So much for the haircut plans. Today has turned into the Monday-est of all Mondays.

  3

  Just a Friend

  Jude

  * * *

  When I was a teenager, I dreamed of phone calls from agents. I’d imagine my mobile ringing, then my agent saying in a clipped, crisp tone: “Jude, the James Bond producers want to cast you as the new 007. Can you head over to the studio straight away? Tux will be ready, and we’ve got a martini glass too.”

  Now, at the ripe old age of thirty-one, I know that agent calls can leave me feeling anywhere from fireworks to smacked in the stomach with a wrecking ball.

  Since I woke up an hour ago to another damning photo from The Hollywood Scoop, I’m already dressed in a pressed black button-up and trim jeans when Holly calls to talk about how we handle a wrecking ball.

  “Hi, Holly,” I say, putting on a good show. “At least it wasn’t a sex tape, right?”

  She chuckles. “That’s certainly one way to look at things, love. Can you meet me at my favorite café?”

  “The one next to your office, with the lavender Earl Grey you adore?”

  “You know me so well.”

  “Which is why I’m already hailing a taxi.” I leave my apartment ready for damage control. I’ll do whatever Holly asks. The last thing I want is to lose her.

  There are spin jobs, and then there are spin jobs. The Hollywood Scoop’s photo of me kissing my supposed ex will require an industrial-sized washing machine and a few gallons of bleach.

  When I reach the café, my goal is to convince Holly to keep me as a client. She single-handedly turned my career around after it stalled for two years, like a Peugeot stuck in the Blackwall Tunnel underneath the River Thames.

  Holly knows the café’s owner, so we grab a table far in the back, away from prying eyes and ears. “I’m not even involved with him,” I say as I point to the risqué shot slapped across the home page of The Hollywood Scoop. “I can’t believe The Scoop says we’re an item.”

  “Well, the photo does make it seem that way,” Holly diplomatically says as she settles at the table with her tea. “You left the Luxe Hotel with him.”

  “But I’m not with him,” I insist, though I sound a little too the lady doth protest too much, even to my ears. “You believe me, right?”

  She waves a hand airily. “I don’t need to know who you shag.”

  I sigh. I’m not annoyed at her. I’m annoyed with the Hollywood rumor mill, which chews gristle it finds on the side of the road. “Holly, I’m not.”

  She tucks loose strands of blonde hair behind one ear then the other. “Love, I don’t care who you bang or don’t bang. Your sex life is yours, and you can bang a banana for all I care, as long as you do it behind closed doors.”

  “I don’t bang bananas. Or even eat them.” I stab the tablet screen again, pointing to the supposedly incriminating evidence of how the two of us allegedly rock-starred the hotel room, destroying first the minibar—after devouring the contents—then a couple of lamps and a mirror. The truth? I wasn’t even in the room with this guy. I came to save his ass. “And since there were banana Gummi Bears on this five-figure bill, that should prove this wasn’t my eat-everything-and-destroy-the-minibar-too episode.”

  “Of course it wasn’t. But the point is, you paid this bill for him. You left the hotel with him. You were affectionate with him.” Seems she can’t even say his name either. “These photos aren’t what you need right now.”

  “But isn’t this bill proof of what I’m saying? He’s a friend! He’s only ever been a friend.” I try desperately to make my point. “I paid it as a favor. To help him. He was in a right state, and I needed to get him home. I don’t eat any of this stuff. Candy, pretzels, and crisps are not on my meal plan.”

  “This bill is total rubbish. Slade, the new PR guy, will sort it out when he talks to Rikki Finch later today.”

  I shudder at hearing the name of the woman who single-handedly runs The Hollywood Scoop. The most powerful blogger in Hollywood, she’s broken story after story. She has sources everywhere. “What is your agency’s publicist going to say?”

  “That he’s a friend.”

  “He is!”

  She deals me an I’ve-got-this smile. “We’re going to make you look all shiny and new. We’ve got a plan. Because here at CTM, we pride ourselves on looking out for our clients’ best interests. These pictures are not in your best interests, so we’re going to brainwash them away.”

  I can’t imagine that’ll be easy since The Hollywood Scoop has recently run several allegedly salacious photos. First, Rikki ran a pic of me heading into the guy’s home late at night. For the record, I went to his house to check on him. The site ran a shot of him backing his car into his neighbor’s garage. That was fucking grand. And now this hotel sequence, capped off with him kissing me outside the entrance when I’d only gone there to help him. Yep, it sure looks like I’m entangled with the world’s worst boyfriend.

  “But I can explain,” I say, and once those words escape my lips, memories race back. TJ once implored me with those same words, but I barely let the man I’d fallen for explain a thing.

  That fight with my American almost-boyfriend haunts me. But then, TJ’s parting words do too. This isn’t what I wanted when I came to LA, he’d said.

  I wince, then shove away the painful memory.

  Holly shakes her head. “We’ll handle the explanations. You and I will join Slade at the office shortly to review the plan.”

  “You’re not going to drop me, then?” As the world’s biggest and most successful talent agency, CTM prides itself on its squeaky-clean rep. Holly’s part of CTM now, and I can’t bear the thought that she’d ditch me.

  She gives a pfft. “We’re certainly not going to drop you when you’re the talk of the town. Thanks to If Found, Please Return.”

  I translate that as if you weren’t nominated for an Oscar, we’d probably drop you over these pics.

  My world’s been a whirlwind since the original star of the flick broke his leg skydiving midway through the shoot last spring. The indie studio scrambled to hold auditions for a replacement. I won the lead, a broken-hearted drug counselor who lost his wife to addiction, and after a twenty-six-day shoot in Vancouver, the film was fast-tracked into theaters late last year.

  Now, here I am, a little amazed at the turn my life has taken and a bit shocked at how quickly the press has turned on me because of my friend’s troubles.

  “Good,” I tell Holly with a smile. “Because you’re the best agent I’ve had.”

  Holly pats my hand. “It’s not a tough competition.”

  “True,” I say, since it’s not hard to beat Harry. “But at least you and I have different taste in men.”

  “Yes, and I like my men in the rearview mirror and far away from the Pomander Walk apartment—which was the best thing I got in the divorce settlement.”

  “It is quite pretty,” I agree. I saw it when she invited me to a dinner party shortly after arriving in New York.

  Holly folds her hands, her pear-shaped diamond glinting in the light—the ring she bought herself when she kicked ex-husband number two to the curb for cheating. “Now, do you trust me to fix this?”

  Holly knows most of my deepest secrets, so I’d say yes. “Considering I’ve told you I’m afraid of failure, hat hair, and falling madly in love again, I’d say I trust you unequivocally.”

  “I promise I’ll do my part to make sure you’re never photographed with bad hair, love. But you must do your part to make sure you’re not photographed with bad boys.”

  I straighten my spine, gulping. “I will.”

  “Good. What we need to do is combat these images by making sure you’re seen with a very good boy.”

  That sounds smart. “A new man will definitely hit ‘reset’ for the press. You want me to find a clean-cut fella and go on a few dates?”

  She scoffs. “Oh no. You don’t need to find someone. We have someone. A very appropriate fake boyfriend for galas and fetes, for couple-y dates, and for various public events.”

  That’s a huge relief. I breathe a happy sigh. “Brilliant. I can do that no problem.” I rub my hands, so damn ready to tackle this simple challenge. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

  “More like unlucky. Evidently, he quite needs a boyfriend too,” she says with a sympathetic sigh.

  I laugh, commiserating in advance. “What did the bloke do to mess up his life?”

  “I’ll let him explain when you meet him. Though ‘meet’ isn’t exactly the right word.” She picks up her cup and drains the last of her tea, then gestures to the door, leaving a tip on the table as she stands. Time to walk and talk. “You already know him,” she tells me as we take off.

  We round the corner on the way to her building, and I make a wiggling motion with my fingers. “Tell me who he is. I can’t wait to charm him for the cameras.”

  “One of our other clients. We look out for our own. His name is TJ Hardman.”

  I nearly stop in my tracks, but that might reveal too much.

  Like, say, the fact that I’d been falling madly in love with TJ when I fucked it all up. That he was a funny, clever, vulnerable man who made me feel like I was the only one.

  What an idiot I was.

  As I walk with Holly, I replay that day in Venice. I wish I’d thought before I accused him of coming to LA to steal a deal out from under me. I wish I’d taken a fucking breath before I suggested he used me. I tried, though, to say I was sorry, but it was too late. TJ still left.

  “TJ Hardman the author?” I ask evenly, giving nothing away since Holly doesn’t know we were involved. “Or perhaps is there a Troy Jett Hardman somewhere?”

  “Wouldn’t it be funny if his initials stood for that? But I’ve no idea what they stand for.”

  I do.

  “I bet they stand for Thomas John,” she continues as we sweep inside the building. “In any case, he’s also in a bit of a pickle.”

  If he’s involved with another guy, I will lose it. I clench my fists. “Does he have inappropriate pictures out there too?”

  Say no. Please say no.

  “That’s not his issue at all.” But she doesn’t say what his problem is as we step into a waiting lift.

  “But he needs a fake boyfriend, and I have to pretend I like him?” I want to make sure I understand the role completely.

  “No,” she says as if that’s crazy.

  “Thank God.” I breathe a huge sigh of relief as we shoot up ten stories. “For a moment there, I thought you were serious.”

  Holly flashes me a confused look as we exit on the eleventh floor. “I am serious. And I am intensely serious when I say I don’t want you to pretend to like him. I want you to convince the whole fucking world that you’re madly in love with him.”

  Evidently, wrecking balls come in pairs—this second one of the day slams into my gut.

  I’ll have to pretend I’m in love with the man who destroyed my heart.

  Though I can only imagine how TJ will feel when he sees photos of me wrapped up with William.

  When I look down the hall, I don’t have to wonder how TJ feels.

  He’s headed my way right now, and I can see for myself. He hates me.

  4

  The Ice Age

  Jude

  * * *

  This is the first time I’ve seen TJ since the argument, but it isn’t the first time I’ve tried.

  A few days after he hit the road like an ex in a country song, my best friend, Olivia, arrived in Los Angeles from London for a voiceover job. Grateful to see a friendly face, I hugged her for ages on the porch of the Airbnb seconds after a Lyft dropped her off.

  “You’re here for one reason,” I told her. “To make my life bearable again.”

  “Dramatic much?”

  “Dramatic always.” I sighed, letting all the air leak out of me, weighed down by sadness. I dropped my head onto her shoulder. “But with such a good reason. TJ broke it off.”

  “Talk to me,” she said.

  That evening as we walked along the surf, I gave her chapter and verse of what happened, how I woke up to a piece in the trades reporting that TJ had sold his book rights. How right after that, I learned from Holly that Webflix had tabled a queer romance with me in favor of TJ’s book. How TJ told me he’d done the deal while he was visiting me in LA and how it all reeked of him using me.

  “You fucking idiot. You absolutely massive, incredibly ridiculous idiot,” Olivia said, verbally thumping me on the head.

  But was I that ridiculous? The evidence added up, after all. “Doesn’t it seem like he came out here for work, though? He was busy wheeling and dealing with Webflix at the same time he was romancing me. And then when we talked about it, he said I wasn’t what he wanted. Translation: A relationship with me wasn’t worth the effort.”

  She smacked my shoulder. “It doesn’t sound like you talked, Jude. Sounds like you fought.”

  I bristled. But then I peeked at the painful memories of our fight and my role instigating it. I grimaced, realizing her assessment was starkly accurate. “Yes, well, it was intense.”

  “Exactly my point. You both have intense feelings for each other.”

  “Had,” I corrected.

  “Have and had. As in, I saw the way he looked at you in London.”

  “I know we have chemistry. Chemistry isn’t the point.”

  “I’m not talking about chemistry, you wanker. When you two were in London, you were all he wanted. He looked at you like he was crazy for you. Like he was more than infatuated.”

  Those days and nights in London felt like magic, like we were the only two people in the city. “Fine, so we were into each other in London,” I grumbled.

  “So into each other that you reached out to him seven years later and asked him to come to see you, and he said yes straightaway. He got on a plane. He got a hotel. He brought blueberries to your show. And now you honestly think this man who was utterly mad about you once upon a time simply flew across the country to both shag you and sniff out work-related deals to steal from you?”

  Well, it seemed that way at the time. But when she put it like that . . .

  Perhaps I’d overreacted.

  “I sort of did think that,” I said sheepishly.

  “First, some tough love. TJ doesn’t have to steal opportunities. His newest book is a fucking number-one bestseller. Everyone wants a piece of it. Just accept that and be as happy for him as he is for you. Two, he was crazy for you in London, then he jumped at the chance to see you in LA. Ergo, you’re a fucking idiot.”

  Maybe I was. Maybe TJ had touched a very sore spot, and I’d jumped to conclusions. “I will never need therapy as long as I have you.”

  She laughed. “It goes both ways.”

  But there was one little issue that nagged at me. “Except his last words to me were awful. He said this isn’t what I came to LA for.”

  She dealt me a sharp stare. “Did you invite him to Los Angeles to fight with him?”

  “No,” I muttered.

  She draped an arm around me, squeezing my shoulder. “Then, don’t you think he was as hurt as you were?”

  She had a point, but I’d felt so foolish the morning we fought. Seeing that Hollywood Scoop article, learning about how he met the exec at my play, reading the news in the trades rather than hearing it from him. All of that stung like ten thousand jellyfish stings.

  Olivia was persistent. When we met Holly for martinis that night, Olivia straight up asked my agent if she thought that TJ’s agent had stolen the deal out from under me. Olivia didn’t mention TJ and I had been involved.

  I was on the edge of the barstool, eager for Holly’s take since she knew the players.

  Holly tutted, then said, “From what I’ve been able to glean, this deal was simply one of those whirlwind romances. No one planned it. No one was sneaking around. It was bloody kismet, and that happens. Webflix wanted TJ’s book, plain and simple. That was the prize, and when a company that big wants something, it gets it.”

  Olivia turned to me, a satisfied look in her eyes. “There you go.”

  The women in my life knocked sense into me over gin and olives. I’d been outrageous. I’d been hurt. I’d been completely insecure.

  On the one hand, I felt better. I hadn’t been used. But on the other hand, I felt nauseated. I’d completely fucked up. I was desperate to leave the bar and try to salvage things. The second I walked into the cottage in Venice, I grabbed my phone, clicked on TJ’s name, and called.

  Silently, I begged for him to pick up.

  He declined the call on the third ring. I texted him too, asking if he could talk.

  Like a dog waiting at the door, I stared at my phone for what felt like days, my stomach twisting with each passing hour.

  No reply came. He froze me out.

  Seems I was right, and Olivia was wrong. He came for sex and got it, and then when the going got tough, he was gone.

  For the second time in my life, I deleted his number.

  When fate split us apart in London, I knew two things—I was crazy for him, and I missed him desperately.

  This time around, I knew something else: I tried, and he didn’t.

  * * *

  Now, we’re in the CTM conference room with our agents and crisis management, and I know one more thing. The ice age is still on.

  TJ’s arctic.

  The intros fly so fast, I barely have a second to rehearse what I’ll say once we’re alone or to register details beyond the fact that his hair’s a little longer, his beard is a touch thicker, and his arms have officially reached throw-a-man-down-on-the-bed levels.