Page 34 of Fan Favorite

2. She’s Not into Fashion

Edie’s official cast photo says it all. Decked out in a red sweatshirt and messy ponytail, clearly Edie’s joined theKeycast for love andnotto showcase her sartorial point of view.

3. She’s Never Been Married

But don’t call Edie a spinster—she just hasn’t found the right guy!On average, women in the US get married at 27.9 years, so at 35 years old, this Bridget Jones isn’t too far behind.

4. She Has an Unfair Advantage

Not just high school sweethearts, these two lovebirds have known each other since kindergarten! Bennett tellsUs, “Seeing Edie again was like a warm hug from home. I’ve been traveling for so long—it’s been years since I’ve had that feeling. Like I’m right where I’m supposed to be.”

5. She’s Looking for Her Soulmate

According to her cast bio, Edie “loves to laugh” and is looking for someone she can “trust.” Will that be Bennett? Sources tellUsBennett’s “falling in love” with “multiple women.” Fingers crossed Edie doesn’t get her heart broken for good!

12

The first thing Peter Kennedy saw when his alarm went off at four thirty a.m. was a lightly snoring Siobhan. She was lying on her stomach, her dark hair fanned over her smooth brown shoulder, his white Frette sheet draped across her waist. She was very beautiful, Siobhan. A model. Last night he’d texted her when he left production around eleven. He’d walked into his ocean-view condo in Malibu a little before twelve, taken a shower in his white marble bathroom, wandered around his perfect midcentury living room, with the crisp leather couches and minimalist art that the interior designer had picked out and installed, eaten a banana in his pristine chef’s kitchen, and then dug up his old Chicago album and put it on the turntable. He stood at the window, watching the waves, brooding over the sad state of music today—you really weren’t going to get full brass out of Post Malone—occasionally lip syncing along with the big moments—Just say you’ll love me for the rest of your life/I got a lot of love and I don’t want to let gooooo—before settling again, watching the waves, until onefifteen, when Siobhan had finally arrived, tipsy from an industry party, and they’d had disappointing sex until two.

He didn’t know what was wrong with him. He just felt… unsettled. Out of sorts. Like there was something jumpy inside of him that kept surging against his chest. Siobhan had been drunk and performative. She’d had her hands wound through her dark hair, tossing her head around and moaning as she rode him, stretching out her torso so her small breasts were flattened against her chest and he could count her ribs. He’d held her hip bones in his hands as she bounced, and the unsettled feeling had surged. It was so strange, like he wanted, just for a second, to jump out the window, let the waves carry him away. And then he was so grossed out by his own bullshit that he knew he was never going to come, so he flipped her over, wrapped his hands around her shoulders, and pushed deep inside her the way she liked, pulsing against her g-spot until she came hard against him.

Almost immediately she said, “You—”

“I’m good,” he said, rolling away.

Now Peter stared at the soft hair covering the hollow place between her neck and shoulder and had an impulse to press his face into it and burrow into her. Lately he could feel that Siobhan was on the verge ofwanting more. She’d gotten very riled up last week about a random sore throat he’d had, imploring him to go to the doctor and then DoorDashing him chicken soup that he found in his lobby long after it’d arrived because, obviously, he’d gone to work. Peter had thought about cutting it off then, but he despised the idea that maybe he was just some remote, cold person. He reached his hand out to touch her now, but as much as he willed himself to do it, his hand just hovered over her back, so eventually he got up and put on his running clothes instead.

As his feet beat the pavement down to the beach, he thought about Julie, even though he was beyond tired of thinking about Julie, and hated thinking that everything came back to Julie,that his own seemingly permanent disillusionment and hard-heartedness were caused by and all about Julie. He’d met Julie when he was still a struggling writer, and she was just starting her career as an agent. He’d pursued her hard, like an infatuated idiot, which he supposed he was. He was just taken by her. She was spunky and savvy and ballsy and knew exactly what she wanted and spoke her mind and seemed to know her place in the world in a way he didn’t.

When she’d finally accepted him into her bed, the gratitude he’d felt was, frankly, ridiculous. But that was the dynamic between them. Julie was to be adored; Peter was to be grateful. And as Julie quickly rose through the ranks as an agent, the more industry parties they had to attend. She’d get mean-drunk off vodka tonics, and in the car on the way home, talk shit about everyone, particularly him. She’d complain about something he’d said to someone she didn’t think he should’ve said it to, or, conversely, berate him for not talking to some bigshot producer with the authority to hire him onto a new prestige drama. He began to regard her determination as unpleasant and supercilious, and when she’d sense his unease, she’d make sure to remind him that he was lucky to even be there.

Why did they get married?

Why did anyone get married? They were thirty. It was time.

Obviously, it had been Julie’s decision to get divorced.

The real turning point had been when Julie signed an emerging starlet who, under Julie’s tutelage, became very, very famous very, very quickly. Suddenly the parties Julie attended included the likes of Brad Pitt, and Peter supposed that’s when Julie began to regard him as a starter husband. There he was, a reality TV showrunner, the absolute lowest of the low on the Hollywood echelon.

He supposed they were both disappointed in how he’d turned out.

So, she’d left him. They’d been married long enough that it was either have a baby or get divorced, so they got divorced. Her lawyer emailed Peter an exit package with such a sizable payout that it was the first time he truly understood Julie’s regard for him as some sort of talentless hack. He also felt really fucking stupid for not being more aware of just how much money Julie was making, and would continue to make, and wondered why he’d been the one to make the down payment on the Palisades house if Julie was sitting on cash like this. Butof courseshe was—her starlet was signing multimillion-dollar deals every day. He just hadn’t been paying attention because he’d been traveling around the world manufacturing love stories, goddammit.

Peter thought about not accepting the package. About preserving some of his dignity and just walking away with what he’d come in with. And then, alternatively, demanding an audit of their marital assets, because what the fuck else did he not know? Julie would never have offered this kind of money unless there was more to be had. (Now he understood why her business manager had done their taxes for years.) Ultimately, at the urging of his sister, Elizabeth (the only person Peter ever discussed anything remotely close to feelings with), he signed the papers, bought the condo in Malibu, had the interior designer furnish it, and went to Fiji for a week, where, in an uncharacteristically expressive move, he threw his wedding ring off a cliff and watched it plop into the ocean. Then, in a more Peteresque fashion, he agonized for the rest of the week over the possibility of a sea turtle or some rare fish choking to death on it.

When he returned to LA, he never saw Julie again, aside for her name printed relentlessly in the trades. And then the tabloids once she started dating the newest iteration of Batman.

Already, at five, the sun was hot. Peter took off his shirt and tucked it into the waistband of his shorts. His feet dug through the sand at a steady pace as the waves continued to roll in. Hewas thirty-nine years old and tanned and trim and had all his hair and could fuck models if he wanted, but what did he know about love? Only that it was bullshit and hurt like hell and, paradoxically, probably the only thing that really mattered. Unfortunately, in the way of most divorced people, Peter still believed in love very deeply—he just found it impossible to accept in any form other than the romantic ideal he held in his mind. What he wanted—a partnership like Barack and Michelle’s—was likely impossible. He was difficult, both exceedingly average and annoyingly exceptional. He was too old—he should’ve picked someone smart and kind back in college, before the big bad world got hold of them, because,god, the women in LA. Who could muster the energy to create something real when everything was an illusion?

And now Peter circled back to his essential problem, the root of his unsettling: how to make Bennett Charles fall in love with Edie Pepper.

That kiss last night—that kiss was definitely a start.

During his years atThe Key, Peter had stood watch over thousands of make-outs. Watching two good-looking people dry hump for the cameras had become as mundane as an episode ofWheel of Fortune. But watching Edie Pepper and Bennett Charles’s kiss was something else entirely. What he thought would be a light peck had turned out to be much, much more. Bennett urging her to open her mouth to his, which she did, eagerly. The way Bennett slowed down the pace of the kiss, as if to savor it. The way she dug her nails into the nape of his neck as he bit her bottom lip, and the way she smiled against him when he released it. The way he threaded his hands into her hair and the tiny pauses where they’d open their eyes at the same time and glance at each other and smile before starting all over again.

At first Peter was so astounded he didn’t really understand what he was seeing.

And then it hit him—chemistry. Edie Pepper and Bennett Charles had chemistry.

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