B009R9RGU2 EBOK (15 page)

All thoughts of Jacob, alcohol, and injustice flee from my head when I feel Billy’s hand brush my thigh as he reaches for the radio. Okay, maybe that was an accident. But after he adjusts the dial, he brushes it again… and lingers. I sense my blood pressure start to climb. My whole face and chest are now flushed, and butterflies are performing
Riverdance
in my stomach.

So for the second time in a week, I find myself in the confined quarters of a car with Billy Fox. But this time definitely feels different. Equal parts alcohol, recklessness, and lust. Shaken not stirred. The interior of the car practically shimmers with sexual chemistry. And after the champagne and martinis, I really don’t care. Billy, at this point, probably perceives Jacob as a borderline negligent, definitely inattentive, absent boyfriend. Perhaps I’ve been highlighting all his worst faults, and maybe I’ve been painting a totally one-sided version of our relationship. All to impress the gorgeous man sitting mere inches away.

I guess, semi-subconsciously, I figured if Billy thought I was in an unhappy relationship, it would be almost like I wasn’t in a relationship at all. I was going for the vulnerable weak girl approach. As he steers the car up the windy roads toward his home in the Hollywood Hills, I look around and realize it’s going to be a bit complicated to find my way back to the freeway. Billy squeezes my leg, and again reads my mind.

“Why don’t you come in? I’ll draw you a map of how to get out of here.” His eyes size up my condition. “Maybe get you a bottle of water too.”

“Sure,” I say, only because I can’t think with his fingertips grazing my thigh.

We get out of the car, and I can’t help but stop in awe of his elegant designer home. It’s breathtaking. Neither ubiquitous Spanish Villa–style nor Mid-Century Modern exactly, Billy’s “crib”—a sprawling ranch-style mansion that appears at the twist of the hill—is uniquely him and worthy of
Architectural Digest
. That’s me—always thinking like a publicist. He takes my hand and leads me up the front steps. I touch the beautiful limestone columns on either side of the entryway and delicately step inside. A richly colored Moroccan rug invites you to kick off your shoes in the sconce-lit foyer. Down the hall, I catch a peek of charcoal-gray couches and a Bauhaus-style leather armchair with a Wii game controller resting on its seat. A bachelor obviously lives here, because it’s neat but not hospital clean. While I’m still poised in the doorway, Billy uses his grip on my hand to pull me closer. Without really thinking about it, I let him.

And knowing all the million reasons why this is such a bad idea, when he leans in to kiss me, I do absolutely nothing to stop myself from kissing him back. And, holy crap, I am kissing him back. And I am loving every second of it.

Before the kiss escalates, Billy draws back, offers another irresistible smile, and says, “Come on… come in. Did you want some water? I’ll show you around. Give you the tour.” He tugs me past a formal dining room—the vast windows of which reveal LA’s twinkling glow below—into a perfect chef’s kitchen of brushed stainless steel, industrial pendant lighting, and seemingly miles of sleek blue-gray slate countertop. More than
half my apartment could fit in this single room. I lean back against the gorgeous counter as he opens a hidden refrigerator door and pulls out two bottles of chilled Fiji water.

For some reason just looking at the sweating water bottle in my hand revives the buzzed Angel-Sophie.

“You know what? I should go.”

“Really?” Billy seems sincerely caught off-guard. I see the initial look of surprise on his face before he covers it with another mischievous smile, and it seals the deal.

“Yup. I’ve got work tomorrow.” I take a fortifying swig of artisan water, letting its coolness focus me. “I’ll come take a tour some other time. Definitely.” I mean, I don’t want to burn my bridges here or anything. I just know that right now I have to get out of here before any line left is crossed.

“Let me draw you a map, then.” Billy steps away and starts to open a drawer.

“That’s what the GPS is for. I’m good.” He shuts the drawer and leans back against the island, his arms crossed, and he’s staring at me curiously.

“Sophie. What’s up? Are you okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I want to be subtle, but I can’t seem to slow down. “I just realized what time it is.” I slide past him on my way back to the foyer. His footsteps echo behind me as I reach the front door.

“Sophie. We’re cool. Right?” He’s not touching me, at all, but I feel him just behind me. His mouth is so close to my ear, and immediately, my fingers clench on the doorknob. I know if I turn around, I’m not leaving here tonight.

“Good night, Billy. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Still holding the
doorknob, I turn my head enough to kiss him quickly on the mouth. Before he can get traction, I pull away and take the stairs back to my car two at a time.

“Good night, Sophie. Drive carefully.” He stands at the door and watches until I am driving away.

I am so grateful to have a work event excuse tonight
. Honestly, at this point, three days after “the kiss,” I would have
made up
an event and then hidden inside my apartment with the lights off to avoid facing Jacob. We haven’t spoken since our heated phone call. I recognize how crazy I sound, but maybe I’m actually protecting him from my company until I get my head straightened out. My heart too.

How positively “noble” of me.

Tonight’s event is the LA premiere of a quirky independent romantic comedy that Bennett/Peters is in charge of organizing—arranging the carpet, managing the press, providing publicists to handle talent, and corralling big stars to turn out for the screening to garner maximum media coverage. Think of it like party planning, but with a twist. Even if the movie itself is terrible, our job is to make the evening an Event, complete with a star-studded red carpet. And guess whose newest client is going to be on said red carpet? Billy specifically brought it up, indicating that he planned to attend. For a second I had thought he was asking me on a date. But before I embarrassed myself, he clarified that the director happens to be one of his good friends, and he wanted to show his support.

Striding toward the office elevators with purpose, I am fantasizing about what Billy will be wearing when I see him in a few hours, and I barely notice Tru rushing around the corner after me until she practically skids to a halt.

“I’m so glad… I caught you before you left,” she says, nearly out of breath. You would think I’d been running.

“What’s up?” I say, sort of wishing she hadn’t caught me. I’m not in the mood for any more problems. I hit the call button again.

“You just said you were going to walk Billy Fox down the red carpet at the premiere tonight, but I think you forgot about the meeting for Tribe of Hope’s fund-raiser. It’s been on your calendar for weeks.”

Crap. She’s right. Without a personal client attached to the film (and thus doing interviews), I hadn’t planned on working the indie’s premiere. The more junior agents would have it covered. But now that Billy’s going to be there, I’m determined to pitch in.

With Tru’s earnest face looking at me dead on, I feel my eyes darting from the elevator door to the hall where she came from. I can’t even meet her sincere stare. I mean, this is exactly the kind of thing she is supposed to catch. And Normal-Sophie would right this second be effusively thanking her for saving my hiney once again. But not this time. Normal-Sophie has left the building, and right now we’re dealing with Maniac-Sophie. But M-S is clever enough to disguise herself as N-S.

“Thanks
so much
, Tru. I’d totally forgotten. I’ll just get Billy set up on the press line, and then I’ll head straight over to that meeting.” Where Jacob may very well be. Sure I will. “Thank
goodness you reminded me!” I add for good measure as she walks away satisfied. “See you tomorrow!” Maybe the final yell as the elevator doors slide closed is a bit over-the-top, but what the hell. Before the elevator reaches the lobby, the problems of the day are gone and I am already in the now familiar dreamworld where no one exists except me and Billy Fox.

There she goes again
is all I can think, as I watch Priscilla ignoring clients to schmooze every executive on the red carpet. Not to say that socializing isn’t a crucial part of this industry. Because it definitely is. I just spent the last five minutes comparing life in Chicago versus LA with
E! News
’ Giuliana Rancic, in between celebrity arrivals, as I spied Billy mingling with the director twenty feet away. But seriously, if Priscilla can’t do her job, it shouldn’t matter how many people she knows. I say “shouldn’t” because, let’s face it, tons of people, in every industry in the world, only got their job because they are so-and-so’s son/cousin/wife/mistress.

But if “forced” to point fingers, I’ll say that Priscilla is clearly not helping any talent or executives walk the red carpet—God forbid,
doing her job
. Instead I watched her graciously chat up one of the movie’s producers, and now she is oozing charm all over a network executive. Our eyes meet briefly as she shifts position to block the sun’s glare. It’s still bright at 7
P.M
. and the photographers are going mad with the perfect light to capture the actors strutting the red carpet. Priscilla lowers her perfectly manicured hand from her eyes and laughs at something Network Guy says.

My BlackBerry buzzes to notify me that Megan Keef has arrived. I reluctantly say good-bye to Billy, who lands a quick peck on my cheek before he heads inside the theater. With so many photographers still gawking at him, I appreciate that he was completely professional and didn’t give them anything gossip-worthy. The warmth of his hand on my shoulder disappears too quickly as I rush over to the will-call table to meet my soap star. With all the heady drama and forbidden romance, I feel somewhat like a soap heroine myself.

Halfway through the screening I know there’s no way I’m leaving to go to the Tribe of Hope committee meeting. It’s getting too late to make the drive across town—and frankly I’m enjoying myself. So I slip out of the dark theater and phone Tru from the lobby, asking if she’ll let them know I’m caught at work and regrettably unable to attend. To my surprise—and increasingly guilty conscience—Tru enthusiastically volunteers to go in my place. “Don’t worry, I take
amazing
notes,” she promises. There’s nothing I can do but thank her profusely and then return sheepishly to my seat.

After the movie, I find Billy and Megan in the crush and make sure they both are escorted to the after party, right across the street. Again, Billy allows me to play the cool professional, but just as we slip past the velvet ropes and cross the threshold into the club, he brushes his hand across my butt. Not really a slap, but definite contact. For an instant I think it’s an accident, until I see the adorably cocky grin on his face as he passes me to meet up with friends at the bar. He knows exactly what he is doing. And clearly enjoys every minute of torturing me.

Billy and I part ways once again, but somehow I find my
eyes drifting around the crowds in an effort to spot him, and once twenty minutes or so pass, I assume he’s left. At one end of the room sushi chefs are meticulously preparing gorgeous rolls and sashimi, while across the space a rather loud Italian is offering three different styles of homemade pasta. A large, fully equipped bar is smack in the middle. While there are definitely lulls in the food station lines, the six bartenders I see mixing drinks and skirting the ice sculpture/martini spout are working nonstop.

I spend the next hour or so avoiding Priscilla and keeping Megan Keef company. I decide to ignore the handful of cocktail swizzle sticks I see jammed in her clutch. Sometimes you have to pick your battles. We chat at the bar for a while, share a few drinks, and neither of us can resist the incredibly decadent brownie bites and mini crème brûlée on Chinese soup spoons the servers later bring out on trays. I introduce her to some of my favorite colleagues at Bennett/Peters. Megan is totally down with just hanging out; she’s not always trying to mingle with other celebs. I swear, another martini and I’m going to unload the whole Billy/Jacob problem on her. Glancing over at her now, listening to Jeff vent about a situation with his meddling parents, she has this really compassionate look on her face. I bet she can keep a secret. Well, actually I know for a fact she’s pretty, ahem, discreet.

But as the evening wears on, the perfect opportunity never presents itself. Which, as I see her off at the valet, I realize is probably a good thing. I can’t be confiding my personal problems to a client. What the hell is the matter with me? Things are finally starting to feel back to normal at work. The day after
my Nintendo meeting screwup I came in extra early, toting Elle’s one nostalgic carb indulgence—the best NY-style bagel with cream cheese I could find—and left it with the handwritten note “Sorry I was a schmuck. Never again.–Sophie.” Elle’s assistant, Lucas, said she smiled upon reading the apology and then took the peace offering into her office, wherein he later spotted its empty and meticulously cream cheese–free wrapping.