Eleven
THE NEXT TWO days flew by quickly with the trial and before Taylor knew it, she was standing in front of her closet on Friday evening. The night was not off to a good start—court had gone on longer than expected, so she was running late for dinner. And now she had the most pressing concern to deal with: what to wear.
Her suits were stylish enough—for suits. But this was Mr. Chow’s in Beverly Hills, and her first official dinner out in Los Angeles. She didn’t want to look like some jackass from out of town.
On the other hand, she also didn’t want to look like she thought she was on a date. And most important, she didn’t wantJason to think she looked like she thought she was on a date.
Taylor finally settled on jeans, heels, and a white button-down shirt. But even that had its issues: two buttons open, or three? Two or three? She went back and forth in the bathroom mirror at least ten times.
Twenty minutes later, Taylor pulled in front of the restaurant and handed over the keys to the PT Cruiser. The valet gave her the same appalled look that Jason had two nights ago.
Taylor smiled charmingly at him. “You’re going to leave this baby out front, right?”
As the valet stammered some horrified response, Taylor stepped inside the restaurant, where she was greeted by a hostess with an aloof smile.
“Yes, can I help you, miss?”
“I’m meeting someone here,” Taylor said. She paused, suddenly stuck in one of her “realizations.” The whole thing was just so ridiculous. “I’m . . . um . . . meeting a Mr. Andrews here,” she continued, attempting a casual tone. Then she wondered if he used a fake name when making reservations. She’d once heard that Brad Pitt checked into hotels under the pseudonym “Bryce Pilaf.” Cute.
But from the look on the hostess’s face, no secret password or code name was required. The woman straightened up immediately, and her entire demeanor changed.
“Of course,” the hostess said in an awed voice. “You must be Ms. Donovan. It would be my pleasure to show you to your table.” She led Taylor through the restaurant, to a private staircase in back. Upstairs, there were only a few tables. Jason sat at one of them, waiting.
“Sorry I’m late,” Taylor told him when she got to the table.
“Court ran longer than I had expected.”
“It’s fine,” Jason said with an easy smile. “I’m just glad you could make it.”
Taylor watched as his eyes skimmed over her shirt with an appreciative look.
Dammit. She knew she shouldn’t have gone with the three buttons.
TAYLOR SCRUTINIZED THE script that was open on the table in front of her. Now immersed in the project (albeitvery reluctantly) she took the job as seriously as any other.
“Then we just need to take out this line here, where you yell at opposing counsel in court . . .” She gave Jason a look, letting him know this was a big lawyer no-no.
The waiter refilled their wineglasses as she continued her lecture. “Remember—you have triangle conversations in court. You speak to the judge, they speak to the judge, but you never speak to each other.”
She turned back to the script and finished reviewing the scene they were working on. After a moment, she pushed the script away, satisfied. “Yep—I think that scene is finished.”
“Do you think it’s good?” Jason asked.
Taylor considered her answer, sensing he wanted more than a meaningless stamp of approval. “I think some of the legal aspects still need to be refined, but it has a good story that should connect with the audience.”
Jason grinned. “You just sounded so Hollywood.”
Taylor smiled guiltily. “I did, didn’t I? See—one evening with you and I’m already corrupted.” She gestured casually to her half-empty glass. “Or maybe the wine’s affecting me.”
“So you approve of my selection?”
“I doubt there’s anyone who wouldn’t,” Taylor quipped. She was hardly about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’d somehow managed to pick the one label she’d been wanting to try since getting her first issue ofWine Spectator .
“But your approval is harder to earn and therefore worth more than the others,” Jason returned.
Taylor couldn’t help but smile at that. “Yes, I approve,” she said. “At seven hundred dollars a bottle, I’d better.” She was about to say something else, but decided to bite her tongue.
“Go ahead.” Jason laughed. “I can tell there’s more.”
Taylor grinned. He thought he knew her so well. “I was just thinking that you really do lead a charmed life.”
“Ahhh . . . good, we get it out in the open. My fame and fortune.” Jason leaned in toward her. “Look—I’ll save you the bullshit speech about how I don’t like it, about the lack of privacy, all that. But thereare some trade-offs.” He shrugged. “I guess I’ve just accepted those things as part of the package.”
“Trade-offs beyond the lack of privacy?”
Jason waved this off. “That doesn’t bother me as much as it used to.”
“Then what?”
He thought about this. When he finally answered, Taylor thought she heard something in his voice. Something . . . genuine.
“People think they know you because the magazines portray you a certain way, or because you’ve played a particular part in a movie. And most of the people who supposedly are close to you don’t care about who you really are anyway, because to them you’re just a product, a commodity to sell. So it’s not real. None of it’s real.”
He glanced over at Taylor cautiously, as if expecting her to laugh. She didn’t.
“Jeremy seems real,” she said in a gentler voice than usual.
This made Jason smile. “Jeremy and I have been friends a long time. He is as real as they get. Also cocky, condescending, and sarcastic—”
“How do you two ever get along?”
Jason grinned at her sarcasm. He eased back, swirling his wineglass. “You can throw all the little barbs you want, Taylor Donovan. It doesn’t bother me one bit. Because secretly, I think you like spending time with me.” He winked at her. “It’s okay, you can admit it—I already know.”
Taylor rolled her eyes disdainfully. “You’re way too confident.”
“Do you know that the average American woman between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five has seen each of my movies six times?”
Taylor scoffed at this. “Who told you that bullshit statistic?”
“Okay then, how many times have you thrown down ten dollars to see me on the big screen?”
“Not six.”
“How many times?”
She shrugged nonchalantly, trying to think of a way to lawyer herself out of the question.
Jason’s eyes widened at her gesture. “Oh, I’m sorry, Ms. Donovan, but your answers need to be audible for the court reporter.”
Taylor glared at him. “Do you have a point somewhere in this?”
“The point is,” Jason said, “that you say I’m too confident. ButI say the odds are heavily in my favor that you’re attracted to me.”
There it was, all the cards laid out on the table.
“But you said it yourself,” Taylor told him, “that’s just the part you play. Your image. But what about the women who see behind the curtain to the real you? Are they just as infatuated?”
Something about her question seemed to strike a nerve, and Jason fell oddly silent. Realizing she was onto something, Taylor’s eyes probed his from across the low glow of the table’s candlelight.
“Maybe they never have a chance to see behind the curtain,” she said. “Maybe you’re always gone too quickly for that.”
Jason’s eyes met hers, and for a moment neither of them said anything. Without all the ridiculous bravado, Taylor thought, he actually seemed kind of human.
Then he tossed his napkin onto the table.
“That’s it—you’re paying for dinner tonight,” he declared.
Jason gestured to the waiter hovering attentively off to the side. “Bring us another bottle of the Screaming Eagle.” He lowered his voice to a whisper and pointed at Taylor. “The lady’s paying.”
“Of course, sir,” the waiter replied. With a flash, he was off to the restaurant’s private cellar.
Satisfied, Jason turned back to Taylor, his arms folded across his chest. “Seven hundred dollars per bottle, counselor. Let’s see how sassy you are when you’re back in the kitchen, washing dishes.” He paused, giving her a second look. “Not that your feminist ass knows what to do in there.”
At this, Taylor couldn’t help but smile. There was something about that sarcastic sense of humor of his. Sometimes, she liked it very much.
LATER THAT EVENING, Jason turned to Taylor as they were leaving the restaurant, eager to hear her verdict.
“So? What did you think of your first official Los Angeles dining experience?”
She grinned in acknowledgment. “This by far takes the award for the best place I’ve gone on a business dinner.”
Jason stopped abruptly.
“Wait—are youbilling your time for this dinner?
Taylor stopped, too, seemingly surprised that he was surprised by this. “Well, yes. At least the part we spent talking about the script.”
Her answer bothered Jason. Quite a bit, actually.
Taylor shifted uncomfortably. “I’m sorry—is there a problem with that?”
What could he say in response? Jason tried to keep his words from sounding terse. “No, of course not—this was a work dinner for you. I’m sorry I kept you so long.”
He held the door open for Taylor, hoping to get them out of the restaurant and off this topic as quickly as possible.
She looked at him, confused. “Jason, I hope you didn’t—”
She suddenly was cut off by the blinding flash of a hundred cameras. She jumped in surprise, as Jason turned and saw an enormous mob of paparazzi gathered on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. At the sight of him, the photographers screamed his name and clamored to get closer.
Instinctively, Jason pushed Taylor back into the restaurant and slammed the door behind them. He took a peek through the window at the circus that had gathered outside. To him, it was a pretty typical sight.
Taylor, on the other hand, appeared to be seriously freaking out. While she paced, she stayed as far from the windows as possible, as if they were dealing with sniper rifles outside instead of cameras.
“This is . . . not good,” she said worriedly. “Really, really not good.” She turned to Jason with a hopeful look. “We were only outside for a second. Maybe they didn’t get a picture of us?”
Glancing out at the multitude of perfectly aimed cameras held by men with hair-trigger reflexes, Jason shook his head.
“At this point, I think the best you can hope for is that they didn’t get one like this . . . ” He made a shocked, oh-my-god-who-the-f*ck-are-all-these-people face, trying to make her laugh.
It didn’t work.
Taylor sank miserably into a nearby chair. “I am so going to get kicked off my case.” She despondently rested her chin in her hands. “I’m under a court order,” she explained. “I can’t be seen in the media.”
As he walked over to her, Jason couldn’t help but notice again how much she wantednot to be seen with him. “I’m sure the judge wasn’t referring to this type of publicity.”
Taylor shook her head. “No, he was very clear on the issue—no press attention. Period.” She looked down at the ground.
Seeing her upset, Jason felt that strange feeling tugging at him again. He knelt before her and started to reach out to take her hands in his. But then, something instinctively stopped him from touching her. He rested his arms on his knees instead.
“I can fix this,” he said gently.
Taylor peered up at him hopefully. “Really?”
“But I want something in return.”
Her green eyes narrowed. She folded her arms over her chest. “What might that be?”
Jason’s gaze was unwavering.
“One night.”
Taylor’s eyes widened.
Jason smiled and spoke quickly, before she slapped him. “I meant one evening that’s not work-related. You let me take you somewhere fun.”
She shook her head definitively. “No.”
Jason stood up reluctantly. “Okay—have it your way.” He pointed to the front of the restaurant. “There’s the door. Don’t let the paparazzi hit you on the ass on your way out.”
Taylor peeked at the mob outside. Apparently finding this option unappealing, she turned back to Jason.
“If I agree to this, there would have to be certain parameters.”
Jason shook his head. “This isn’t a negotiation, Ms. Donovan. You have my offer—take it or leave it.”
Taylor glanced outside one last time, then sighed dramatically. Jason bit back a smile. All women should have such problems.
“Does anyone ever say ‘no’ to you?” she asked him resignedly.
“No. But if it makes you feel any better, you try alot harder than anyone else. So we have a deal?”
“Fine. Whatever. Just fix this.”
With that, Jason whipped out his cell phone. He hit the speed dial, slipping into crisis mode.
“Marty!” he exclaimed affectionately into the phone. Never mind that it was almost midnight on a Friday. “Listen—I need you to do something for me. I’m at Mr. Chow’s with a bunch of paparazzi outside. They just got some photographs that I would appreciate they not publish. I don’t care about me, but tell these guys that if anyone prints the name of the woman I’m with, or a picture of her face, they won’t get one word from me ever again.”
Jason waved off all his publicist’s protests. “It’s your job to make sure they understand,” he said firmly. “Tell the editors, the publishers, whoever you need to talk to, that this comes directly from me.”
He paused at Marty’s next question.
“Do I at least have a comment on the mystery woman?” Jason’s eyes darted over to Taylor as he summed her up succinctly.
“Yes. Difficult. ”