Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
“Canon,” Evan coughs into his hand, and then grins across the table at his partner.
“It was great meeting you, too,” I tell Arietta. “Your rooftop is amazing. I hope I can come back when I get out here.”
“For sure!” Arietta’s eyes light up. “We’ll hang once you get settled. When do you start shooting?”
“Fall,” Canon says, a frown knitting his brows. “September or October. If it works out with Trey, we need to confirm his schedule.”
That’s still a few months away, and I’m in limbo, suspended between the simple grind I’m living now in New York as an understudy, singing in small clubs, and the great demands of starring in one of the most epic biopics to come along in years.
“I’ll walk out with you, Ari,” Evan says, standing. “I need to ask you something.”
He reaches down to hug me and I squeeze back.
“It was great meeting you, Neevah,” he says. “And I can’t wait to get started. You’ll be a fantastic Dessi.”
He’s movie-star handsome, and from what I can tell, the definition of rich and privileged, but he also seems grounded by his relationships, the friendships represented at this table. He and Canon definitely have a lot in common, but also seem to provide counter perspectives. I can see how their personalities would blend well in a partnership.
“We’ll talk tomorrow about Trey,” Canon says, knocking back the last of his drink.
Evan nods, says his final goodbyes, and leaves with Arietta.
“And I actually have a recording session starting in an hour,” Monk says. “So Imma pull, too.”
I glance at the time on my phone. Nearly ten o’clock. The night is just beginning for studio rats. Recording is such a nocturnal scene.
“Great seeing you again, Neevah,” Monk says. I stand to hug him and give him an extra squeeze.
“Thank you again for everything,” I tell him, feeling unreasonably emotional as I realize none of this would have been possible had we not met, had he not seen my potential.
“You got the goods.” He kisses my cheek. “Can’t wait for you to get out here to Cali.”
My stomach knots when it’s clear Canon and I will be the only ones left once Monk bounces. When I look down at him, still seated, it feels like we are borrowing each other’s thoughts—simultaneously realizing that we will be alone if we stay. A muscle tics along his jaw and he reaches for the well-tailored jacket on the back of his chair.
“I’ll walk out with you,” he tells Monk, standing, towering over me. I tip my head back to catch his eyes as they drop no lower than my face. “Neevah, you’re staying here, right? At The V?”
“Uh, yeah.” I grab my wristlet from the table. “I’m headed to my room now. I have an early flight back to New York.”
As the three of us cross the rooftop and walk to the bank of elevators, I’m cognizant of the heads turning, the attention they draw. I’m flanked by two famous, tall, powerfully built, fine-ass men cloaked in melanin, but only one of them inspires acrobatic insides, makes my belly turn flips with nothing more than a glance.
Monk’s phone rings, and he answers, but continues walking with us.
“I guess you should get used to the attention,” Canon murmurs as we exit the restaurant and enter the rooftop lobby.
“What?” I look up, my chest tightening when our stares collide. “What attention?”
“When we walked through the restaurant, all eyes were on you.”
I release a startled peal of laughter. “I thought they were all looking at you, not me.”
“I wonder how long you’ll be able to keep that,” he says, his voice a low rumble. “That humility. Once everyone starts telling you how beautiful you are, how amazing you are, it’s hard to hold onto.”
“Is it hard for you?” I ask softly.
That could be taken in some really pervy ways, but I’m glad that when he looks at me, his eyes sober, he seems to consider the question exactly as I meant it.
“Sometimes you start believing your own press, yeah.” He slides his hands into the pockets of his impeccably fitted slacks. “And forget what matters most.”
“What matters most?” I ask.
Dear elevator, if you could just not come until he answers this one question, that’d be great.
“The story matters most. Always the story.” He looks back to the rooftop, still packed with patrons, now bathed in star glow. “And if you’re lucky, you find people along the way who keep your feet on the ground—who remind you that real life matters, too.”
I know he’s referring to his tight inner circle, people like the coterie we just spent the evening with, and some audacious voice inside wonders if I could one day be one of them . . . to him. Someone who reminds a force like this that he’s also just a man.