Page 70 of The Princess and the Paparazzi
“Sure,” I nod.
“This is Tinkerbell?” She waves her hand at my outfit.
“Well, yeah, but I think I have something better to wear.”
“I was going to say I like it. I like you with blonde hair, too. Still getting used to it, but I like it.”
“It’s my natural color.”
“Lucky you. I always wanted to be a blonde or a gingie. My husband was a gingie, but none of my children got his red hair, nor did any of my other grandkids.” Naomi reaches out to touch one of my curls, smoothing it back. “It’s really a shame that you and Rafe aren’t a couple. Maybe then, we’d have red hair in the family again.”
Before I can say anything, she turns in her chair, reaching for the throw blanket that’s draped over the back. “This weather is crazy. I swear, it’s freezing cold one minute and boiling hot the next.”
“Maybe that’s just your hot flashes, Ima,” Rafe comments as he drops down into the empty chair beside me. “Now, tell me what you two were discussing while I was inside.”
lorelei
The morning rushisn’t even over yet when a real estate agent named Ashley shows up with a potential buyer for the diner business. I hate her on sight.
For one, she’s plastic from head to toe. Bleached blonde hair. Fake tan. Veneers. Acrylics. Boobs. Lip injections. Botox. The whole megillah, as the momager used to say. Ashley speaks in a nasal voice, adds extra syllables at the end of her words, and says “like” a LOT. “Like, oh my gawd-uh, this place is like, adorbs.”
Seriously, sister? You’re in your mid thirties and probably from Ohio. Stop talking like a teenager from the Valley.
The worst part is, I have to tune out most of what she is saying. I’m so terrified that her irritating tones will crawl into my mimic-prone mouth, and I’ll have to wash them out with an hour of listening to BBC radio.
Her client isn’t much better. He’s a typical bro-hole, and every other word out of his mouth is stupid jargon.
“I think this is such a great spot for our concept. We can put the big-screen TVs up there and get those iPad things on every table so my dudes can order whatever they want, whenever they want it. The theme is bros and hos. We’ll get the girls who bring the food to wear those French maid outfits.”
“Cah-yute!” a half-checked-out Ashley enthuses, while checking herself out on her phone’s front camera. “Hey, Kenna, is it? Has Rafe Barzilay been in here?” She leans in and whispers to me, “I hear he’s here in town.”
I ignore her question and turn back to the bro-hole.
“Why not dress them up like handmaids fromThe Handmaid’s Tale?” I ask.
“Thanks for the suggestion, Kenna.” He nods, in a patronizing fashion, as if he’s doing me a favor by taking the suggestion seriously. He can’t actually be taking it seriously, can he? “You know anything about applying for a liquor license?”
“Are you kidding me?” I reply.
“Right. Never mind. You’re just a barista. Not your wheelhouse,” he says dismissively.
Incredible. And here I thought that this brand of brain damage was confined to the LA area.
“Everything okay here?” Carlos catches me glaring at the idiot.
“We’re fine,” I say, trying to recall the bro-hole’s name. I don’t think we’ve been introduced yet, but I heard Ashley say it.Dakota? Bowie? Brody?I go with Brody. “Brody here was just discussing new ideas for theme eateries.”
“What are you doing here, Cody?” Carlos asks, shooting me a protective look.
Uh-oh. Cody. This name I recall. Kenna’s ex is Cody! The really, really shitty one who dumped her after making her life miserable for over five years. He doesn’t disappoint. He’s just as lousy as I thought he’d be. Slightly better looking. But that glamour wears thin the minute he opens his mouth. The douche fart won’t shut up.
“My grandma kicked the can and left me some cash. I’m looking at some investment opportunities with my buddy Bryce Holm.”
“Investment? Where? You don’t think we’d want you here, do you?” Carlos asks. He’s standing a little like a cowboy in a spaghetti western. Shoulders squared, hand on his arthritic hip, ready to defend me—or rather Kenna—from this asshole. He shifts his weight, and I notice that his orthopedic shoes are quite scuffed. Nevertheless, if he pulled out a six-shooter right now, I would not be surprised. Not in the least. He’s frowning, hard. I don’t think I’ve ever seen deeper lines on a man’s face without the use of latex prosthetics.
I just want to hug him. I’ve decided I’m adopting Carlos when this is all over. He’s going to be my honorary grandpa. The grandpa I never had. Maybe he’ll even let me call him pops.
“Cody was just leaving,” I say, walking demonstratively to the door and holding it open. “And why don’t you take a break now, Carlos. The afternoon shift workers just arrived, and I think things are settling down. You’ve been here since opening at five.”
