“Well, by Auntie Laurel she means blah blaaahh,” David says, doing a stellar impression of his children’s shrieks. Callie giggles and kisses his cheek. Man, they really have made up. I just hope the making up doesn’t escalate, or I’m going to have to leave.
“Great party,” Ed French says, also popping up alongside us. He’s wearing a three-piece suit with—I think—a crimson cummerbund. He frowns at me. “It’s over budget, of course. I’ll have to talk to accounting in the morning.”
“Work later. Party tonight,” I tell him. Then, of all people, Jessa pops up alongside him. The contrast between them is huge; Ed’s tightly wound formal wear clashes with Jessa’s one hundred percent hemp, off the shoulder sundress trimmed with turquoise beads. Jessa pokes at the V crease in his forehead.
“You must learn to find your spiritual center,” she says.
He laughs at that. It’s such a startling sound, like a very excitable seal. “I’ve never heard anything like that before.”
Jessa grins. “I feel a great force that lives inside of you.” She waves her hands in front of his face, around his shoulders. “Your mental energy is astonishing. The strongest I’ve ever felt.”
“Well, I did graduate summa cum laude from Loyola Marymount,” he says, perking up considerably. “Economics, with a minor in art history. Do you like the Pre-Raphaelites?”
“You would be a good student,” she muses, taking his arm. “I can help you locate your spirit’s essence.”
“Oh. Is it like a class?” Ed looks interested.
“Yes. A private class.” Jessa smiles slowly and leads him away from us. Ed looks a little bemused. I can’t tell if he knows Jessa is flirting with him, but I’m not going to clue him in. I’ve spent enough time trafficking in the love lives of McKays.
“Er, pardon us. We’re going to keep an eye on my baby sister,” Callie says, tugging David after her. I sip my champagne, watching everyone as they walk around, chatting about the show, about how much money it’s going to make. I should be enjoying this. But I can’t find it in me.
“I think Davis is looking for you,” Suze says, appearing magically by my ear. She’s wearing a kickass black Chanel dress, and a sour expression. “Heads up, I think Kinley and Flint are in the meeting as well.” She nods at the other side of the room, where a gruff, black-tie Davis is having a close conversation with Tyler.
And there’s Flint, looking scruffily elegant in a perfect fitting suit. He hasn’t gone penguin tuxedo like everyone else; whoever his stylist is did an immaculate job. His whole outfit is cool gray, with a casual looking necktie. He looks like he stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine for the alpha working man, actually. When our eyes meet, he quickly looks away. Good. I don’t want to see him, either.
Just get through this party, Laurel. It’s almost done.
I walk over to them, threading my way through the crowd. Nicholas Cage knocks into me once, then apologizes by slipping me a fifty. Glamorous Hollywood parties do have their perks.
“Good, I want to make this quick,” Davis says when I arrive. He won’t even look at me. Clearly, he’s disappointed. That makes two of us. “Kinley, you’ll be running point as producer for season two of Rustic Renovations.” The exec actually looks like it pains him to say this. Which is good, because I almost vomit everywhere when Tyler says,
“Need someone who could actually handle the job?” There’s a smarmy, sharklike gleam in his eye. “I’m your man.”
“I don’t think it’s that Young couldn’t handle the job,” Davis says. He glares at me one second, disappointment and dislike of Tyler radiating off of him. Flint, meanwhile, has gone completely silent.
“I don’t understand. What are you talking about?” Flint looks at Davis, at Tyler. Basically at anyone but me.
“Young’s taking a powder,” Tyler says, fixing me with a grin. Now that he has the big, coveted position, all the fear he had of me outside the editing room is gone. “What was the problem? Couldn’t hack living rough in the wilderness?”
“The Berkshires isn’t the wilderness,” Flint snaps at Tyler, though his gaze finally fixes on me. “I don’t get the change.”
“I’m not producing next season,” I say, ignoring Tyler’s douchiness with a shrug. I fix Flint with my own gaze, not backing down. “Best decision for everyone involved.”
“I don’t know about that,” Davis says gruffly. He’s still glaring at Tyler, who is still determined to make an ass of himself.
“Young just can’t commit herself fully,” he sneers, snatching a drink off a passing server’s tray. “That’s the problem with women in the workplace. Their ovaries, like, produce chemicals that don’t allow them to have a man’s laser focus.” He beams. “I saw an article on Reddit about it.”