Total pages in book: 244
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 236705 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1184(@200wpm)___ 947(@250wpm)___ 789(@300wpm)
A line creases his brow. “Okay?”
“Go home and write on a computer,” I clarify, pointing adamantly at the door. “Your fingers are going to be all cramped up like Renoir’s at the end of his life. He had to strap his paintbrushes to his arthritic fingers. Do you want that?”
“I don’t paint, but point taken.”
“You’ll be a mess. Whatever this inspiration is, take it, clutch it, and go write on your laptop. Or you can borrow mine if you want. But you shouldn’t write on your mobile that much.” Perhaps I’m a bit of a mother hen, but he deserves it—pig-headed writer.
After setting down the phone, he cracks his knuckles, wincing. “I should get a hand rub with Coco.”
My head spins. “That sounds filthy. Do I want one too?”
“She’s my buddy Easton’s grandma. A total hoot. Once every few weeks, she gets mani-pedis, and the other guys get pedis, and I get a hand rub.”
That’s a lot of insight into TJ to process in one sitting. “I’m going to need a photo next time, of you and your salon club.”
“Noted.” He stands, stretches his neck from side to side. “I should go.”
“You should, Renoir.”
A few minutes later, he’s dressed and at the door, and I’m perking up with an English Breakfast. I survey him in his mushroom shirt and tousled hair. “You look like you’re doing the walk of shame.”
“Call Slade. Tell him to send the paps.”
It’s not a bad idea, but TJ needs to get on his way. No delays. I shake my head. “The book won’t write itself,” I say.
“I need to fix your laundry door still.”
I march over to the man, shove his shoulder, and push him out the door. “Another time.” I glance at the clock behind me in the kitchen. “I’ll expect a word-count report by close of business.”
“You sound like you’re playing the HMFIC at some big Fortune 500 company.”
“HMFIC?”
“Head Mother Fucker in Charge. Is that your role in the new LGO show?”
I laugh. “Nope. I’m playing Jamie, the cute guy in the building that the quirky gal has a crush on.”
“Of course. And of course he’s sweet too,” TJ says as he heads to the stairs.
Wait. Hold on. “Did I say he’s sweet?”
“His name is Jamie. The quirky gal digs him. I put two and two together.”
I shake my head, amused and a little amazed. “And don’t forget about the Man’s Man. I want every detail. Someday I will play a douche, and your intel will be excellent,” I tell him.
TJ salutes me. A minute later, he’s gone, and I don’t know when I’ll see him again.
As I drink my tea, I wander around my apartment, a little aimless. It’s weird that I’d feel this way. We cleared the air last night, so I should feel better than before.
And sure, technically, I do.
But I’m also still replaying our ending in LA, mulling over the things I said.
As I stare out the window, a cup of tea in hand, I don’t know if we’re starting something new or just writing a better ending for us.
Later that day, I hit pause on those unsettled feelings as I head to the LGO set of Unfinished Business since we start shooting in a few weeks. While there, I say hello to some of the cast and crew and immerse myself in work for a few hours. As we wrap up, I chat with Ellie Snow, my love interest on the show. Our first scene is a doggie daycare pooch mix-up. “For the record, I would never accidentally pick up the wrong dog if I took Gigi McDoodle to daycare,” she says, with a flick of her pink hair.
“Is Gigi your . . . chihuahua?” I ask, taking a stab at TJ’s name game.
Ellie gasps with excitement. “How did you know she’s a chihuahua?”
“Her name’s Gigi McDoodle,” I say, pleased.
“She’s a chihuahua mix, and she goes by both her names.”
“When you have two fabulous names, you should absolutely use both.”
Ellie pats my shoulder. “We’ll get along fine,” she says with a dimpled smile.
As the cast filters out, the showrunner pulls me aside to tell me she’ll send a revised script for the first episode. “Our head writer has a few rewrites for Jamie. Just a couple little tweaks here and there to amp up the conflict,” she says.
“Can’t wait to read the new script.”
“It’s going to be great.”
“More conflict is always a good thing,” I say.
In art, at least. In life, I’m not so sure.
Once I leave LGO, I head to Midtown to meet Holly for a drink at The Lucky Spot. We snag a private table away from the crowds. She orders a scotch then waggles her iPad at me. “Have you seen this piece today?”
The question is vague, but the upbeat tone is not. “Sounds like a good piece?” I ask hopefully.