All The Pretty Lights (The "A" List #1) (6 page)

I—I don’t know what to say. I mean, I know what I had
planned
on saying, but seeing her now, her dark blue eyes with their thick lashes watching me and wondering what the hell I’m doing here, is enough to make me forget how to speak.

“So…” Lori, my new stalker, sneakily slides her way in between Daphne and I, looking back and forth between the two of us. “This is fun! Just the three of us. Hanging out in the hallway, just chillin’,”

Daphne gives her best friend a death stare to shut her up before turning her attention back to me. “Wou—would you like to come in?”

I nod. “Sure.”

Not only do I step inside the cozy little apartment, but Lori does, too. Yay.

“This is a really great place.” I move to the center of the room. It takes all of three steps to do that. I can’t help but notice that my walk in closet is bigger than her entire apartment.

“It is, isn’t it? Daphne really did a good job setting it all up,” Lori answers for her.

“These are for you.” I hand over the bouquet of fresh flowers that Andrea’s assistant picked up for me while her boss and I were hammering out the details of our plan.

Lori takes the stems mid-air before Daphne has a chance to, and holds them up to her nose, breathing in deeply and sniffing them as if they were actually for her. “These are beautiful.”

Yeah, they are.
And they’re for Daphne
. I bite my tongue.

“What is it that you want, Colton?” Daphne gets right to the point.

Of course. She has no idea why I’m showing up like this. “I was hoping we could talk...?”

She eyes me, trying to read my thoughts. “Sure. Have a seat,” she waves her hand to show me to the nearby couch.

I move to sit. So does Lori.

“Um, Lori, could you go put those in some water?” Daphne nonchalantly asks her friend to complete the task that will leave the two of us alone for a moment.

Smooth. Very smooth.

Lori nods and carries the oversized blooms into the kitchen area on the other side of the room. I know I don’t have much time before she returns.

“I wanted to see how you were doing. I wanted to apologize for how out of hand this is all getting.” True. So far everything I’m saying is true.

Subconsciously, Daphne looks toward the window as if she’ll somehow see the collection of paparazzi downstairs. “Yeah. It’s gotten a little crazy.”

I hear her words, struggle to concentrate on them, but my eyes are fighting to wander, to take in the sight of the V-neck t-shirt she has on, the plaid pajama bottoms, the fuzzy pink socks.

“I actually got a call from Katharine Harding this morning,” She informs me.

“Really? That’s good, right? You wanted to work with her.” Just because
I
think Katharine’s a slimy snake and I’ve been avoiding her call for weeks, that doesn’t mean my opinion has to interfere with Daphne’s career options.

Daphne rolls her eyes. “No. She wasn’t calling for me. She was calling to see if she can get to you
through
me. Can you believe it? She insinuated that she might have a job for me, now that she thinks I know you.”

“Well, you
do
know me,” I interject. What’s the harm in a little preferential treatment as long as it’ll help her in the end?

“I don’t know you like
that
. Besides. I don’t take anything that I don’t get on my own. If she’s only going to give me a job because of some superficial reason, then that’s not the type of person I want to work for.”

There’s a strong level of conviction to her words. She’s proud. She’s decent. I may have to rethink my strategy on this one. Originally, Andrea and I had thought that we would make Daphne an offer. She pretends to be my girlfriend, travels along with me on the TIME COP world tour so we convince the media that we’re a real couple. In exchange, she gets whatever she wants. Job connections, a whirl-wind once in a lifetime globe trotting vacation. Anything.

That had seemed like the only option because lets face it, I can’t expect a girl like Daphne to actually
date
me. I can be a dick. I can be an asshole. There’s no way in hell someone like Daphne Baker would ever put up with my shit. Not to mention, it would be kind of obsessive if I asked a girl I had just started dating to travel around the globe with me, leaving her life behind to devote herself to my crazy schedule.

After what she’s just told me, I don’t think either option is viable right now. It won’t work to legitimately date her, because I’m 99.99 percent sure she’ll turn my ass down, and I can’t offer her to
pretend
to be my girlfriend, because let’s face it- she has too many morals to do something like that.

I have to do this another way. I have to approach this completely differently.

Maybe it’s my many years of hanging around douchebag agents and shady producers that have got me thinking of ways to make it work, ways to get around the obstacles.

Ways to lie.

CHAPTER SIX

DAPHNE

He can’t be serious. Can he?

Am I even qualified for this?

I know Lori’s eavesdropping, listening to every word as she pretends to play with the floral arrangement. I don’t even need to ask her what
her
opinion is. I already know.

I can see her practically jumping out of her skin, biting her lip and fighting against her self to not yell out.

I’ve styled people before. For small time photo shoots with local magazines. Most of my clients hire me as a personal shopper to get them set with a season’s worth of clothing at a time. But that doesn’t mean that I’m there with them on a daily basis to help them pull it all together.

“Let me get this straight.” I inch closer to the edge of the sofa cushion. “You want me to style you. On a daily basis. For every single press event, every premiere, every photo shoot.”

“Yup,” he verifies the list of duties he’s looking to hire me to perform.

“You want me to travel with you, all expenses paid. Europe. South America. Australia. Asia. Five weeks.” I finish the list. “Why?”

I catch him off guard. “Why?” He repeats. “Because, I like you. I can get along with you. I trust you enough to know that you’re reliable, and you’re talented. I saw those sketches in your portfolio when you dropped them all over the terminal floor. I don’t want to look like every other guy walking the red carpet. I want to be my own person. And I think you can help me do it.”

My mind races around all the factors I had yet to speak of. My apartment, my clients, my cat. Whiskers
needs
me.

“I don’t know--”

He interrupts me. “—Daphne, do you want people to see your talent, or do you want to stay here, hidden away, hiding it from the world?”

“She’ll do it!” Lori can’t hold it in any longer.

“Lori!” I reprimand her.

Carrying the vase of flowers over to the coffee table, she confronts me. “Enough, Daphne. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity. Don’t worry about anything here, I’ll take care of everything.” She knows me well enough to know my reservations. “I’ll bring Whiskers to my place and watch him until you get back. You can handle all of your clients through email, and order for them online. If they’re not okay with that, then fuck ‘em. They don’t pay you enough, anyway.”

Colt sits back and watches Lori make the final sales pitch for him.

“You’ve always wanted to travel, and you’ll never have a chance like this again. You can network, meet people, get a foot in the door when they see how great your work is. It’s a no brainer and I’m not letting you pass it up.” She leaves me no room to argue, turning to Colt. “When does she start?”

I can’t help but notice how I’ve been shut out, how Lori and Colt are now conversing like I’m not even here.

“Today. Right now. We’ve got a premiere tonight.”

~*~

How did I get talked into this?

It was almost like walking through a war zone to leave my apartment and get here. To tell you the truth, I doubted whether Marcus would even be able to get me through. It was no less than a miracle I made it here in one piece.

There was the barrage of reporters waiting for me when I left my place, the three cars that followed dangerously close to ours through the busy Manhattan streets, and then finally the people waiting at the hotel, pushing passed each other. Most of these people weren’t reporters or paparazzi.

They were fans.

Louder, more emotional, and crazier. It was like a pack of wolves just itching to get their claws in me for a photo with them, an autograph, or a shredded piece of my clothing, even though I’m a nobody.

The elevator chimes, indicating I’ve reached the top floor. Marcus steps aside once he’s checked to make sure the hallway is empty. There are only two doors on this floor. One to my right, one to my left.

The door to my left has a dark suited man standing to the side. I’m guessing that’s Colt’s room. My assumption is confirmed when the guard nods at Marcus as we make our approach.

I have no doubt who’s in charge though. Marcus has an air about him, a demeanor. He’s a leader.

“You’re expected, Miss Baker.” Marcus turns the handles to the double doors and pushes.

Immediately sounds, voices pour out from within. Chaos. Utter and complete chaos and I’m tempted to turn and run. None of the dozen or so people inside seem to notice that I’m here, too busy buzzing around like little worker bees.

The vision before me is nothing like I’d expected. Sure, I pictured a few people to help get Colt ready, seeing as tonight is a huge night for his movie. A hairdresser, his publicist, his manager. But, that’s very different from the spectacle I’m watching now.

It’s like I’m on the set of one of his movies.

There are large, very expensive looking photography flood lights perched atop tripods with those funny looking white umbrellas to direct the light flow. Then, there are
actual
photographers snapping pictures of Colt in front of a black screen. After every shot, a crowd of people gather in front of a monitor to decide whether or not his hair looks right. If not, a hairdresser armed with a utility belt of products swoops in to fix it, and they try again with another photo.

There’s even a woman with short dark brown hair and very stylish glasses sitting cross-legged in a director’s chair. A director’s chair!

Make no mistake, he may be going to the world premiere of his latest blockbuster in a few hours, but the production is already in full swing right here in his hotel room.

Well,
room
, is kind of an understatement.

My apartment could fit inside this suite, five, maybe six times! It’s really just
immense
. I know people live like this, but seeing the extravagance first hand is hard to digest.

“Daphne!” Colt somehow spots me, hidden, behind the wall of people before him. “You made it!”

Of course I did. How could I not? Colt saw to it that any possible distraction was taken care of. He’d even sent his personal bodyguard and driver to come fetch and deliver me.

Every person ceases their activity and watches closely as Colt steps out from his makeshift photo shoot and walks through the debris towards me.

Surprisingly, he kisses me on the cheek,
dangerously
close to the corner of my mouth. His aim must suck.

“I was worried you’d change your mind,” he speaks very softly so that our audience doesn’t overhear even though they’re trying to.

He’s standing right on top of me, close enough for me to smell the deep cologne he seems to always wear. His scent seems familiar now, as I’ve become so used to it, like it’s a part of him.

His deep caramel-colored eyes search my own for any trace that I’m here to back out in person.

“I gave you my word. That means something.” I reassure him.

The tight smile that spreads over his lips is playful. “I’m sure it does. Come, meet everyone. This is Andrea McNair. She’s my publicist, another New Yorker like yourself. She knows her shit and is a bona fide miracle worker.”

The woman that I’d spied earlier, sitting in the director’s seat like some type of overlord, steps forth with her hand extended.

“Daphne! It’s so good to meet you. I’ve heard so much already, and Colt really seems to think you are just divine.”

I return her smile, even though I’m suddenly feeling the same type of jitters that I’d felt when interviewing with Katharine Harding. This woman may not have the same sharp tongue that the designer has, but she’s equally important in her own right. I can tell. It’s in her posture, her demeanor, in the way that all the people around look at her.

She’s a powerful woman.

“You take good care of our boy here,” Andrea pats Colt on the shoulder. “He’s our biggest commodity.”

First of all, since when is Colt
our
boy? I have nothing to do with him other than throwing together his clothes. So, he’s not
my
anything, let alone to be shared with her to be
ours
. Second of all, Colt is most definitely
not
a boy.

The crisp, grey collared shirt he’s wearing is open at the flaps, showcasing every single part of the six-pack he’s famous for. His strong shoulders square off at the corners deliciously. His camera perfect jawline is sharp enough to give you a damn paper cut. His lips are smooth and tempting, and his eyes playful as if full of wicked, sinful thoughts.

No, this is definitely
not
by any means a boy. He’s all man.

I silently scold myself. No, he’s the man who hired me to do a job. I’ve got to stop thinking of him as a damn walking piece of sex. Millions and millions of dollars have been spent molding my subconscious over the years to think of him this way. Hence, why Andrea views him as her commodity.

But, no. Just as sure as I am that he’s all man, I’m also sure that he’s no commodity, he’s no object. He’s simply Colt, a guy just trying to do his job the same as everyone else- even if his job just happens to be one of the most glamorous ones in the world.

“Of course,” I reply to Andrea politely. She doesn’t need to know how I feel about her last statement. I already know she’s a powerful woman. I don’t need her using it against me because I pissed her off.

The next ten minutes are spent introducing me to the “crew” as Colt puts it. This is the team that will be traveling with us on the promotional tour. He explains that it’s easier to have the same people day in and day out to keep everything running smoothly.

First, there’s Tracy, Colt’s hairdresser. Dressed all in black with a severe ponytail and the shiniest hair I’ve ever seen, she’s friendly enough. Her smile seems genuine and plush, looking like lips have a touch of filler in them. I don’t hold it against her, though. I can see how being submerged in this industry would tempt you to jump on a bandwagon like that. As far as I can see, that seems to be the only artificial thing about her. Either that, or she’s got a damn good plastic surgeon.

Next, Albert. What can I say about Albert? It was really easy to tell what Tracy’s role is, seeing that she had a pair of hair sheers in hand and a belt full of sprays and potions, but Albert is a little less obvious to assign a job title to.

Carrying a cup of coffee for Colt in one hand, he’s got a tablet in the other, and wears sort of a microphoned headgear. Also dressed fully in black, I note that his eyebrows are perfectly shaped as if recently waxed. I subconsciously step forward an inch while we’re being introduced to check. Yup. Just waxed. Nice job with it, too.

“Yeah, darling, I’m
heeere
,” his melodic, soprano voice floats out as if it were dancing.

“I’m—I’m sorry?” Yes, of course he’s here. So am I. I don’t get it.

He shakes his head at me, releasing my hand before pointing to the microphone strategically placed an inch or so away from his lower lip.

My eyebrows rise as I finally put two and two together. He’s on the phone. Gotcha. Albert saunters, and I mean
saunters
better than any runway model I’ve ever seen, away from us to take his call in silence.

“He’s always on that thing. Half the time I don’t know if he’s talking to me or not,” Colt adds. “But I’ve never had an assistant as good as him so it must be working somehow.”

Ah, so Albert is Colt’s personal assistant. I mentally make note of the title in the inventory of people I’m meeting.

Next, is Theodore, or Teddy as he asks me to call him. Teddy is Colt’s personal photographer. It’s explained to me that he travels along to media events to get behind the scene pictures that will be released to the media in a controlled way, unlike the paparazzi photos that are taken in droves. Shorter than most men, with a little beer belly, Teddy stands out among the younger crowd, not only by the difference in age and pile of fluffy, silver hair on the sides of his head, but also by his not conforming to the industry standard like Tracy and Albert.

Teddy seems to be more than comfortable in his own skin and doesn’t appear to give two shits if others aren’t. I like him already. His plump hand is soft and his grey eyes kind.

I begin to lose track of some of the names as the introductions continue. There’s Shauna, Colt’s personal aesthetician and massage therapist. Shauna looks to be very Scandinavian and very, very strong, with perfect skin. She reminds me of one of those gorgeous gladiators from that Saturday mornings TV show I used to watch as a kid.

I picture her dressed in a body suit of stars and stripes while balancing a pole with foam ends, fighting another Amazonian princess on a tight rope just as I remember the women on the show doing, all the while showing  her perfect complexion.

After Shauna, I hate to say I don’t remember any of the names, but I’m sure I’ll have the opportunity to get to know them while we’re spending countless hours traveling between premieres.

“You alright? You look a little pale.” Colt takes me off to the side.