“Mr. Towers, we understand that it can be scary for authors to admit what the problem is, but we’ve seen it all, really. We’re happy to help, in whatever way you need.”
She’d given some version of this speech—either via email or on the phone—to various authors of Marta’s, the ones who’d seemed stalled, or had fallen behind, or had sent her those emails where she could feel the panic between the lines. Marta never said anything like this to her authors—it was far too encouraging for her—but Izzy had started giving pep talks like this after she’d overheard other editors and their assistants on the phone with authors. It always seemed to help; this speech usually made people feel better, reassured. But Beau somehow looked angrier than when he’d walked into the kitchen. He let out a bark of laughter.
“You? You’ve seen it all? What are you, like twenty-two?”
Izzy forced herself not to roll her eyes. She had good genes, okay?
“I’m twenty-five.” Not that it was any of his business. Plus, she happened to know he was exactly one year older than her. “But when I say ‘we,’ I’m not talking about just me; I’m talking about the collective knowledge of the team at TAOAT.” He was still staring at her, with that superior, disbelieving look on his face, and she’d suddenly had it with him. Instead of being nice, she said exactly what was on her mind. “You may have realized that a memoir is too much for you to handle. That’s okay, we understand that! Not everyone is cut out for this! We can easily connect you with a ghostwriter to do the heavy lifting. You won’t have to worry about a thing.”
Okay, yes, fine, that was kind of bitchy, but he’d asked for it. She might smile at him, the same smile she wore at work, but she refused to pretend it was okay for him to talk to her like she was dirt under his feet.
He looked at her with fury in his eyes. She just smiled wider.
“I don’t need a ghostwriter,” he almost spat at her. “You people think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
Izzy made her voice as peppy as it could be. “Oh, of course not!” she said. “It’s no judgment on you! We know how…busy your schedule is. It’s just an offer—we want to explore all avenues here.”
Beau bared his teeth at her, in what he possibly meant as a smile. “Fine. You want to help me in any way you can?” he asked, in a clear imitation of her voice. “You want to give me pep talks? How’s this: I want you to give me a pep talk every day. How does that sound?”
Did this guy think he was going to trip her up somehow? After all of Marta’s unreasonable requests?
“Whatever I can do to help, Mr. Towers. Would you like me to email you, or call you at a specific time, or…?”
He laughed again. “No, you don’t get it. You can stay here and give me your cheerful little pep talks in person.” He threw out his arm and gestured toward the hallway. “We have plenty of room, as I’m sure you saw.”
She knew this jerk was expecting her to back down, but she’d call his bluff. “I’d be happy to do that, Mr. Towers. My luggage is right out in my car.”
He glared at her again. “Give me your car keys, I’ll go get your luggage now,” he said.
Wait, but…Okay, he couldn’t actually mean this.
She couldn’t be the one to chicken out, though. She dug in her tote bag and handed him the keys to the rental car. He didn’t thank her.
“Michaela, it looks like I’ll have a guest for dinner.” He turned back to her. “Meet me at the stairs, I’ll take you to your room. And stop calling me Mr. Towers. It’s just Beau.”
And then he turned around and stalked out of the kitchen as Izzy stared after him.
How had she gotten herself into this?
Beau couldn’t have been serious, could he?
“Any dietary restrictions?” Michaela smiled at her. “Food allergies I should know about? For dinner tonight, and for your stay here, I mean.”
Izzy stared at her. Michaela didn’t really think she was going to stay—for dinner or anything else—did she? But Michaela was looking at her expectantly. So after a few seconds, Izzy shook her head.
“Um, no. No food allergies.”
She should be at the beach by now, reading a book and eating tacos! Why did Michaela have to fall down? Why had Izzy bothered to help her all the way into the house? Why had she lingered to provide her with ice, and ibuprofen, and sympathy? Why hadn’t she fled this house as soon as possible?
“Okay, but is there anything you hate?” Michaela asked. “Mushrooms, eggplant, blue cheese? Are you a vegetarian? I do most of the cooking around here, so I want to make sure it’s stuff you like.”
She was supposed to be on a flight tonight out of LAX! An airport two hours away from here! Why was she talking about her food preferences with Beau Towers’s assistant???
“Oh, um, I like all those things fine. And no, not a vegetarian. Mostly I just hate anything that jiggles.”
Michaela gave her a strange look. “Anything that jiggles? What do you mean?”
People always thought this was weird about her.
“You know, custards, pudding, Jell-O—anything that if you poke it, it jiggles. It’s a texture thing, I can’t stand it.”
Michaela laughed for a while. Izzy didn’t think it was quite that funny. She also didn’t know why she was talking about jiggly food when she’d just handed the keys to her rental car to Beau Towers so he could bring in her suitcase. What was going on?
“That won’t be a problem, don’t worry. And if you think of anything else, just let me know, okay?”
Izzy wanted to ask why someone as nice and competent as Michaela would work for someone like Beau, but she knew she couldn’t ask that. But oh God, Beau must be furious at Michaela for letting her in the house.
“I’m sorry, Michaela. I put you in a bad situation there—letting me in after he’d told you not to.”
Michaela waved that away. “Oh, it’s fine. Beau’s bark is a lot worse than his bite.”
Izzy wasn’t so sure about that. Her doubt must have showed on her face because Michaela laughed.
“No, really, don’t worry. Beau and I have known each other for a long time.” She nodded toward the door. “Speaking of, he’s probably waiting to bring you to your room.”
“Oh. Right.” Izzy picked up her tote bag. “Okay. I’ll go…meet him, then.”
Michaela smiled at her. “Glad to have you here.”
That made one person, at least.
Izzy walked out of the kitchen and down the long tile hallway. She couldn’t believe she’d let Beau Towers get to her, and that she’d snapped back at him. She never did things like that—she got mad, sure, but she kept her anger buried, vented to Priya or another one of her friends later. But she’d antagonized Beau Towers on purpose. And the weird part was, she’d sort of enjoyed it. And now he was about to show her to a guest room in his house?
Marta would flip out as soon as Izzy told her about this, which she would have to do as soon as she got to the room. Pro: At least she had something more to tell Marta about Beau Towers. Con: absolutely everything else.
Izzy stopped in the entryway to wait and looked up at the enormous, curving staircase. It looked like something from a fancy magazine, with wide stairs and big gleaming banisters and a chandelier at the top. This wasn’t a staircase a person would simply walk down, it was a staircase you would descend. Preferably, in a long, trailing gown.
A few seconds later, Beau opened the front door with a bang and shattered the moment. See, this was why people told her that she read too many books—all she had to do was see one staircase, and she’d inserted herself into a fairy tale.
“Follow me,” he growled at her as he started up the staircase. She couldn’t help but notice that he picked up her overstuffed suitcase like it was as light as a feather.
They walked up the staircase, then went down a long hallway. Izzy wondered what was behind all the doors they walked by. Did he really live alone in this huge place? Granted, what she’d seen of Santa Barbara was gorgeous, but she still wondered what he was doing here.
“Here.” Beau threw open the door at the end of the hallway and set her suitcase down. “See you at dinner. It’s at six. Don’t be late.”
And with that, he stalked away.
Izzy waited until he was all the way down the hall and then pulled her suitcase into the room and closed the door.
And then she leaned back against the door, closed her eyes, and finally laughed out loud. What else could she do? What was even her life right now? Was she in the midst of torpedoing her publishing career? Strangely, she didn’t even care—Marta was never going to promote her anyway, she already knew that. At least she’d get a good story out of this: “Did I ever tell you about the time I broke into Beau Towers’s house?”