“But it already is real.”
Brommy and Sal looked at me with worry.
“What is?” Sal asked.
I rubbed my face. “Nothing.” Wrenching out of my chair, I stood and rolled my neck, my mind racing ahead of the game, seeing the greater picture and all the play options. For once.
“Sal,” I said. “You’re going to put those sneaky skills to good use.”
He leaned back and gave me a cool look. “Oh, am I?”
He wasn’t fooling me. I knew the man, and he was all in.
“Yes. Pack a bag for LA. I’ll pay for your room.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Emma
“All the fixtures are custom made by local artisans,” Remington, my realtor, pointed out for the third time as we walked through the house.
I made an appropriate murmur, my heart not in it, and kept walking through the cold and lofty living room, my heels clicking hard on the poured-concrete floors.
“This place isn’t you,” Tate, my current real estate shopping buddy, said, not bothering to lower her voice. “It’s too cold.”
“Cold?” Remington’s blond brows winged upward in protest. “Look at this light! You have the canal right outside your door. Do you know how rare it is to find a good house on the canal?”
We were in Venice, searching for homes here because Remington told me it was the place to be in LA. Maybe it was. But I couldn’t get into the search. My head felt heavy, and my shoulders ached. I wanted a cool drink and a soft lounger to sprawl on.
And maybe indulge in a pretty little pastry that fills your mouth with its flavors and makes your heart flutter?
No. Not that.
Aggravated, I ran a hand through my hair, fingers dragging over my scalp in an attempt to work some blood back into my head. “Tate’s right. This isn’t me. But I’m beat. Let’s call it a day.”
Remington was not happy and shot daggers at Tate when he thought I wasn’t looking. But Tate could take care of herself. She blew him a lazy kiss, and I bit back a laugh.
Tate was my oldest friend in Hollywood. We’d met as fresh-faced newbies at an audition for a cereal commercial. I’d been rejected because I was “too California blonde” despite being born and raised in Fairfax, Virginia, and too short, despite being one of the tallest actresses in the bunch. And my smile apparently looked like an invitation for sex. Tate had laughed her ass off about that. Until they’d told her she was too busty but asked if she’d consider dying her raven-black hair blonde.
We’d gone to lunch to complain and agreed that casting directors were the most nitpicky, clueless jackholes in the business. They weren’t really; we’d eventually learn there were much worse players in this strange, messed-up business. But our bond had formed.
Now, Tate hooked her arm through mine as we strolled back into the hotel and were enveloped in the lush-green, kitschy banana-leaf wallpaper.
“You’ll find something,” she said, giving me a squeeze of support as we found the path through the garden.
“I know. I’m just tired.” I unlocked the door to the extravagant bungalow I’d rented. I could have stayed in a simple room. I could have stayed with Tate. But I was licking my wounds by surrounding myself with a luxury that would have made young cash-poor me cringe in horror.
Tate dropped her purse on the side table, then flopped onto the couch with a sigh. “Hello, Marilyn,” she said to the black-and-white photo of Marilyn Monroe. “We’re home!”
I gave my own nod to Marilyn, then curled up on the other end of the couch.
“You want to call in for some cocktails?” Tate asked, eyeing me. “Or maybe go to the pool?”
No pools. I wasn’t sure when I’d willingly go around one again, but not today.
“I was thinking about a nap.” I kicked off my heels and wiggled my toes. When she didn’t say anything, I glanced up and found Tate watching me with a dark frown.
“You okay? Is it the show?”
Tate was the only friend I’d told about getting the ax. Well, aside from Amalie, Tina, and Lucian. I pushed his name from my mind. Or tried to.
“I’m okay,” I lied. “And it’s not the show. Well, not really. I’ve settled down about those worries.” Because a gruff and beautiful man held me in the dark and told me it was okay to mourn.
My chest tightened, and I turned away, staring blindly at Marilyn’s sultry expression. Someone once told me that to be a star is to shine alone in the night sky. Always admired, always alone. I’d laughed that off. Why couldn’t I have it all?
My vision blurred, and I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I’m just . . .”
A vibration at my feet cut me off as a text popped up on my phone. Given that I didn’t want to break down and cry on Tate’s shoulder, I pulled the phone from my purse.
Sal: I can’t believe you went to LA without me!!
Smiling, I shook my head and tapped out my reply.
Who is this and how did you get this number?
There was a slight pause.
Sal: Evil Emma! And to think, I was going 2 tell U about the vintage 50s Dior ball gown in ice blue silk that I found. In YUR size!
He sent along a picture of the dress, and I sucked in a breath. It was gorgeous.
“Holy shit,” exclaimed Tate, who was extremely nosy on the best of days and had leaned in to look over my shoulder. “Who is Sal, and if you don’t want that dress, tell him I do.”
I nudged her away with a laugh. “He’s Amalie’s assistant and dresser. He’s a sweetheart and an expert at all things fashion.” I’d told Tate all about staying with Amalie. I had not told her about Lucian. I couldn’t. Not yet.
Just the thought of him now made my smile fade. I missed him. Damn it, I wasn’t supposed to miss a man I hardly knew.
But I did know him. Not in length of time but in depth of character.
I shook it off and answered Sal.
Forgive me, Sal! Or I’ll never forgive myself! :)
Sal: You just want the dress.
Yes. But I assume you come w/the dress?
Sal: Is that innuendo, dear Emma?
I snorted.
Nice try, Sally.
Sal: :P I already bought the dress. It’s yours.
I luv U, Sal!!!
I glanced at Tate. “I’m getting the dress.”
“Bitch!” She pouted for a second, then poked me with her toe. “When do I get to meet him?”
Sal pinged another message before I could answer.
Sal: So, where are you staying? Please tell me it’s fabulous. Let me live vicariously thru U.
You’ll like this, then. Bungalow 1 at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
Sal: THE MARILYN!?! Without ME???
I laughed and showed Tate the text.
“Oh, I like this guy,” she said.
“I do too.” I liked everyone at Rosemont. A pang of something that felt alarmingly like homesickness went through me. I pulled in a breath and let it out slowly. I couldn’t get attached.
Sal texted again.
Sal: Tell me you’re going out on the town and having fun!
Ah. No. I might drag my butt down to the lounge for dinner but that’s it.
Sal: Boooring!
That’s me. Napping now!
I wondered briefly if he’d tease me about that, but he didn’t.