Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
“Do you require any other assistance tonight, Steve? Is your dream date with Cynthia Lear, aka Cordelia Sarantopoulos, all arranged? Or can I offer up some pointers?”
Oh, my God. The Aria AI is spying on me. “Mmmmm… nope. Nope. I’m good. Thank you for your time, Gregory. I’m just gonna be going now.”
I close the app, side-eye the phone, then press the icon again, holding my finger down until the SparkleNight DreamWeaver’s WishMaker app menu appears. My fingertip is poised, ready to delete, but… the option is grayed out.
Suddenly, a notification appears. It’s Gregory’s face on a banner. The text reads:
Congratulations, Steve Smith, aka New York Times-bestselling novelist SS! You’ve earned the SparkleNight DreamWeaver’s DreamDate WishMaker Bonus Level! Low on ideas? Need to top a rainbow-colored rose-petal bathtub date? Let me, Gregory, fine-tune the details for you! Just press my face right now!
I turn the phone off.
Holy shit. The AI has been spying on me! And it knows I’m SS!
What… what do I do with this? Call the manager and complain? File a formal complaint with whoever regulates this shit?
I should have read the terms of service for that app. But I’ve had it on my phone for five years now and…
I stop. I don’t have time for this. And anyway—I let out a long breath—he was right about the tie.
I arrive at the party room a few minutes after eight. It’s not in the lounge. This is a big, big deal. Four banquet rooms have been opened up into one massive ballroom because this party is for fans and authors alike.
I stop to gaze up for a moment.
We have recreated the Coconut Grove nightclub.
Hanging from the ceiling, outside the entrance to the party, is a fifty-foot-long, floor-to-ceiling banner with a full-color image of the Ambassador Hotel back in its glory days. In front of the banner is a line of gas lamps and vintage cars that have been turned into photo booths.
The windows are all tinted black and the best part is that on the inside, they are digital screens and play a B-roll loop—front, back, and rear—of the drive up and down Mulholland Drive. It will even let you park at the scenic overlooks and everything outside looks the same way it did a hundred years ago, so you can pretend you’re riding along with your friends, toasting champagne glasses filled with bubbly from the back seat, and never get pulled over.
The cars don’t run. They’re just a party accessory. But you can fit like ten people in those suckers. I predict they will be a huge hit.
I walk through the porte-cochère made of silver and white balloons and enter… the past.
Palm trees everywhere.
Massive bandstand complete with bandleader.
A dance floor that could rival any modern club.
A hundred tables—faithful replicas of the originals including the iconic white tablecloths and red chairs.
And two bars along the long sides of the room.
There are several dozen people here already and I spy Essie and Mike in front of the bandstand talking to the bandleader. I am heading in that direction when I hear, “Taaaaank!” and find a woman waving her fingers at me when I pass her.
“Hi, Tank!” another woman says, then bats her eyes at me as she wraps her glossy red lips around a straw and sucks up alcohol.
“Tank! Tank! Tank! I’ve been looking for you! Will you narrate my book?”
Suddenly there is a crowd of women around me, all calling me Tank. I sigh. But then… then I see her!
My lovely Cordelia. Standing in the entrance of the floating porte-cochère, looking like Cinderella ready to cut a rug. She’s backlit by the faux streetlights of yesteryear Los Angeles.
“Excuse me, ladies.” I don’t even look at them—I only have eyes for Cordelia. The people around me part like the Red Sea as I make my way towards my love.
And wow. I walk up to her, smiling. “We match!”
Cordy smiles, looking me up and down. “Do we?”
“Look!” I pull out my shirt cuff. “My shirt is lavender and your dress—my God, Cordelia. That dress is…” I have not done an eyebrow waggle in two days. So I do that now and whisper, “Delightful,” as I nod my head in approval.
Cordy looks down at herself, picks up her lavender taffeta skirt with her fingertips, and gazes up at me. “It is delightful, isn’t it?” Then she shrugs her shoulders up and grins.
“Howard Hughes bought me that dress when we dated,” someone says.
I blink. Then look over at an older—old?—woman, who is oddly sexy for such an advanced age. She winks at me. “Now that guy was a freak in every sense of the word.” A pointy elbow hits my ribs. “If you get my meaning.” She raises a finger bedazzled with rings. “Ah! There’s the bar. You kids have fun.” And with a swish of her flapper dress, and perched precariously high on heels that have me worrying about the strength of her ankles, she walks away.