Remember When (Remember Trilogy #1) (34 page)

   It had been one week since I found out Trip was in New York, five days since I finagled a press pass to attend the junket and twenty-four hours since Lisa dropped off the Armani suit she’d lent me from her designer wardrobe.

   Multiply that by the nine
years it had been since I’d last seen Trip, and it all added up to the thirty-seven times I felt like throwing up that morning.

   I checked my reflection in the mirror, again, adjusted the thin silver belt at my waist and smoothed away some non-existent wrinkles from my slacks. The suit was sleek, black and nicer than anything hanging in my own closet, and I was grateful to have it. I’d left the blazer open, revealing a white silk shell underneath, trying for a casual look even though I was feeling anything but. I cursed my frazzled nerves and tried to get myself under control.

   It was strange enough to think about being in the same room with my old high school sweetheart, but it was positively surreal to have to reconcile that eighteen-year-old boy with the uberhot movie star that he’d become.

   There isn’t a girl alive that doesn’t want to feel like she’s left some sort of imprint on every single one of her exes, and I was no different in that regard. But how many girls have to deal with their ex becoming a famous movie star who has since been with no less than half a million other women, most of whom were beautiful Hollywood movie stars themselves? How would I even rank in such a grouping?

   I grabbed my satchel, 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 expansive 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 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 which 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 my editor, 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 theirs 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 editor, 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 des
k and told me to head on up to 4116 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 Devin would finally see that I could actually write more than just boring old advertising copy. 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 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 just the right splashes of blue to make it interesting.

  
I settled myself into the
beautiful, well-appointed living room and grabbed my bag. I dug out my cell 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 a hold 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 out of 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 caugh
t in my teeth or get busted wolfing down 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-one-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 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 that 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.