With deft fingers, he began to peel and slice, removing the stones with a knife and a flick of his wrist.
“If you could just”—he chopped as though the work surface had offended him—“agree to the wording.”
I shoved the folder under his nose and opened it to reveal . . . nothing. He raised perfect golden brows at me. I looked around, panicked, before seeing the copies of the addendum under NOB’s foot. I bent down to tug the pages free and they tore almost in two as they came away. I stood too quickly, only to find myself nose-to-nose with NOB. This close, I could see that the dazzling blue of his left eye contained a burst of hazel.
He smirked. Then, waiting for the exact moment I was going to try to speak again, he pressed the button on the smoothie maker. “Please could you—” Wrrr.
“You need to sign—” Wrrrrrrrr.
I snapped my hand out and covered the button, breathing hard. His fingers touched mine, still trying to press, but I remained where I was. “You have three months,” I said firmly as I held out the torn copies of the addendum. “It’s very generous, considering how delayed we are.”
The royal “we”: agency-speak for “definitely you, but we don’t want to appear to be saying this is all your fault.” Which it was. Though Monty’s mollycoddling hadn’t exactly helped.
“All you need to do is sign it, and I’ll leave you to your juicing.”
“I see.” At last, NOB picked up his espresso cup and took a sip. It still had the label on the bottom. Like everything else here, it was new. I wondered why NOB had moved back. Had L.A. not worked out the way he’d hoped?
For a while, NOB had been the go-to writer for every film director wanting to make their name. Yet he hadn’t produced a follow-up to A Heart Lies Bleeding. It was a small industry. He had the weight of expectation on his shoulders. After such an extraordinary success, he must feel like he had a lot to prove.
Maybe all this attitude was really a response to that pressure. “It must be hard—”
“The thing is, Stevie”—I bit my tongue this time—“I’m not signing that.”
Or I’d just let his bare chest go to my head.
Still, I kept my tone soft. “Unfortunately, you have to. If you don’t”—I dropped the bombshell he must have known was coming—“they’ll cancel the contract outright. You’ll be obligated to give them their money back. This addendum at least gives you more time, and a chance to deliver.”
“I don’t need time,” he said petulantly. “I’m not signing.”
I took several deep, calming breaths. In all the years of overblown coffee orders, high-end restaurant bookings, arranging his “I only do first class” travel, and his dedication to not even once getting my name right, NOB had never broken me.
He wasn’t about to now. I kept my professional mask firmly in place and reminded myself that he didn’t know the whole agency was at stake.
I tried a different tactic. “Think of all the time you’ve put into it so far. What’s three more months?” I’d heard every excuse in the book for not writing. Sometimes they just needed to know you were in their corner. “I’m here to help you finish in any way I can.”
NOB smirked and opened his mouth. “I heard it,” I snapped, before he could say the kind of thing that, until recently, assistants had been putting up with for years.
He shrugged. “Luckily, I don’t need your help.”
“And why’s that?”
“Well, the thing is, Stevie.” He tossed back the smoothie. “I haven’t even started writing it.”
Chapter 4
The Challenge
INT: A KITCHEN FILLED WITH REFLECTIVE SURFACES—MONDAY, NOVEMBER 19, ONE MINUTE POST-BOMBSHELL
EVIE stands in front of NOB, one hand on the kitchen counter to brace herself, as two expressions war for dominance on her face—bland professionalism and complete outrage. NOB pours himself another smoothie, oblivious to EVIE’s gurning.
I fought to remain calm, but when I spoke all the understanding left my voice. “What?” The entire agency was at stake, and he hadn’t typed a single word? “Monty said—”
He laughed as he drained his drink. “Old Monts said I was writing?”
Now I knew why Monty had been so cagey about showing anyone those pages. “But . . . you knew exactly what you were signing up for.” I could feel the heat spreading up my neck.
“I’ve changed my mind.” He wiped his hands and then leaned toward me. “Oscar winners,” NOB said, “don’t write rom-coms.”
My mouth went dry. I was going to lose my job because a man who hadn’t even managed to get dressed for a meeting had decided he was too good to write a romantic comedy? “Oscar winners,” I hissed, “wear clothes to meetings. Oscar winners look at someone when they’re speaking to them. Oscar winners write the damn script they’ve been paid for.”
There was a moment of complete silence, during which NOB seemed to be mentally recalibrating. His gaze sharpened on me and, for the first time possibly ever, he really looked at me.
Oh, no. Oh, no. Oh, no. All my internal alert systems were firing, and my skin reacted by turning a deep and ferocious crimson. What did I just do? Goodbye promotion.
NOB flashed his perfect white teeth at me. “Well, well, Evie Summers. There you are.”
I blinked. Of all the responses I might have expected . . .
“I . . . What?”
NOB folded his arms across his chest, the movement accentuating his carefully honed muscles. “Five years of knowing you—”
“Seven.” (Oh, God, Evie, just stop talking.)
A quirk of his brow. “All these years of knowing you and this is the first time I’ve seen the real you.”
Of all the patronizing . . . As he looked at me, I suddenly had an inkling of what it might feel like to have the attention of someone like NOB. He was, though I would never admit it to him, ludicrously good-looking. Golden skin, sky-blue eyes, cheekbones for days, a jawline that was movie-star straight and firm . . .
What a shame all that beauty was wasted on a wanker.
“Actually,” I said imperiously, “the real me is far more polite.”
NOB pulled out one of the stools at the breakfast bar and gestured to it. For a moment I wanted to refuse, but my knees were trembling too hard and I collapsed gracelessly onto the black leather.
“I’d love to hear more about all these Oscar winners you know so well,” he said, still standing. “But first, let’s be real. I won’t write a rom-com. It’s not my brand.”