I smacked his arm as he cracked up. He lowered his laughing mouth and kissed me, cutting off any snarky remark I was readying myself to offer.
He pulled back, just far enough to admit, “I figured after your public heartbreak, the least I could do was publicly unbreak it. Mission accomplished?”
The exasperating man in my arms was looking at me optimistically, those playful blue eyes waiting on my reaction. Just because he had very visibly announced his engagement to the underwear model didn’t mean my heartbreak was public. No. That was a very private destruction which ate away at me from the inside.
But I appreciated what he was trying to do. His heart was in the right place.
It’s not like anyone from CNN would bother making a fuss over what he’d done anyway. And thank goodness, because I was starting to learn how the Hollywood grapevine worked. If that interview had been with some corny entertainment show, my name would have been leaked to every gossip magazine in the country as soon as the cameras stopped rolling. And that would have been a shame, because Trip’s foundation deserved to be the focus of that interview, not the woman he was sleeping with. It was a pretty risky stunt he’d pulled, but if I was able to figure out he could get away with it, he must have been dead certain. It didn’t need to be a public outing. It was enough that he and I knew what he’d done.
“Mission accomplished,” I confirmed, pulling his smiling face down for a kiss.
Chapter 17
CINDERELLA MAN
The next day, Trip had a “read-through” for Slap Shot, and he asked if I’d like to go with him. We took the Batmobile to the studio, and I can’t say that I wasn’t excited about it. Not only was I going to get a real insider taste of Hollywood, but I’d be seeing where Trip worked.
He stopped briefly at the gatehouse and gave a salute to the security guard, who did nothing more than salute back and say, “Good afternoon, Mr. Wiley,” before raising the gate. Trip was well-known everywhere, but the familiarity vibe was definitely different on his home turf. He hadn’t even turned into him yet. I guessed there was no need to amp up the Wiley just for the gatekeeper.
We drove past a few low office buildings, which Trip explained were for “the moneybags,” and down a narrower street lined with trailers, for “the peons.” He maneuvered around a million identical white structures that looked like airplane hangars, and I wondered how he knew just where to go. My eyes kept darting around between the buildings, hoping to see some action. I mean, this was a Hollywood studio lot! I’d never seen one in person and only had my impression of them from the movies. So, where were all the lions on leashes? The clowns walking around on stilts? The feathered showgirls and the zombies and the cowboys?
The only humans I saw walking around were a few harried-looking, but fairly normal people.
What a gyp.
We parked in the lot near a building with a big, black B 124 painted on the side, and Trip let me out of the car. He held my hand and led me through the doors. It was bitter cold!
“Why is it so cold in here?”
Actually, it was only my top half that was freezing. Even though I was wearing a pair of shorts, the nerve endings in my legs had been deadened after four winters in my St. Norman’s skirt. To this day, as long as my torso is bundled, I could brave the arctic tundra in a pair of bikini bottoms and be perfectly comfortable. True story.
He smiled and answered my question. “You’ll see.”
We walked through another set of doors—where it got even colder—and I saw the massive hockey rink that took over the space. “Oh my gosh! Is this the Slap Shot set?”
His smile turned into the full-force grin, proudly announcing, “Yep. All the interiors are going to be shot right here. Welcome to the home arena of the Charlestown Chiefs.”
“Wow! Cool! So, you’ll get to shoot it right here? No going on location?”
“Maybe just a few quick trips for the exteriors.”
I snuggled against his side, trying to get warm. “Quick trips. Okay, I can handle that.”
He rubbed his hand along my arm to warm me up. “It’s not like you won’t be coming with me, babe.”
I caught the look in his eyes and was suddenly very warmed by his words. He said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. It should have been.
He led us out of the freezer and across the lobby again, through another set of doors and down a hallway. The temperature was more bearable back there, and by the time we made it to a door marked “PROD,” it was comfortable. It was a large, fairly non-descript room that reminded me of a gymnasium. There was a long table set up in the middle with about a dozen people sitting around it on folding chairs, getting ready to do the read-through.
An older, balding man spotted us first. “Ah! There he is now. Nice of you to join us, Mr. Wiley.”