Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 63716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63716 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 319(@200wpm)___ 255(@250wpm)___ 212(@300wpm)
“He doesn’t have to primp and plump,” my mom said affectionately.
I winced. The problem with my mom’s loyalty was that it always lay fiercely with me, putting Dana on the other side. Dana made another face, but this time she didn’t bother with snark. The fun was poking at her older brother. The buzzkill was having her own mother poke back.
“I’ll wait for Dana’s wedding,” I said. “We’ll celebrate together.”
“We’re not waiting forever to celebrate your big day!” my mom protested. Her eyes swung to my father, who was staring out at the invisible horizon, bored with the familiar dynamic.
“I’m getting cold,” he said, and got up without waiting for the rest of us to chime in. Yeah, me too, dad. Let’s take this inside.
Dana and I left soon after. I drove since she’d had another glass of wine after the fortieth birthday conversation. The way back was always easier, quicker. The logjam of rush hour opened up, and the lane stretched out in front of us, wide and empty in the headlights. There was a stiffness in the air between us.
“Still mom’s favorite,” Dana said finally, refusing to let it harden or fester.
I winced again. No point in denying it. “You’re dad’s favorite.”
“Dad’s favorite is himself.”
“Shit, then you’re my favorite,” I said. “They’re nuts.”
Dana turned her head and smiled wryly, her face blue washed in the faint light of the dashboard. “Bullshit, but I’ll take it.”
Thankfully, the conversation moved from family back to the family business. Dana was curious about how the project was going. It was my pet project, but she was getting more interested in it as the Olympics drew closer. “Should we go?” she wondered.
“You don’t have to twist my arm to get me to Paris,” I said. “And we can write it off as a business trip.”
“Because it will be,” she reminded me.
“Yeah, sure.” I flashed her a grin. “I’m going to interview Miller’s next production assistant myself and make sure we hire someone who can stick it out and stand up to him a little. He picks people he can steamroll, and they get tired of being flattened.”
“Good luck with that.” Dana had the same outlook on geniuses as my dad. Not worth the trouble. Miller especially wasn’t worth her trouble. The first time they met, he’d told her he didn’t like her shoes. For a man who made such gritty, raw films, he liked everything else in his life shining, fit, and fashionable. He loved me.
“I’ll find someone,” I said confidently. “They only need to last another six months or so.”
“That’s a long time to work for Miller.”
I didn’t argue with her, but I knew I could do it. I had a good sense of people, better than Dana even if she wouldn’t admit it. I’d find someone to handle Miller. I’d find a way to secure the rights to Callum O’Conner’s book.
And no one was going to get in my way.
Especially not Fletcher James.
3
WILLOW
“Hi Fletcher,” I said cautiously, coming to a stop on the sidewalk and answering the call there, even though I was only minutes from my house. Somehow, the phone only worked one way with him. If I missed his call, it turned into a game of phone tag with his secretary, and weeks passed before I actually spoke to him.
Fletcher sighed in annoyance. “Hi, kid. I thought I told you to call me Dad.”
He had done so, with all the warmth of a prison guard asking a man behind bars to turn around so he could get the cuffs off. No funny stuff. And he’d only done it after a gossip site reported that his love child called him by his first name and wasn’t that interesting. His legitimate daughter, Tiffany, still called him by the nauseating endearment Daddy.
“You did ask me that,” I agreed. “It just doesn’t sound right.”
A long, uncomfortable pause unspooled. I chewed on the inside of my cheek to keep from filling it. Fletcher had called me, after all, and it was too soon after my conversation with my mom to have been her intervention.
“I wanted to see how your job search was going,” he said finally, his voice louder in the receiver than it had been before, like he’d just remembered himself why he was calling.
I wrestled with my pride and lost. “Not good,” I said flatly.
“Yeah? Great. I have something for you.”
“I don’t want to–”
“I know,” Fletcher interrupted. “You don’t want to work for me. This isn’t for me. Not exactly anyway.”
I decided that I’d go on into my apartment building and risk dropping the call. I pulled out my keys and let myself in through the first set of doors that led to the hallway. “What do you mean it’s not exactly for you?” I asked as I walked toward the stairs at the end of the hall.