, my hair covered by my hat. The caption read: "Walk of Shame."
"Oh God." My fingers flew to cover my mouth. "Oh my good God."
"That's what you said last night, too." He gave me a wink and a grin.
"What are you, ten years old?" I showed him the screen. "What does this mean?"
He sat back in his seat and took a sip of champagne. "Read it, love."
But before I could snap, "Don't call me 'love,'" I saw it for
myself:
Looks like love is in the air at the Archer Cove Film Festival. Hollywood bad boy Jax Cosgrove was spotted at a local inn with a mysterious beauty. They entered together, and she left his room early this morning — apparently believing that the paparazzi would still be sleeping. But we caught her! Of course, knowing Jax, tomorrow morning will bring yet another lucky lady who gets to do the walk of shame across his bedroom.
My cheeks were burning by the time I handed the phone back to him. "Oh my gosh. What are people going to think?"
"What a dramatic response," he said, returning his phone to his pocket. "The images are blurry. No one saw your face. Plus, I thought it was nice of the blogger to call you a mysterious beauty. Generous." Another wink.
I pushed back my chair. "This is ridic —"
"Sit down." He set his hand over mine. "Please. Is it so terrible for people to believe we're in a relationship?"
His hand was warm, and I allowed it to linger for a beat. Maybe I was overreacting. He was a gorgeous movie star, after all — what woman in her right mind wouldn't want to be linked to him? Still, I tugged my hand away. "Jax, we're not in a relationship. This is a misunderstanding. Gossip. Nothing more."
"All morning, my cell phone has been buzzing. My agent. My publicist. They're furious about this. Why? Because I'm going to be reading for a part in the film adaptation of The Rose Garden. The part of Ben." He paused. "You know that book, right?"
Of course I knew that book. Practically every woman in America had read it. I'd finished my copy with a box of tissues in my lap, bawling when Ben succumbed to cancer and left his faithful wife Darla alone with their three children. I'd spent the next two days lying around my apartment, despondent. But to Jax, I simply lifted my champagne and said, "I think I've heard of it."
He leaned forward. "Then you know that whoever gets that role can write his own check from then on out. It's a breakout role, and I'm perfect for it. I'm the right age, I've got the right physique. I'm perfect."
I would have rolled my eyes at the arrogance — except he was sort of right. He was Ben, the brash soldier who rescued Darla from a Nazi concentration camp. There was something about him, a glint in his eyes, that reminded me of Ben's energy. I shrugged. "So, you're perfect for the role. What's the problem?"
He raked his long fingers through his hair. "The problem is me. My publicist tells me I'm a public relations nightmare as far as this role goes. I like women. A lot."
"Last night you told me you were misunderstood."
"Don't sneer," he said. "I'm being honest with you, and to tell the truth, it's not what people think. I'm a single man in Hollywood, and the paparazzi watch my every move and make more of it than it is. Case in point," he added, pointing to his phone. "But Taryn — that's my publicist — says I can't sell myself as Ben. Ben is faithful. With me, the casting director is going to think 'playboy.'"
"Oh, right. Because you've been typecast, which has led to a life of forced promiscuity. Really, Jax, someone should start a charity."
"No, what I need is more like a reality show. One where I'm the eligible bachelor, and I have my choice of gorgeous women. Then I could simply pick the right one."
I tilted my head. "Wow. Are you sure you're the one who leaves first after a one-night stand? Anyway, what does this have to do with that blog?"
He pulled his chair closer to mine and took a conspiratorial tone. "My agent calls this morning. She's pulling out her hair over this. She took me to lunch last week and lectured me on the importance of…behaving myself. No more parties. No more one-nighters. I'm supposed to be a respectable bachelor. Then this news breaks. Suddenly I'm sleeping with some mysterious beauty in Archer Cove."
"Okay. Then we'll come out and explain what really happened."
"No one wants to read about how I didn't sleep with you, Wren. They want the gossip."
I frowned. "Jax, let's pretend I'm dense. You have to explain it —"
He looked straight into my eyes. "I want you to pretend to date me."
"What?" My tongue stopped cooperating and I began to stammer. "I can't — I don't even — what the —"
"It's simple. Accompany me to a few things while I'm here. Be the mysterious beauty in my life for a bit. Smile for the camera. Pretend you like me. Maybe I'll fly you out to LA in a few weeks, parade you around town."
"Parade me around —"
"It's perfect," he continued, easing back into his chair. "I don't want a relationship. Not really. I just want the part of Ben. You apparently can't stand me, so there's no reason you'd develop feelings, and you're some small-town girl. Not at all my type, so…" He beamed. "Perfect."
I crumpled my linen napkin in my fist and threw it at my plate. "This isn't right. I'm not going to sit here while you insult me." I stood to leave.
"Oh, come on." He rose and placed himself in front of the French door, grasping my wrist gently between his fingers. "We're practically old friends. I thought you knew when I was teasing."
"We are not old friends. You only bought me a drink because you thought I was some dummy girl who'd be tickled to be hit on by an actor. Unfortunately for you, I have my pride."
Pride that was in tatters at that point. Jax had asked me to meet him so he could essentially proposition me, and there I was, wearing a sundress and a damn hat and drinking his champagne like some…groupie. "I have things going on," I said. "Big things."
Even as I made the statement, I recognized it for what it was. What did I have going on, exactly? A gig foaming milk at my family's bakery? A box filled with screenplays that no one would ever read? An award-winning screenplay in my mind? My one-bedroom apartment looked out into the back of a restaurant called Crabby Andy's. My clothes smelled like fried clam strips and I could still barely afford the rent. What was I so pleased about in my life?
I forced myself to look him directly in his dark eyes, to stare him down with my convictions so that he could see how wrong he was. I have stuff to do. But he wasn't sneering at me. His eyes were almost kind, almost pleading, and it was almost enough to make me agree to help him.
"I know you have a life," he said. "I know this is a lot to ask. I'm willing to make it worth your while."
I froze. "Worth my while? What does that mean, exactly?"
"I'll pay you."
I laughed. "No way. I'm pretty sure that would make me a prostitute." Didn't need to check that one off my bucket list.
He was dead serious. "Name your price."
I reached up to tuck my hair behind my ears, rattled by his composure. Instead of my hair, I found my baseball cap. I dropped my hands to my side. "I can't date you for money."
"Twenty thousand dollars? Fifty?"
My mind went blank. Fifty thousand dollars would cover a lot of rent payments. Still. "It's not going to happen, Jax."
He frowned as he studied a spot on the floor, looking so upset that I felt that pang of sympathy again. It was flattering to be desired, even if it was for a fake romance. Besides, I'd read a novel or two where this exact scenario even turned into true love. Still, it wouldn't happen here.
I tentatively put a hand on his shoulder. "I'm sure you'll get that role. You are perfect for Ben."
He looked up again with that striking intensity. No wonder women went weak-kneed around him. "How about this: I'll help you sell that screenplay."
My heart skipped. "Wh-what screenplay?" None of the many I'd written were any good.
"Hodges Brennan is producing The Rose Garden. If I get that part, I'll give him your screenplay."
I withdrew my hand, which was beginning to tremble. My work wasn't up to par, I was certain. Not up to Hodges Brennan's standards, for sure. I couldn't exactly admit that to Jax, though. "He wouldn't — you can't make him buy my screenplay."
"No, but I can hand deliver it to him. And if he doesn't want it, I'll hand deliver it to someone who does." He stepped closer, closing the space between us to inches rather than feet. "What do you say?"
My h
ead had started to buzz with the possibilities. When I'd been dating Griff, he'd been a struggling actor and I'd been a struggling writer. He'd only recently had his big break, and it wasn't like I could call him up and ask him to help me out. But the only way anyone accomplished anything in Hollywood was to know someone who knew someone. Up to that point, I'd never known anyone.
I had a choice: I could accept that one of my dreams would never come true, or I could take a chance on Jax.
I swallowed. "Okay. I'll pretend date you, and you'll promise to try to sell my screenplay. But on one condition: you can't date me. I can't have paparazzi knocking me over and crowding the bakery. Keep my name out of it."
Practical, I thought. I'd also considered that dating Jax publicly might lead Griff to believe I was trying to make him jealous. I couldn't give him that satisfaction.
Jax wasn't buying it. He narrowed his gaze. "This sounds high maintenance."
"So?"
"So, you're in a polyester-blend sundress, Wren," he said, darting his fingers beneath the strap of my dress. The contact sent a shiver bolting across my skin. "You're medium maintenance on your best day. Don't you want to impress your girlfriends? How many of them have slept with box-office gold?" He grinned as he tightened his grip around my strap.
"You don't know my friends. If they found out I'd slept with you, they'd probably take me for counseling. Vain actor who believes he's a gift to womankind? No thanks, buddy. I've been down that path before." I brushed his fingers away with a dry laugh. "This is one of my conditions. Take it or leave it."
"Fine, whatever. Be someone else." Jax looked down. "What, we need to shake on this?" He grasped my outstretched hand and gave it a few pumps. "There. Consider it signed in blood."
I reached over to the table and lifted my flute of champagne. The view from this spot really was lovely. Much nicer than the view of the Dumpster behind Crabby Andy's. I finished my drink in one gulp.
Jax took a seat and tilted his chair back on two legs. "Can you stay for a while? You should plan to be here for a couple of hours at least. For verisimilitude. There's a party I'd like you to attend on Friday night, too. It's over at a mansion on the cliffs. Great Barrington, if I remember correctly."
The Coffee Girl Page 3