I silently count to three, try and fail to sink into the floor, and then give him my hand with a big sigh. Oh, why not? We even smile at each other. “Together,” I quip, “We shall ride into battle, slaying glorious talk show hosts to achieve mythical ratings.”
“My version was less King Arthur and more Wyatt Earp, but yeah. That sounds good,” Flint says. We both laugh. God, it feels so good to be this close to him, even inside of a broom closet. His eyes meet mine, unafraid. He puts his hand on my arm, pulling me a little closer…
His phone buzzes. He pulls away, takes his cell out, and looks. He smiles, his expression wide and warm.
“Who is it?” I ask, trying hard not to pry.
“Jessa sent me a text. She’s dress shopping for the premiere.”
“Oh.” I try not to sound relieved. Raj walks past us, barely even looking up from his beloved iPad. See? Even my nearly-psychic, gossip-mongering assistant producer knows that Flint and I and our great love affair are utterly, completely over.
“Hate to intrude on your little closet escapade, but we gotta move,” he says over his shoulder, signaling for us to follow. Flint moves back and lets me step out. What I wouldn’t have given just to be able to invite him inside and shut the door.
When we slide into the backseat of the car, I start to reconsider my attitude toward the silence about Charlotte thing. Hell, maybe I’ve been wrong; it’s been known to happen. After all, he never specifically said they were a couple again. Flint’s been so friendly recently. Would he be like that if he had a fiancée? Maybe there’s hope. The thought sparks a fire of excitement inside me. Maybe we can talk it over. Communication and honesty are the best policy. Maybe we can—
Flint’s phone buzzes again. It’s on the seat between us. He reaches for it, but I catch a glimpse of the text before he picks it up.
It’s from Jessa. ‘Having a blessed day. Isn’t she gorgeous?’ And there’s a picture of a beautiful woman in an elegant gown, smiling and all dolled up for a premiere.
It’s Charlotte.
Flint picks up the phone and texts her back. I lean against the seat and stare out the window, blinking back the sting in my eyes. It’s allergies. Lots of pollen today.
I decide not to talk for the rest of the ride. Clearly, there’s nothing to say.
29
Constant promotion is exhausting no matter who you are. But when you’re working alongside the most irresistible man in reality television, it’s more infuriating than you could possibly imagine. This is why you need brunch. In Los Angeles, brunch is practically a championship sport. We are the reigning kingdom of the brunch. Brunch is the miracle cure, and especially brunch with one of your closet and most fashionable friends. And no, it isn’t Suze this time.
“It was a three month wait to get this place,” Thomas tells me, whipping his linen napkin in the air before making an elaborate show of putting it in his lap. He snatches his sunglasses off and leans back into the sunlight.
“Worth every minute,” I say, taking a sip of fresh papaya juice. It’s a dream come true. Instead of being stressed in my apartment, we’re here on the patio of Refresh, the hottest new brunch place in town. It’s kind of a drive out to Los Feliz, but the restaurant is a cute little reconstructed French chateau-style bungalow, and the outdoor garden with the palm trees and hibiscus flowers is simply heavenly. The waiters are all dressed in white button up shirts and black pants—fancy casual. We had to pick between the bottomless mimosas and bellinis, always a chore. The air smells like orange blossoms and honeysuckle. Each table has its own little bonsai tree as decoration. And I’m pretty sure I spot Keanu Reeves and Tom Hanks chatting over poached eggs. Life is good.
“How do I pay you back for all your generosity?” I say, laughing as I take a sip of my French pressed coffee. The crab cake in hollandaise arrives. I try not to dig in with too much relish.
“Find me the man of my dreams,” Thomas says, flashing white teeth with a killer smile before sipping his mimosa. “I’m practically a monk these days.”
“A monk with exquisite taste in caviar,” I say, grinning. “And what do you mean you need to be set up? With all your time styling Leonardo DiCaprio, I’d expect you to have found some movie star bodyguard to sweep you off your feet.” Thomas sighs, tucking a napkin into his collar to preserve his crisp white shirt.
“Closet cases, darling. All of them. I don’t have it in me to work that hard.” We chuckle and enjoy the fabulous food. These raspberry jam crepes are nearly melting in my mouth. I need to remember to make more time for Thomas in the future. We’ve both got ridiculous schedules, but these kinds of relaxation days are necessary. Especially since this is my one day off this week. No having to stare at Flint, no having to deal with interviews and talk shows. I need to come to the east side more often. Say what you want about the bustle of Los Angeles, but there are still places in this city to find peace and quiet.