I did the Hollywood math.
Blueberry Trudeau was having a birthday. Her father was Josh Trudeau. Him in a room with Blakely was a no-go. Right.
“Dude. I’m bringing the other one. I’m not a fucking idiot.”
“If you say so.” He got up. “And the party, it’s kids. It’s not upstairs at the NV Room.”
“You’re worse than my parents. Every little thing. I’m not an animal. I know how to act, all right?”
“Good.” He dove into the pool, splashing me. Asshole. I don’t know what I did to make him think I couldn’t handle myself at a birthday party, for Chrissakes.
“Bradley!” my dad called, as if his one goal in life was to prove my point. “Ten minutes! Stop lollygagging!”
Michael laughed and got out of the pool.
CHAPTER 8
CARA
Brad’s personal assistant did what all PAs did. Everything.
When Paula opened the door to me and Blakely, she put her hand to her chest as if speaking from deep in her heart. She wore a smart linen suit and matching lavender pumps. Her skirt was a quarter inch lower than sexy and her smile was as wide as the Mississippi River.
“It is just such a relief to see you all here. I swear on a stack of peach pies she’s cute as a button and wild as a dog without a collar. Come on in.”
“I’m sure she’s very good,” Blakely offered.
“Well, bless your heart. My mother always told me I was more adult than kid, so no wonder I don’t understand them.”
She brought us to the office adjacent to the kitchen.
“We have about ninety minutes to get cozy,” she said, indicating chairs with folders in front. “I know we’re going to be the best of friends.”
Through the back patio doors, Brad hung out by the pool with a man whose face I couldn’t see.
“Bradley’s parents are leaving today out of SMO. They are so dear. We got them to go charter for the flight, but they wouldn’t agree to the expense of a helicopter.” She made an absolutely adorable wrinkle-nosed smile. “Bless their hearts.”
The man by the pool with Brad got up so I could see him. Michael Greydon. There was too much star power in this house already. Michael jumped into the water.
“Bradley!” called a deep-throated male voice from another part of the house, “ten minutes! Stop lollygagging!”
Paula folded her hands in front of her, ignoring the scene outside.
“A touch of history,” Paula said, putting her thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. “The gentleman of the house and I were a thing in high school, but now it’s strictly business.” She handed us both folders. “And there’s quite a bit of business. He’s got a big old staff. On page one you can see all our names and cell numbers listed, including yours. Welcome to the team!”
The list was two pages long and included security, event planners, more security, caterers, housekeeping, and now—me and Blakely.
“That little bombshell sure threw him, but our goal as his helpers is to make sure he doesn’t have to take even a minute off work. We’re aiming for . . .” Her thumb and forefinger pressed together and she drew them straight across the space in front of her. “. . . seamless.”
They all wanted seamless. Every celebrity and power hitter I’d worked for had scheduled their life twenty-four months in advance and if a child came six months into that, then seamlessness had to be achieved. Actors didn’t get to cancel projects once preproduction started. One cancellation would be the last, no matter who they were.
“We can deliver very close to seamless,” I said.
“I’ve seen your résumé,” she replied. “I know you can. And between me and you . . .” Hand to her chest, she leaned in to Blakely. “Joshua Trudeau is a rake of the worst sort. I know you’ve learned your lesson, and luckily, while Mr. Sinclair might be busy with the ladies, he’s nothing like that awful man.”
I stiffened. Blakely was sensitive about Josh, and I didn’t know what she’d come back with.
“I was young and stupid,” she said, making jazz hands. “Now, check it out, I’m old and bitter.”
Paula made a wrinkle-nosed smile again. I doubted she’d ever get Blakely’s humor.
“Can I ask you a question, Miss?” Paula said.
“Of course.” Blakely tried to sound upbeat, but I feared a personal question about Josh was coming. Judging from the way she tapped her pen on her knuckle, she was waiting for just such a question.
Paula whispered as if she wanted to know a dirty secret. “Is that really your name?”
“My real name is Blair. But I hate it. It tastes like lemons.”
“Bathroom lady!” a little voice shrieked. Before I knew it, I was nearly impaled with a rhinestone-encrusted magic wand as Princess Nicole climbed onto my lap. Her hair was bunched in knots on one side of her head.
“Good morning, bombshell!” Paula said with a thick coat of sugar.
Nicole twisted to face me. “What’s a bombshell?” She patted both my cheeks with each syllable.
“A fun surprise. Who brushed your hair?”
She whipped her head around to Blakely, pointing her finger as if she’d had something to say for a long time and now was just going to spit it out.
“Do not wet the toilet paper. It falls apart.”
Blakely saluted her. “Never again. I promise.”
Paula cleared her throat. “Nicole?” Her voice was impatient, tolerant, teeth-grindingly annoyed, and an eggshell-step away from timid all at the same time. “We’re working.”
“Uh-huh.” She twisted in my lap until she faced the table and folded her hands in front of her. “I can work too. Then I can go to the airport after.”
Brad appeared at the patio screen door with his sunglasses flipped to the top of his head. They messed his hair up just enough to make him look casually flawless. The dream at the pool table and the feel of his fingers between my legs came flooding back.
“Hey, ladies. Welcome to Chez Sinclair.”
All three of us said hello. All but Nicole.
“Hush, Daddy, we’re working.”
“Can I brush her hair before you go?” I asked.
“It’s fine. She looks like Amy Winehouse. Come on, princess,” he said, opening the door and stepping inside. “Time to take Gram and Gramp to the airport.”
“Then ice cream?”
“Sure, kid. Sure.” She clambered off my lap, blew us a kiss, and took her father’s hand. Paula didn’t say a word until they were out of earshot.
“Let’s go through our folders, shall we?”
I opened the folder again and put the staff list aside. Right side. W9s. Passcodes to the back house, the back gate, the side door. Parking instructions. A boilerplate contract. A Non-Disclosure Agreement. All standard.
Left side. A few pages that included a daily schedule and Brad Sinclair’s schedule for the following month.
“I thought he was between pictures?” I said. “Ten hours a day blocked out for ‘script?’ It’s—”