Party Girl (12 page)

Between Selah’s attitude and Brody Ashton’s, um,
whatever that was
, I am ready to go to sleep and forget this day ever happened. I grab my oversize shoulder bag and toss my purse into it. As I spin around to make a beeline to my car, I slam directly into Taylor. He reaches out to steady me quickly and then drops his hands.

“I’m glad I caught you before you left.” He takes in my bedraggled appearance. “I heard what happened.”

“Yeah, well—” I gesture ineffectually, because really, that’s the best I can come up with right now.

“I have a plan,” Taylor says with way more enthusiasm than this moment calls for, surely.

It’s been a long night, and I’m emotionally exhausted, so as pretty as this boy is, I think it’s best for all involved if I leave here as quickly as possible.

I start shuffling towards the door. “A plan for, like, life, or—”

He falls in step with me. “No. A plan for you. I’m taking you somewhere; it’s going to make everything better.”

“Thanks, but I’m tired and it’s late. I think I’ll just head home.”

“Come on, where’s the fun in that?” He nudges me playfully with his shoulder.

I keep walking, and when my voice finally does come out it’s grouchy.

“
Very
few things about this night have been fun for me. Why would we start now?”

“Well now
that’s
just a challenge,” he says seriously. “You can’t say something like that with big sad eyes and expect me to let you go home. No, you most definitely need to eat something. I’m taking you to the perfect place.”

We are almost to the employee parking lot, and I look up at him in frustration. I’m annoyed because he won’t let me politely decline. I’m annoyed with Selah for being unreasonable, and this night for being cold, and my life for sucking. Ugh! The list is too long to add up right now, and I just want to go home.

“Why do people always try and feed me when I’m upset? Maybe I don’t need food. Maybe I just need to stew in my own indignation!”

He responds with an indulgent smile that only pisses me off more! I pluck my keys out of my bag and march towards my car with renewed purpose. Taylor snatches them out of my fingers before I can protest and tucks them into his pocket.

“Maybe everyone tries to feed you because good food makes people happy. Or maybe they feed you because you work way too many hours and you clearly don’t eat enough. Either scenario works for my purposes this evening. But mostly I just want to hang out with you, and I’m hungry too. Now come on.”

For the first time in hours I smile a little; he takes that as his green light and walks me towards a shiny black Escalade. Now that I’ve acquiesced I feel a little bit better already. It’s sweet of him to try and cheer me up, and sweeter still to find me food, because I haven’t eaten since breakfast and I
am
starving.

I hop up into the seat, and Taylor closes the door behind me. When he gets in the driver’s side it’s just us inside this dark little space. He drives out onto the street, and I suddenly feel nervous because I really don’t know much about this guy at all. I grasp for something to say.

“So where are we headed?” I look out the window, trying to guess which direction we’re going.

“Just a little place I know,” he answers.

Well, that doesn’t go far along the path of making me feel better. I’m about to demand a better explanation because, colleagues or not, I’m not in the habit of visiting unknown locations with random guys late at night. Then, something catches my eye in the dark. There’s a photo propped up on the glass in between his speedometer and his mileage. It seems so out of place that I momentarily forget what I’m about to ask.

“Is that a cat?” I ask incredulously.

Taylor grins and glances at me. “Of course not. Only a total nerd would drive around with a picture of his cat in his truck.”

I squint to get a closer look of the fat orange tabby looking out from the picture with utter disdain.

“But if it
were
a cat,” Taylor continues, “his name would be Holden and he’d be the greatest cat ever.”

I can’t help my giggle.

“Your cat’s name is Holden?”

“I went through a pretty intense Salinger period,” he says, smiling.

“Wow.” I’m bewildered. “You seem so cool, but you’re secretly . . . not.”

Taylor laughs. “I’m really, really not.”

I laugh with him and then glance around, confused.

“Are you getting on the freeway? I thought we were getting something to eat,” I say warily.

“We are. I know this seems suspect, but I really want to surprise you. I swear it’s worth it. Are you up for a little road trip?”

I look at him, unsure. “This is a little unusual, Taylor.”

“It is unusual, but I promise not even a little bit inappropriate. You’ll understand when we get there.”

It’s tempting, but really, I don’t even know him that well and this feels like the start of every Lifetime movie Tori Spelling ever died in. I see him glance at me quickly, then back at the road.

“Come on, Brinks, surely someone at work would have told you if I made a habit of chopping up coworkers and burying them in the desert.”

“That’s a very specific visual.” I laugh.

He’s right, though; Miko hates almost everyone but she loves Taylor. She would have told me to steer clear if he was a creeper. He’s trying so hard to cheer me up. I decide to just sit back and let him.

We spend the rest of the drive talking about pets and books and our families back home. It’s so easy to talk to him and, I realize, more than a little exciting to be on some mysterious road trip in the middle of the night with a cute guy. It’s absolutely the kind of adventure I thought I’d have when I came to somewhere as magical as LA, and look at me now!
I’m totally doing it.

When we get near Anaheim after forty-five minutes, I have a brief excited mental freak-out because I think maybe we’re going to Disneyland. Then I realize it’s late and that visiting a theme park for a midnight snack makes no earthly sense. We follow a series of random streets to head farther into the middle of nowhere, and just as I start to think that maybe he
is
going to bury me in the desert, I see a glowing red sign hovering over a familiar-looking drive-in. I literally yelp with joy.

“There’s a Sonic here? You brought me to Sonic!”

I’m bouncing up and down in my seat and clapping my hands, which makes Taylor laugh.

“I guess that answers the question about whether or not you loved it as much as I did growing up.” He smiles as he pulls into an empty slot between an older couple in a sedan and a truck full of teenage boys.

“I didn’t even know they had these in Southern California.” I look around me in wonder.

“Only two in LA County. Both of them take forever to get to, but sometimes a cherry limeade is worth the traffic.” He rolls down the windows a little so we can pick up the fifties music wafting from the outdoor speakers. Carhops whip back and forth in front of us on their roller skates. “Do you know what you want?”

“I think I want
everything
!” I eyeball the glowing menu outside his window, trying to decide. Then I notice the dessert menu on my passenger side. “Ooh, milkshakes! I forgot about the milkshakes!” Then I clap again, because I can’t even help it.

Taylor laughs. “I wish every girl were this easy to please.”

And I am easy to please, actually, because I have an entire Brown Bag Special, a vanilla Coke, and a peanut-butter milkshake, and I am in a blissful food coma the whole way back to LA. We laugh and chat, and it really is an unbelievably nice end to an otherwise crap-tastic day.

Once we pull up to my car in the parking lot, he puts his truck in park and I unbuckle my seat belt.

“This was seriously the best. Thank you for talking me into it . . . and for not murdering me in the desert.” I grin.

“Well, there’s always next time.” He smiles back.

I open the door and jump down into the cool night and head for my car. He waits until I’m buckled up and behind the wheel before he drives off. I wonder how many other guys in LA have those sorts of manners.

Chapter TEN

The phone buzzes once and abruptly stops, and I look up to see that Selah’s calling from her office. I grab my notepad and go to see what she needs. This is her own unique paging system, a way to get me in front of her without deigning to use her vocal cords.

Being called into her lair isn’t ever really a good thing, but I am in too good a mood to care. Even if she’s annoyed with me, the Riverton event and its guest list have gotten coverage everywhere, and the clients are thrilled. A successful event, topped by the fact that I am leaving this evening to head home, means that my good mood is unflappable. Tomorrow I’ll be stuffing myself comatose with Mama’s best Thanksgiving dishes, surrounded by my big loud family, and I am practically vibrating with excitement. I can’t wait to see everyone!

I don’t wait by the door like I might have a week ago; I simply walk over and take a seat. After a moment she starts to speak.

“Have you confirmed the floral deliveries for tomorrow?” she asks without looking up.

“Of course, Davies has three of them already delivered because they were needed before the guests’ arrival this evening. The rest are going out early tomorrow morning,” I say, reviewing some of the details in my notes.

Apparently, many of Selah’s clients use her for any sort of party at their homes, and that includes holidays. Even though these efforts are much smaller (designing a holiday table, hiring the caterer for dinner, and so on) she still takes them on and, from what I’ve seen from the invoices, charges quite a bit for the “consultation.”

“The wine for the Andersons?” she continues.

“Arrived directly from the vineyard this morning; I just received confirmation.”

“Excellent,” she says, starting to gather and pack things into her black Birkin. “And you’ve confirmed that my flight is still on time?”

“Yes, it’s on time. Leaving from terminal four at three forty-five direct to Denver, and your driver will be waiting to take you up to the house in Vail. I’ve already checked you in, and the car will pick you up for the airport at one-thirty.”

“One-thirty?” she groans. “It won’t take that long to get to LAX!”

“It’s a holiday weekend; I thought it was better to be safe than sorry.” I smile at her politely.

She considers me a moment and finally sighs and goes to shut down her laptop.

“Fine. I’m going to go ahead and take off then. I haven’t even packed yet.” She stands up and tucks her closed laptop under her arm. “You’ve given everyone your cell?”

“My cell?” I’m confused.

“The Andersons, the Meyers, Kira and Jake, Paige,” she recites. She looks at me like I’m a little slow.

“Oh, I didn’t know they needed my cell, but I can definitely—”

“Of course they need your cell. How will they get ahold of you this weekend if they don’t have it?” She’s stopped looking at her own phone. Now she is staring me down in a challenge.

“This weekend?” I ask stupidly.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I already know what she is going to say. My stomach gurgles in anticipation of her words.

“Yes,
this weekend.
You’re on call. I shouldn’t have to tell you this!” she snaps.

I haven’t been her assistant very long, but I can tell you with confidence that
I shouldn’t have to tell you this
is one of her favorite lines.

“Of course. I’ll give them all my cell number and keep it on me. They can contact me throughout the weekend, and I’ll handle anything that pops up.” I say all of this like I am trying to talk her off the ledge. Maybe if I sound like I have a plan, she’ll go along with it.

“You’ll handle anything that
pops
up,” she says condescendingly, “and you’ll be there
in person
for whatever the clients might need.”

What?

I can’t help it; my shoulders slump a little at this declaration.

“But I’m flying home . . . Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving,” I try weakly.

“I know it’s
Thanksgiving
. Why do you think you’re on call?” She says this like I am a total idiot, then she glances at her watch. “There are, what, six clients paying for consultation?”

“Eight,” I say, defeated.

“Eight clients paying for consultation, and that means that someone is on call throughout the weekend to take care of them. This is a huge opportunity for you, to get to interact with clients of this caliber directly, but perhaps that’s not something you care about. Or not something you think you can handle?” She looks down her nose at me, daring me to say something.

I square my shoulders and sit up straighter. What choice do I have?

“Of course. Thank you so much for the opportunity. I’ll take care of them.” I try for a small smile.

Selah nods at my acquiescence and heads for the door. Right before she gets there she turns back, looking thoughtful. Maybe she’s reconsidered and will ask someone else to cover—maybe one of the staff who won’t have to cancel a flight in order to do it.

“Brinkley, why don’t you reach out to the rental property and have some Dom waiting on ice for us when we arrive? Three or four bottles, I think, and some cheese and charcuterie.” She develops a sudden French accent for the pronunciation of the last word, and I want to gag . . . Just call it salami!

“It’ll be nice for everyone to have a little nosh after traveling all day to get there, don’t you think?” She sounds uncharacteristically lighthearted. I nod.

“Wonderful. Happy Thanksgiving.” She heads out the door.

I’m pretty sure “happy Thanksgiving” is the nicest thing she’s said to me to date. Too bad that having a happy Thanksgiving is virtually impossible now.

I’ve never been away from home on a holiday; I can’t even imagine what Mama and Daddy are gonna say about this. What am I going to do tomorrow? Sit alone in the apartment while my family eats Mama’s pumpkin pies without me?

The first tear falls onto the page of my notepad, and I wipe it off with the palm of my hand.

Stop acting like a baby. This is your job now.

I stand up and take a deep breath. I have a ton of work to do, and I need to get on with it. First I need to call Mama and tell her that I won’t need a ride from the airport after all. Then I have to reach out to all our retainer clients and let them know my contact info for the weekend. Lastly I have to go order champagne and salami for a group of vapid socialites. Oh yes,
this
is my job now.

When I walk into the kitchen the next morning Max is bent over, digging around the fridge in her pajamas. I glance at the clock, confused; it’s not like her to be up so early.

“Hey, look at you wearing pants before noon,” I call as I walk in to make some coffee.

She stands up to glare at me. She is wearing sweatpants that are at least three sizes too big and an old shirt with a religious painting of Christ ascending to heaven and a tagline that reads “Jesus Hates the Yankees
.
”

When all I do is smile back at her, the scowl only increases . . . She might be up before noon, but she isn’t happy about it.

“What are you working on there?” I eye the things she is piling on the countertop while I pour us some coffee: butter, sugar, flour. I hand her the full cup as soon as her hands are empty. Grouchy she might be, but she’s always made me coffee if she got up first and it’s only right that she gets the first cup here.

“I’m making a pie,” she says after a sip.

I swallow too quickly and burn my tongue.

“A pie?” I sputter.

“Yes, a pie. It’s Thanksgiving,” she says, taking another drink of her coffee.

“You know how to bake?” I come closer to inspect her pile of goods. It does, actually, look like the necessary ingredients for pie.

“Yes, I know how to bake!” she scoffs indignantly. “I’m not a mutant!”

“You’re right, I’m sorry. I just never thought of you as the baking type.” I hop up on the counter behind me and pick up my coffee again.

“What are you doing here, anyway? I thought your flight was last night.” Max puts down her coffee and pulls a big bowl from the cabinet next to the oven.

“It was,” I sigh. “Apparently I’m on call this weekend. I get to sit by my cell phone and wait for a possible holiday emergency. Which won’t happen, by the way—everything has been delivered, everyone is fine. Selah’s riding her broom down a mountain in Colorado, and I’m stuck here probably eating Taco Bell for dinner. Or not even! Taco Bell is probably closed because it gives its employees the holiday off! So they get, like, all-you-can-eat Doritos tacos
and
they get holidays off, which is
way
better perks than anything I get at SSE!”

Somewhere during that explanation I start raising my voice in panic, and when I finish Max’s eyebrows are nearly in her hairline.

“Dramatic much?” she asks sardonically.

I sigh. “Sorry. What kind are you making?”

“Chocolate cream; it’s my specialty.”

“Yeah?” I ask, looking down into my almost empty coffee cup.

Max turns back around to her ingredients and starts to measure them out in the bowl.

“You can come home with me.”

For a minute I just stare at her back. I don’t know why it hasn’t occurred to me she’d be going home to her family today.

“Home?” I ask stupidly.

She whirls around.

“Yes,
home
. I have a family, Landon. I didn’t just spring into the world fully formed like Dionysus!”

“I didn’t study enough Greek mythology to know who you’re talking about,” I say, grinning, “but I really appreciate your offer. I’d love to go home with you.”

“Be ready at four.” She spins back around and begins working the butter into the flour mixture with her fingers.

My phone chirps from our small dining room, and I jump down to grab it. On the way there I hear another chirp, and then another two on top of each other.

I grab the phone and see a series of text messages, one right after another. The area code is 310, but I don’t recognize the number. Then I start to read the frantic message.

Need Help!! Was trying 2

make the thing but can’t

forgive ou how 2 work my

oven. Also, don’t know

what almond meal is.

Can I chopped up almonds

or is meal, like, a thing??

I have 2 B there soon and I’m

FREAKING out!! HELP!!!

Clearly someone’s autocorrect is on. I type a quick reply.

I’m sorry, I think you have

the wrong number.

And just as quickly as it’s sent, I get one back.

Isn’t this Selah’s assistant?

Oh man. I’m such an idiot! It hasn’t occurred to me that almond meal might be considered a “holiday emergency” to one of Selah’s clients.

Sorry, of course. This is Brinkley

how can I help you?

I drum my fingertips on the tabletop, waiting for the response, and then the reply pops up.

352 Camden Dr in BH. Pls come

straight away! Jake’s mum is coming

to lunch. Can’t screw this up!

My eyes bug out as I reread it for the second time. There’s only one client on retainer today named Jake, and he’s one half of the most famous celebrity couple in America.

Holy crap.
I’m spending Thanksgiving with Kira Glen!