“No,” I groan. “The deal is to find someone to settle down with. It doesn’t have to involve marriage. De facto relationships are up fifteen percent in the last year.”

  Both Charlie and Kate stare back at me with confused faces.

  “It’s true,” Lex intervenes, his eyes diverting from his laptop.

  Thanks. The lifejacket—five minutes too late.

  “I don’t even know where to begin with that.” Charlie shakes her head. “Of all the facts you could retain in your head, it’s the percentage increase of de facto relationships? Yet when it comes to the car keys, you have no idea where you’ve placed them.”

  “That’s because car keys have these tiny legs like a robot and move when you put them somewhere,” Lex states seriously, shortly breaking out into a silly smile.

  “Do you see who I married?” Charlie says, laughing, grabbing his chin and bringing his face close to hers. Ugh, honestly, these two are so in love.

  “Yes. A guy with a logical answer,” I respond, distracted by the beep of my cell. Opening the message, I see an unknown number sitting on the screen.

  I’ve got an opening tomorrow afternoon if you’d like to begin working on the marketing plan for Miss Winters.

  Regards,

  Morgan Bentley

  Morgan. Cute name. It’s a very formal message, and with Charlie and Lex talking in the background, I think of an appropriate way to respond.

  I’ll take your opening. Just name the place and time.

  Sincerely,

  Noah Mason

  After hitting send, I regret it and worry that it came off as unprofessional. I’m glad she finally has an opening, I just wonder if she can read between the lines. I would love to see her opening. Fuck, you need to let this one go.

  Jokes aside, I want to text her back and see if she has an affirmative date for when I will meet Scarlett. I decide against it, and check my emails instead. There’s an email from Presley. She says that Ms. Bentley has contacted her for a meeting. The same meeting that she just invited me to.

  I scroll through the email, wondering why she chose to message me rather than include me in the email. Odd behavior from the frigid lesbian. She texts back moments later with a place and time. Bored with the uneventful text, I respond with a ‘See you then’ and tuck my cell back into my pocket.

  “Okay, this is why it sucks having two males in the house,” Charlie goes on.

  I have no idea what they’re talking about, having been engrossed in the boring exchange of conversation with Morgan Bentley.

  Kate is beside the door, saying her goodbyes. She is due to fly back to New York City for a few days then back to London for two weeks. I hate to see her go; she had fast become my favorite person to hang out with in LA. She is fun, and since our incident, we get along like we’ve known each other a whole lifetime. I am going to miss her.

  “Make sure you text us when you land,” I tell her, still holding her in an embrace.

  “Yes, Dad.” She smiles, letting go of me.

  Charlie and Lex say their goodbyes the same time the girls run into the kitchen, latching onto her leg. After what feels like forever, the driver beeps his horn again, prompting Kate to say her final goodbye. As soon as she’s out the door, I settle back at the table, begging Charlie for seconds.

  “So, I was thinking of apartment hunting this week,” I say casually.

  “Really? Are you sure?” Charlie asks. “Don’t you think it’s too soon? Plus, there’s so many bad neighborhoods in LA. I really think you should hold off.”

  “C’mon guys. You know you’re awesome but I don’t want to impose any longer.”

  “Impose is far from it,” Lex reassures. “But if you need a pad to let off steam, I feel your pain, brother.”

  Charlie pinches Lex’s arm, scolding him once again for encouraging my behavior. “Just hold off for a while. And if you really need a letting-off-steam pad”—she air

  quotes—“I’m sure Lex can hook you up with a suite downtown.”

  “Okay guys, I’ll hold off for a bit. More time to have tea parties, right?” I joke.

  She smiles, putting down the sippy cup in her hand, and wraps her arms around my waist to hug me. “Except the next time we play tea parties, I promise it won’t be air, instead, tequila.”

  “Now you’re talking,” I laugh.

  I thought of a million ways to get out of meeting Morgan, none of which seemed plausible. Presley wanted to get started with this project, and had worked on some basic questions she wanted to ask Morgan. Nothing too personal, just run-of-the-mill questions that would educate the reader on how Scarlett grew up to how she found herself in Hollywood.

  Presley did make mention of some of the tougher questions, which she wanted to ask Scarlett herself. Some of which was not public knowledge and would definitely be the focal point with the press. I’m not sure how she dug up the information, and I decided to let her handle the scandalous side.

  The marketing interns were a great team, and I had spent the morning running through some less important projects to clear the way for this bigger project. A little after lunch, Haden walks into my office.

  “Hey,” he says casually.

  I look up from my laptop. “What’s up?”

  “Bad news. Presley has come down with a stomach bug.”

  “Is she okay?” I ask with concern.

  “She pretends to be.” He laughs sincerely. “Our son caught it off some kid he was playing with so now it’s her turn. I’m probably next. Nothing worse than having to hold your wife’s hair back while she projectile vomits in the car.”

  I cover my mouth in disgust. And the poor fella had a sweet ride too.

  “So listen, I know you have that meeting this afternoon with Morgan. Presley is adamant that we still move forward despite her not being here.” He removes his cell from his pocket and taps away. A few seconds later, my email pings.

  “These are the questions she wanted to ask Morgan today. If you could ask them instead, that would really ensure we don’t fall behind.”

  My whole career had remained in marketing and only that. This seems a little left field and completely out of my element. How would I ask the questions and what type of answers should I be looking for? Do I counter question if I’m unsatisfied with an answer? Jesus, I don’t want to fuck up this important project.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Haden mentions before I speak. “You’re not sure how to ask the questions in a way that we can capture it and translate it into words.”

  “You read my mind, boss.”

  “All you need to do is inform her you’re recording the conversation. Simply ask the questions Presley has mapped out. I think you’ll do great.”

  With the slight boost in confidence, he leaves my office and I quickly read Presley’s notes before leaving and driving to the meeting.

  I arrive at the coffee shop early. I didn’t want to come across as unprofessional, and so, with plenty of time to spare, I open up my laptop and answer some work emails. Right on time, I see Morgan walk through the door. Her stride is elegant, with an air of confidence in her white dress that sits shorter this time, and more noticeably, the plunging neckline that shows off some very sexy cleavage. Her hair is out, but tied halfway up, and she still wears her signature red glasses.

  She scans the table, looking around us. “Good afternoon, Noah.”

  “Morgan,” I greet, standing up and courteously pulling her chair out.

  “Thank you,” she responds with a forced smile.

  That smile irritates me. So forced and cold. Do I really bother her that much that she can’t stand being in the same room as me? Almost repelled?

  “I apologize for Presley’s absence. She’s quite unwell, however, I do have her notes which I would like to go through with you.”

  Morgan’s expression changes to panic, her eyes looking everywhere but at mine. “She’s not here?”

  I shake my head, pursing my lips. “Just you and me. Is that a problem?”

  Posing the question and goading some sort of reaction from her, I wait patiently. Tapping my fingers on the stark-white linen tablecloth.

  Her eyes unwillingly watch the tap of each finger, and slowly, with a deep breath, she parts her lips and raises her eyes to meet mine.

  “Certainly not, Noah,” she says with a reassuring smile. “Shall we begin?”

  Chapter 10

  The waitress stands by our table. Young, blonde, with a playful smile that screams ‘Fuck me tonight.’ Her uniform is a white tank and short black skirt. Very short. I’m thinking of ways to get her number on the sly, because I need to feel a women’s body against mine.

  It’s been forever since I’ve seen a pair of tits, let alone held them in my hands.

  Except for Kate’s . . . but we all know how that night ended.

  “Could I please have an espresso and a glass of water?” Morgan orders, her head buried in the menu.

  The waitress takes her order then waits for me to answer, moving a little closer as she jiggles her little titties in front of her notepad. They were cute, but lacked that mature bounce I had grown fond of over the years.

  “I’ll have the same.”

  “Nice order,” the waitress says, striking up a conversation. “You don’t sound like you’re from around here?”

  “I’m not, actually,” I answer politely. “I moved here a few weeks ago.”

  “I hope you like California. I’ve been here my whole life. A true Californian girl,” she giggles, creating more bouncy tits. Fuck, keep going beautiful.

  “I can tell.” My smirk fades as Morgan clears her throat, prompting the waitress to leave.

  She scurries away, and in the corner of my eye, I try to get a glimpse of her ass in that short skirt. It’s perky but nothing special.

  “Should I leave you alone with the waitress or are we here to conduct business?” Morgan voices with a touch of malice.

  “Just a friendly conversation,” I insist. “Rule number one in marketing: Opportunities can present themselves anywhere.”

  “Like between her breasts?” Morgan mutters, keeping her lips tight and arms folded.

  The evil witch has risen. I decide to not comment, and begin asking the questions Presley gave me until Bouncy Tits comes back with our beverages. This time, not to rile the beast even further, I simply smile back at the waitress and focus my attention back on the meeting.

  The first stage of the book will focus on Scarlett’s childhood and how that evolved into acting. It’s public knowledge on the internet but I was hoping to get some hidden facts that will interest the readers. An added bonus for the die-hard fans who think they know everything about her.

  I tell her I’ll be recording the conversation, which she’s quick to shut down.

  “I would prefer this conversation to not be recorded,” she states firmly.

  Haden needs the information, and my memory isn’t the greatest. Could this bitch be any more of a pain in the ass?

  “Look, Morgan. These are Presley’s questions. I’m just doing her job for the day. I’m really not understanding why it’s such a problem.”

  “Because this is Hollywood. Anything you say can be held against you.”

  Her stare is fierce, penetrating with an ice cold expression. The glass of water sits beside her espresso, and she carefully has a drink, then returns her attention back to me.

  “Fine. If you must. Perhaps you’re not as multi-skilled as I pegged you to be.”

  Did she just put me down? I’m only moments away from walking out. Taking a deep breath and remembering how much I need this job right now, I bite my tongue so damn hard I can taste the blood.

  Breathe . . . one . . . two . . . three.

  “So, let’s start with childhood. Hard and fast facts to clear up any misinformation in the media.” I press the record button on my recorder. “Scarlett, real name Sarah-Jo Winters, born the fifth of August nineteen-ninety in Littlerock, California.”

  “Correct,” she states.

  “Her father Max Winters was a farmer and mother Marjorie Winters, formerly a housewife, passed away. Siblings: Violet Winters. Two years older.”

  “Uh huh.”

  God. Did she suddenly climb back into that shell? I read the next lot of questions, hoping to get more of an extended answer from her.

  “Okay, so growing up, Scarlett had always aspired to be a star.”

  Her body gestures indicate she is bored with the questions; granted, they weren’t about her, but her boss instead. I finish my water in one go, counting down the time until this is over.

  “From the age of three, she entered beauty contests in every county. Her mother would save every penny, sometimes doing odd jobs for locals, just to spend it on her outfits.”

  “The American Dream, right?” I joke.

  “To some.”

  “Sorry, go on.”

  “At the age of ten, a Hollywood producer happened to be driving through town and saw her at a local diner. She was singing and dancing for the patrons and so he dubbed her the next Shirley Temple.”

  “Quite an image to live up to, don’t you think?”

  With a long pause, she pulls the glass towards her mouth and drinks some water, continuing her silence. How long did I have to fucking wait for an answer?

  “She dreamed of being that. So no, to answer your question, she aspired to something and she followed her dream. Not many people get that chance, Noah.”

  Watching her closely, Morgan fidgets with the napkin sitting on the table. The way she said those words seemed odd, but perhaps I’m reading too much into it. The espresso was running through my veins, making me extremely alert.

  “She’s determined,” I say.

  With a darker tone, she responds, “That, and luck. She happened to be there at the right time.”

  “Good karma.”

  I laugh inside. How ironic, me believing in karma.

  “Karma?” she repeats with a sinister laugh, “C’mon Noah, you can’t possibly believe in karma.”

  She’s waiting for me to respond, but I’m taken aback by her odd question. When Rose asked me this question, I laughed it off. Then ten minutes later, my world completely fell apart. I didn’t want to take that chance; Karma is watching me with a magnifying glass.

  “A wise person once asked me if I believe in karma. I didn’t, but five minutes later, it bit me in the ass,” I say honestly.

  She arches her brows. “What do you mean?”

  “We all have a past, don’t we? Mine just collided with my future.”

  “I see,” she says quietly. “So, shall we continue?”

  I go back to my notes. Distracted by our change in subject, I move my cursor over the next point, trying to grasp some professionalism. Why the fuck did she make me feel so uncomfortable in my own skin?

  “Her first three movies were blockbuster hits. What insight can you give me into that?”

  “She loved it. It distracted her from her mother passing away. Her sister gave up college to take over her career and made sure she stayed with the right people.”

  “I guess you hear these horror stories that come from being in Hollywood. How did she manage to stay grounded?”

  “The right support network.”

  Morgan talks about the team that Scarlett works with. From her makeup artist to wardrobe assistant. Her PR team and her newly created social media team. She had sixteen people working for her, not including her housekeeping staff and multiple chefs. I can’t believe one person could have so many people surrounding them. It shows how in demand she is, and why directors were throwing scripts at her left, right, and center.

  “Is there anything you can share that perhaps is not public knowledge?” I ask openly.

  Keeping my gaze, she answers, “That’s a question best directed at Miss Winters.”

  “Right, and that would be when?”

  She shakes her head, keeping her smile at bay. “You’re very keen to meet her, aren’t you?”

  “Well, it is the point, isn’t it?” I question her back, annoyed by her uninteresting question.

  She doesn’t respond, and avoids my persistent stare. I wait patiently, wondering what comeback she will have to that.

  “I’m going to make something clear, in case it isn’t already. Can you please stop recording?” she demands.

  I press stop, unsure why I’m following her request.

  “Scarlett’s relationships are well monitored by the tabloids. Despite some of the trash you may read, Scarlett’s team try very hard to protect her personal life,” she informs me. “Now, given your display of . . . what’s the word I’m looking for . . . interest in the waitress, I would hate to think that your interest in meeting Scarlett is anything but on a professional level.”

  My jaw is clenching, biting down to stop me from saying the words I want to say. The nerve of this woman! How dare she question my integrity based on some harmless flirting with a waitress. I can feel my blood boiling and the vein on my forehead ready to burst at any moment, creating an ugly display of the hostility between us.

  “I am many things, Ms. Bentley, but unprofessional is not one of them. I work hard, and yes, I play hard,” I insist, with a bitter tone.

  With my anger contained, barely, I veer in the opposite direction. She’s made me uncomfortable this whole meeting, and so now, I will turn the fucking tables on her. I’ve done this over and over again, good at reading women. This bitch just needs a reality check.

  “Tell me, Morgan, do you get much of a social life given the hectic schedule you have?”

  Her body stiffens, taken aback by my forthcoming question. “That’s a personal question, don’t you think?”

  “Perhaps, depends on your answer.”

  Without saying a word, she starts packing up, answering loosely, “Not much. I’m busy. I don’t need a social life.”

  “Everyone needs a social life,” I tell her, leaning slightly closer. “You’d be surprise how much fun you could have.”

  I watch her sit in awe of my comment, and the way her legs twitch as she crosses them under the table. Wow, way to go. You got through to the prude’s legs. Now what?