Remember When 2 (9 page)

   I took a cab up to the
TRU Times Square
and made my way into the lobby. I’d been by the hotel numerous times, but never had any reason to go inside. One look at the place, and I was sorry I never bothered to check it out before. The décor was modern—not usually my style, but incredible nonetheless—white floors, white furniture, white everything except the walls, which were painted in a deep, dark navy. The lighting was done in tones of blue and green and purple, splashed across every surface and sofa in the sprawling room.

   My Steve Madden heels clacked against the white marble floor as I headed toward the front desk, trying very hard not to seem impressed by the expanse of my surroundings. My brain flashed back to my high school graduation night, standing inside the Wilmingtons’ foyer for the first time, overwhelmed by the size and beauty of the massive home.

   The Wilmingtons’
hotel
was infinitely more imposing.

   I resisted the urge to pivot my head around the space, take it all in like some wide-eyed tourist who didn’t know how to play it cool. I
lived
in the city for godsakes. I didn’t need to look like a sightseer in my own backyard.

   I approached the front desk where a model-thin concierge stopped tapping away at her computer to look up apathetically at me. She had a severely cut black bob that dusted her impossibly high cheekbones, and large, almond-shaped green eyes that made her look almost feline.

   She gave the briefest intimation of a smile before offering stoically, “Welcome to
TRU
. How may I help you.”

   New Yorkers always get a bad rap for being rude. The thing is, they’re not normally mean; they just don’t have time for anyone’s bullshit. This is something I inherently knew my whole life, but had just recently learned to project myself.

   I flashed my press pass, laminated and hanging from my neck by a long, black, nylon lanyard. “Layla Warren,
Now!
Magazine. I’m here to meet Mr. Kelly.” It was the code name I’d been given to be granted access to The Great Trip Wiley, up-and-coming movie star, already in need of a pseudonym in order to protect his privacy.

   The concierge suddenly took a genuine interest in me. Her eyes fully met mine and she gave me a quick once over before asking, “Mr.
Johnny
Kelly?”

   I got the impression that she had not only just sized me up, but found me lacking. Either that, or she was immediately able to see right through me with my every hair in its perfect place, standing there in my borrowed suit and trying to disguise my sweaty palms.

   I did a mental eyeroll.
Yeah, okay, sweetheart. You caught me. Yes, I’m freaking out about my meeting with Trip Wiley. No, I’m not looking to compete with you for his hand in marriage. Clearly, you’ve got it all over me and I don’t need to be viewed as a threat, as Trip is only one “chance encounter” away from falling madly in love with YOU.

   But I just raised my eyebrows and gave her a, “Yep.”

   She was all business back at her keyboard, tapping away as she asked, “Junket or one-on-one?”

   Now, I should mention here that Devin was very clear on the fact that I was only scheduled to do the junket. If you’re unfamiliar with what a junket is, let me enlighten you.

   A press junket is basically a lion’s den of desperation. Normally, anywhere from five to twenty writers are crammed around a table in some stuffy room eating complimentary doughnuts and drinking weak coffee for a gazillion hours. Finally, at some point, they are granted an audience with the celebrity in question for all of thirty minutes. In that short amount of time, questions are rapid-fired at said celebrity, each writer trying to get as many of his or hers answered before an assistant comes in and excuses the haggard interviewee to their next appointment. Then the writer has to piece together the melee in order to come up with a cohesive story, all the while making their article look as though they’ve scored the exclusive of the century.

   It was all rather uninspiring.

   Seeing as I had absolutely zero experience with the competitive nature of a press junket, I wasn’t much looking forward to fighting it out with the other seasoned writers in the room.

   So, even though I knew there was a good chance I’d be found out by Trip’s people anyhow and there was a
definite
chance I’d be reamed out by my editors, I took the shot.

   “One-on-one,” I managed to say.

   I placed my company card on the desk, refusing to worry about the consequences of the unauthorized charge. If I managed to pull off the interview, Devin would gladly go to bat for me on the expense report.

   Concierge Cat tapped away on her computer while I waited to be called out for my deception. But eventually, she simply slid a room key across the desk and told me to head on up to 4816 via the elevators located just off the main lobby.

   I played aloof as I signed the receipt and grabbed the keycard, casually strolled over to the alcove, and made my way into a private elevator.

   The second the doors closed, however, I started dancing; punching the air and cabbage-patching like a white girl. I hoped I wasn’t being monitored.

   But I had done it! I was going to turn my little sideline story assignment into a feature article! I was on my way to an exclusive, one-on-one sit-down with the fastest rising star in Hollywood. Chances were good that I’d be able to parlay the interview into a cover piece with photos and a full-length story. Maybe this would be a big turning point for my career.

   I was so busy daydreaming about my impending promotion to CEO of Howell House Publishing that I’d forgotten to flip out about the fact that I was going to find myself back in the same room as Trip in just a short while. He was probably only a few doors down from my suite at that very minute, getting ready to head into the conference room at the end of the hall.

   I slid my keycard into the lock box, opened the door, and was greeted with the sight of an exquisite space.

   The entrance opened into a large living room area, decorated in pale, neutral tones with dark wood furniture. There was a kitchenette and snack bar to my right, with cabinets done in the same dark wood, but the counters were cobalt, offering just the right splash of color. There was a table and chairs to my left and a sitting area directly ahead, set up in front of a large window. The curtains were pulled back, allowing a flood of natural light into the room, and I couldn’t resist its pull, drawing me to check out the view of Broadway far below.

   I wandered into the adjoining bedroom and walked through the huge, marble bath. The décor was the same soothing neutral, with a few added accents of blue to make it interesting.

   I settled myself into the beautiful, well-appointed living room and grabbed my bag. I dug out my cellular phone and put in a quick call to Trip’s publicist, letting her know my room number, and crossing my fingers while I heard her rustle through a sheaf of paper. I exhaled when she gave me the first appointment time following the junket for the half-hour between 12:30 and 1:00, only one short hour from then.

   I set up my recently acquired digital tape recorder on the coffee table and took a seat in one of the blue plush chairs next to it. I reminded myself not to fidget as I became aware of my growling stomach. I didn’t think I had enough time to order room service, and besides, I was already pushing the limits of my company card by being in a room in the first place. I thought that I sure could have gone for one of those complimentary doughnuts right about then. I rifled through my purse and managed to come up with a flattened and crumbled granola bar, which I scarfed down without any semblance of grace.

   I had to check my teeth in the bathroom mirror, so I used the opportunity to pee and then readjusted my entire outfit and fixed my hair. Again.

   I sat back down in the chair and checked the time.

   Damn. Still had half an hour to wait.

   I reviewed my notecards, found a decent music station on the TV, rigged the door to stay open a crack, peed
again
and went through my outfit adjustment/hair touchup for only the millionth time that morning. Then I started to wonder what was in the minibar. I took a quick peek in the fridge, but decided against indulging in a drink, even though my nerves were pretty well shot.

   I still had some time to kill, wondering if movie stars actually held true to their schedules, when the room phone rang loudly, startling me enough that I actually jumped.

   It was Trip’s publicist on the other end, letting me know that they were on their way over to my suite.

   I hung up the phone and ignored the lurching in my stomach, trying to acquire my long lost sense of cool.
Get ahold of yourself, Warren.

   I took a deep, steadying breath and tried to remain calm. But my zen ritual was interrupted by a knock on the door, before it was whisked open by a pretty and efficient-looking Sandy Carron, holding a clipboard and wearing a bluetooth headset.

   “Hellooo!” she called out as she scurried into the room. She came right over to me with an outstretched hand leading her way. I always found it strange when two women shook hands. It seemed like a necessary act in a roomful of men, but when it was just two ladies, a kiss on the cheek almost seemed more appropriate.

   I got up from my chair to greet her as she stated, “Ms. Warren from
Now!
Magazine. Pleasure to meet you. I’m Sandy Carron.”

   I shook her hand and couldn’t help but peek over her shoulder for Trip. Sandy definitely caught my wandering eyes, but was nice enough not to call me out for it. I guessed she was used to the many females coming and going through Trip’s life who made complete cakes out of themselves on a regular basis.

   “Mr. Wiley is just finishing up the junket. He’ll be in momentarily. Can I get you anything? Would you care for some coffee or a cold drink? Something to eat, perhaps?”

   Oh, right. Like after waiting a whole hour, I was going to risk getting food caught in my teeth or get busted inhaling a bacon cheeseburger at the zero hour with Trip Wiley on his way into the room.

   “No, thank you.”

   She gave a quick glance over her shoulder. “Well, I’m going to have some bottled water sent over, just in case Mr. Wiley decides he wants some, if that’s all right.” When I didn’t protest, she spoke into her headset. “Hunter, could you bring some water to forty-eight-sixteen? Great, thanks.”

   Sandy started to go over the protocol for the interview when a call interrupted her instructions. A hand went to her headset and she said, “Okay, wonderful. I’ll be right there.” She turned her attentions back to me and said, “Mr. Wiley is ready for you now. I’m just going to pop down the hall and escort him here.”

   Just then, Hunter (Trip’s assistant’s assistant, apparently) came in with an ice bucket filled with four bottles of some kind of water I’d never seen before, and Sandy offered on her way out the door, “Please feel free to help yourself. I’ll be back in just a moment.”

   Sandy the Whirling Dervish was gone, taking Hunter the Assistant’s Assistant with her and leaving me alone in my room once again. I decided to bust open one of the bottles of
VOSS
water, which was ice cold and would undoubtedly have me racing for the bathroom all over again. But I was grateful to have something new in the room to occupy myself during my wait.

   I didn’t have to wait long.

   Within minutes, I could hear voices coming down the hall and my stomach did an anxious somersault. Before I knew it, Sandy was back at my door, holding it open for her charge...

   ...and there was Trip, once again, walking back into my life.

Chapter 9

SKIPPED PARTS

   There was a tangible shift in the air of the room; a gripping, electrical aura that stimulated the space surrounding his presence like a gravitational pull. I’d noticed this phenomenon when watching his movies, seeing the man that had emerged from the boy I once knew, but actually being in the same room with him was an entirely different animal. Trip Wilmington had been a gorgeous teenaged boy, no question. But Trip
Wiley
was a gorgeous young
man
exuding raw, unabashed sex at every turn.

   It was only slightly impossible to remember how to breathe.

   I registered the jeans and black T-shirt he was wearing, along with the backwards jeffcap ineffectively attempting to contain his overgrown hair, which kicked out around his ears and behind his neck regardless. He was scratching the stubble at his chin and was five steps inside the room before he finally looked up, saw me... and froze.

   He literally did a double take, shaking his head in a futile attempt to rid himself of the sight of his old friend standing before him. I guessed he remembered me after all.

   I bit my lip to keep from grinning, and broke the silence with, “Hey Chester. How’s it hangin’?”

   His mouth went slack, but the corners of his lips were turned up into a smile. His eyes went wide as he said incredulously, “Layla. Effing. Warren.”