Page 85 of The Best Wrong Move

She holds up her hands and laughs like she’s embarrassed. “My hands are a little dirty. If you wouldn’t mind.”

Her hands look perfectly clean to me.

“Of course.” I grab the wine bottle off the counter. Then I fill her glass and hand it back to her very clean hand.

“So, do you cook?” The charming Selma who hugged me at the door has disappeared. I’m left with this very impatient version of Selma who is all but tapping her foot at me.

“You know, I’m more of a takeout girl myself.” I grab a long red pepper from the stack of produce that I assume she’s going to chop her way through. “But I know my way around the kitchen, thanks to my mom and dad insisting we never ate out growing up. Would you like help chopping these up?”

“Yes, please,” she says. “The knives are there, and there’s another cutting board under this shelf.” She pulls a cupboard open next to her with her big toe. “Dom!” she calls out across the room. “Dom, can you put on some music? Jazz, perhaps. Pick something with pep. And Quinton, pull open those doors over there, if you could. I’d like the firepits on to start warming the air outside, to get a cross-breeze going. We’re chopping onions next.”

Selma sets two yellow onions and a bundle of scallions in front of me, watching me get to work chopping them without a word. Every couple of chops, she leans over to grab the veggies off my cutting board, adding them to the enormous wok over the stove. She’s drained her wine glass by the time we’re done.

“More?” she asks, wiping her hands on the spare towel she’s slung over her shoulder like I saw Dom do on our first night here. Then she eyes the bottle that’s clearly within her own reach and holds out her empty glass to me.

“Oh, yes, of course,” I mumble. Then, even though her hands are wiped clean, and I’ve just finished all the chopping for her, I reach across the counter to fill her glass up.

Chapter 57

As the night wears on, it becomes clear to me why Dom has gotten a stilted look on his face every time his brother’s name comes up.

Quinton’s kind of an ass, and his wife is no better.

Once I finish chopping the vegetables, she promptly starts orchestrating how I can prepare the sauté seasoning to go with the seared ahi Dom is making on the big hibachi grill out back.

“There’s sesame oil in the pantry,” Selma instructs. “You’ll know how to make an easy Asian stir fry to go with Dom’s seared ahi, won’t you? I just need to give my feet a rest after being on that jet all of yesterday.”

“Of course.” I smile at her — although I’m not so sure what would make her exhausted after spending a few hours on their private luxury jet. Dom told me they own two private jets, and utilize the larger or smaller one depending on the length of the flight. Since the trip to Hawaii from Los Angeles is around six hours, they chose the larger of the two, which I’m sure has a full bedroom to sleep in if they want.

After giving me orders on how to mix the sauce, she leaves the kitchen to sit with Quinton on the patio, overlooking a sunset over the water. His crystal tumbler is filled halfway with nearly straight whiskey. I saw him add a splash of soda and a twist of orange peel that Dom shaved for him at the bar, but otherwise it’s been straight liquor all night.

After I’ve finished mixing the sauce for the sauté, I knit my brows and make eye contact with Dom, who smiles stiffly from his place at the hibachi. Then he comes inside to join me at the stove.

“Do they dress all your guests in aprons and hand them a spatula?” I grin — I know this can’t be easy for him either.

“What guests? I never invite women over when Quinton’s in town.” He grabs my hip and pulls me in for a kiss. I don’t like cooking, but I do like the idea of dressing up in an apron, with Dom manning the grill.

“Do they haveanyclue that I’ll be talking to Quinton about my script?” I ask him.

I study his face, searching for anything useful in his eyes.

“Bringing it up organically will give you the best clout here.” He averts his eyes and snatches a long chunk of pepper from the pan. He tosses it into his mouth while I watch him, unsure of what to say. “Quinton is . . . eccentric. High maintenance.” He glances outside to make sure they aren’t listening. “He fancies himself to be a bit of a genius — honestly because heisone. And geniuses don’t like to be handed their next work of art. No matter who’s suggesting it.”

“I already mentioned to Selma that I write film scripts.” I search his eyes for guidance. “Did I ruin the organic element of surprise?” My lips twist into a lopsided smile, trying to make light of all this. But, inside, I feel the pressure to make this work. Speeding up my path into film production means I could leave my job at UBN faster, and stay right here with Dom instead of having to go back.

“Well, that explains her sudden attitude tonight, then. She hates when people ask Quinton to work on vacation.”

“I can just enjoy tonight with them as your girlfriend and bring this up some other day.” The helium I’d been floating on before starts to drain right out of me. Maybe this wasn’t meant to be after all.

“Listen, I know my brother, and I know his wife. They both love me, but they hate when people try to get a leg up by knowing someone in the industry. If I’d told them why we’re all here tonight — honestly, they never would have agreed to it.”

I untie the apron and slip the neck strap over my head, setting it down on the counter beside Selma’s long knife.

I feel like screaming. Like I’ve already ruined this opportunity before it’s really gotten underway.

“You need to pitch him tonight,” Dom insists. “I want you to. Don’t let whatever history with Taryn detract from the opportunity you have right in front of you. Nothing worth wanting comes easy.” His deep voice is drawn lower so they can’t hear him. “Use your gut to make tonight everything it needs to be. Trust me. I don’t have the power to push this through that man’s head. My brother is as egotistical as he is brilliant.”

“So pretty egotistical then?” I cross my arms, fighting my face to remain neutral.

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