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)
I meet Mason’s stare head-on, swallow my pride. “Thursday at eight works for me. I’ll meet him at the St. James Theatre.”
That’ll give me all week to get a haircut, trim my beard, maybe even track down that aftershave that used to drive Jude wild. Make him fucking miss what he lost.
Mason grins, returns to his desk, and sits down. “Great. And I think you’ll find it more enjoyable than scrotal depilation. But hey, that’s ultimately for you to decide. And since we need to hash out some of the details before you make your dating debut, the CTM press department, Jude’s agent, and I have conveniently arranged for you to meet the movie star in fifteen minutes.”
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.”