Not in the Script (11 page)

She reads too many trashy romance novels. “Thanks for your vote of confidence, my friend, but I'm not interested in a makeover project.”

Rachel sighs. “Fine. Then just promise that you'll find another date for when I come out for the premiere. Don't you think it would be so much fun to double?”

“To …
what
?”

“Double date, of course!” she says. “ 'Cause you've gotta set me up with The Bod, right? Please, please, please! You have to!” I am dead silent, but Rachel doesn't wait for my answer before she continues. “I mean, it doesn't have to be a date to the premiere—I don't want him to feel weird about introducing me on the red carpet and stuff. But sometime that weekend would be perfect!” She squeals. “Oh my gosh! What if we, like, totally fall in love?”

Yeah, seriously. What if …

“Um, don't be mad at me, okay?” I finally reply. “But I just barely met Jake, so I should probably get to know him a little better before I ask him if he'll take you out.”

Rachel is the one who's quiet now. Then, “Please don't put it
that
way. Say something more like, ‘My best friend is coming out for the premiere and I
know
you'll love her.' ”

“But he could have a girlfriend. I have no idea.” Maybe he does. Jake sort of dropped a hint that he was interested in me, but … now that I think of it, he could've been curious about dating
any
castmate, not me in particular. “Or worse, maybe he's a player,” I tell Rachel. “Don't you want me to figure that out first?”

“He didn't say he has a girlfriend, did he?” There's panic in her
voice. “And you said that he's way cool, so why would you think he's a player?”

There's no possible way to talk her out of this. “Just give me enough time to scratch ‘serial killer' off the list, okay?”

Rachel laughs … kind of. It's the nervous giggle she does when something isn't quite right. “I guess so. Just don't get to know Jake
too
well,” she says. “You've always had that wicked little way of stealing a guy's attention from me.”

“Oh, ha-ha-ha.” A rock grows in my throat and drops to the pit of my stomach. “That hasn't happened since junior high.”

“Maybe,” she replies. “But only because we haven't hung out with the same guys since then. And remember, The Bod is all mine, so don't you dare forget it.”

I couldn't if I wanted to.

“Well, that was quick,” the manager of Sabino Haven says as he hands over the key to my new condo. He probably thinks I'm leasing it on a whim, but I've already checked out plenty of other options, so this was an easy decision. “I don't get a lot of young kids looking for two-bedroom, wheelchair-accessible units,” the guy adds with a smile. “But that's real thoughtful of you to consider visits from your mom. When are you moving in?”

“Soon, I hope.” Most of my days away from the studio are already booked for the next few months because I'm still contracted for ten or so modeling jobs in New York. But I'm trying to free up a weekend to move my stuff down from Phoenix. “I'll at least have some furniture delivered this week.”

“Sounds good,” the manager says as he files away my lease papers. “And for marketing purposes, we'd like to know how you found us.”

I gesture out the window. “I was dropping off a friend at
Paraiso del Rio
when the running path caught my attention.” Living right down the road from Emma might make her question my motives, but Sabino Canyon feels like a private island, and I need somewhere to run. Treadmills do nothing for me. “I have to keep in shape for my job.”

The manager pats his round belly. “A lot of good the path's done me, but you'll enjoy it. It follows the river through several attached communities, all secure.” He joins me at the window where the setting sun paints the sandstone courtyard with orange and gold, and a giant saguaro cactus stands like a bouncer at the entrance. “Not bad, huh?”

“It's perfect.”

Brett calls after I leave my new place to make sure I'll be at the dinner. He says McGregor tore into him for harassing Kimmi today—making her even harder to deal with—so Brett asked for all of our numbers, and this is his attempt at playing nice.

McGregor also told Brett that
El Loro Feliz
has the best Mexican food around. That's really saying something in Tucson, where a cantina can be found on just about every city block. And it's a good thing the place came with such a high recommendation because the inside looks more like a cheap tie-dyed T-shirt—red, yellow, and green—than a restaurant. The scattered plastic flowers don't help much, and the stuffed animal parrots are as cheesy as it gets. But the combined aromas of hot, handmade tortillas, sizzling fajitas, and fresh salsa …

They have me at
hola
.

I can't see Brett from where I stand at the entrance, but with a crowd in one corner it isn't hard to guess where he is. I hang back until all but one girl clears out. Her mom is taking pictures of her sitting next to Brett in a semicircular booth. His arm is around the girl.

“Hannah will be a senior this year,” the mom says. Brett's grin grows even wider when the stick-skinny redhead leans closer. Her mom snaps another shot with her phone. “And she just dumped her boyfriend because he needs to grow up. Hannah is
very
mature for her age.”

I sit on the opposite side of the table, watching for signs that this lady's shameless marketing of her daughter comes off as disgusting to Brett as it does to me. But he just smiles and takes it all in; Brett is probably the president of his own fan club. “Okay, gotta do some guy talk now,” he finally says, dropping the hint like an anvil. “It was cool to meet you, Heidi.”

“Hannah,” both the mom and daughter correct him, giggling. They compare autographed napkins as they walk off.

“Dude,” I tell Brett, “you need
help
.”

“You volunteering?” His hand shoots up. “Kimmi!”

The whole place turns to see who Brett yelled at, and most keep watching as Kimmi slinks toward us. She's wearing an even shorter skirt now, with a silver sequined top and a different pair of stilettos. Strings of diamonds hang from her ears. “I told you it was casual!” Brett says when she reaches our table. “You look … sparkly! Great, I mean.”

“Save it.” Kimmi motions for Brett to move so she can sit between us in the booth. I need to remember to stand first when Emma shows up, so she'll sit next to me instead of Brett.

Did I just come up with a
plan
to get a girl to sit by me? What am I, twelve years old? I grab a plastic pitcher from the table and pour myself a tall glass of water.

“I'm sorry about today, all right,” Brett tells Kimmi. “You just … made me look stupid. In front of the entire crew.”

“You made
me
look like trash!” Kimmi snarls. “Everyone knows you only hook up with bimbos. You couldn't get another type of girl if your life depended on it.”

Brett appears genuinely offended and is dumb enough to turn to me for backup. I shrug at him. “Sorry, man. I've only known you for a day and you've already convinced me that you're all charm and no finesse. And cheap swagger gets you cheap girls.”

“Exactly,” Kimmi says, flipping her menu open. A waitress had dropped off menus and water during Brett's fan frenzy, but since then she's been huddled with three other waitresses, doing little more than glancing over their shoulders at our table. “And sorry to disappoint, but there
are
a few females left in this world who have some self-respect.”

Brett's eyes flicker between us. “You guys are seriously messed up if you think I have a problem picking up women. Or even …” He thinks for a sec. “Or even
good
girls, okay? Whenever I want to.”

Kimmi's attention turns to the waitress heading for our table with bowls of chips and salsa. “Jake,” she says, “show Brett what you mean by finesse. Get her number,
without asking
.”

“No way,” I reply. “I don't flirt on demand.”

Brett laughs. “C'mon, dude. Let's see whatcha got.”

I don't have time to answer before the waitress, different from the one who brought us menus, is at our table. “I need a Diet Coke,” Kimmi tells her. “Light on the ice. With a straw.”

“Sure.” The girl looks at Brett and gives him a starstruck smile, but then she gives
me
a double take. I feel a little smug about that. Just a little. “How are you guys doing tonight?”

“You already asked me that,” Brett says, attaching his famous laugh. “I'm still doing great—as always.”

The waitress points to her name tag. “I'm Tara. Nikki was the waitress you met earlier.”

“Oops! My bad,” Brett says. The other waitress is about six inches taller than Tara, and her hair is six inches shorter. But both are in the blond category, so I guess that can be kinda confusing for a guy who goes through girls like breath mints. “I should've taken a closer look at your name tag,” Brett adds, his attention obviously drifting lower than where Tara had pointed.

This guy needs serious intervention. Maybe I
should
show him a thing or two.

The waitress takes half a step back, her expression clearly saying,
Slow down, perv
. “Anyway … I'm a big fan,” Tara says. “We all are, so we drew straws for your table.”

“Lucky me,” Brett replies. As Kimmi and I continue to scan our menus, Brett tells Tara why he's in Tucson. He does a decent job plugging
Coyote Hills
, but doesn't mention anything about Kimmi or me. The waitress keeps glancing over at me anyway, and every time I return her look with a subtle smile. Brett ends with, “Emma Taylor is on the show too.”

Tara literally gasps. “No way! Is she coming tonight?”

“Nah,” Brett replies. “She got out of it at the last second. She had to write a lame school paper or something.”

Great. Then what am I doing here?

“I need my Diet Coke,
right now
,” Kimmi says.

“And a steak burrito,” Brett adds. “For me, not her.”

“I want a side salad, low-cal dressing, with pineapple tidbits, not chunks,” Kimmi says.

The waitress squints an eye at her. “Sorry, we don't have pineapple—tidbits
or
chunks. The salad has carrots and tomatoes.”

“Just make sure the lettuce is crisp, or forget it,” Kimmi snaps.

Tara writes it all down. When she turns to me, I give her a sympathetic sigh and say, “Hazards of the job.”

I know Kimmi won't appreciate the dig, but this demonstration for Brett was her idea, so she'll have to be a pawn in it. Tara's smile grows wider. “I can't decide what to order,” I go on. “It all looks
so
good.”

“I'll show you my favorites.” Tara leans over and takes her time about it. The way she describes every last ingredient and flavor, you'd think she was an infomercial chef.

Kimmi keeps squirming for her Diet Coke fix. Brett just crunches more ice.

“That sounds delicious,” I say, as if the waitress has left me breathless from her perfect pitch of menu item #9—Smothered Nachos. Man, this is cruel, but it's for educational purposes. “And, uh …” I glance around. “I don't want to get you into trouble or anything, but if you could sweet talk the cooks into a little extra … I'm
really
hungry.”

“You won't leave hungry, I promise,” Tara says.

She struts off, and I give Brett a nod. “Done.”

Brett spills salsa on his shirt. “Whatever. You didn't get her number.”

“He will,” Kimmi says as she watches the waitress. “So, what haven't I heard about you guys that's worth knowing?”

I really just want to get this dinner over with, so I look at Brett to prompt
him
to answer. And man, does he ever. He brags about his cars, his boats, his motorcycles, and surprisingly, his family. “My parents are my rock. They totally love me.”