Page 4 of The Christmas Fix
“Smart ass,” Cat said, unscrewing her face. “Thank you for your obsessive attention to detail. Now, I need you to stop talking my ear off so I can get to my lunch before this hurricane opens up on us and wrecks my hair.”
“By the time you get there it will be high tea, and we’re only supposed to see about three inches of rain. Further north is going to take the brunt.” Henry was a fount of knowledge. “I hope you remembered your umbrella.”
“Bye, Henry,” Cat sang. She disconnected from her snarky assistant and stowed her phone in her bag. She pursed her lips, ran a hand down her artful over-the-shoulder braid, and smoothed her features into an impassive mask.
A handful of photographers milled about—huddling deeper into their jackets and staring at their phones—in front of the very bohemian, very popular Courtyard Restaurant and Lounge. They were always here, capturing the occasional celebrity on their way to a posh lunch or for pricey cocktails on the sunken patio. It would be the former for Cat today as the outer edge of Hurricane Veronica lumbered its way up the coast.
“Cat! Cat!”
Cat’s lips curved in the slightest hint of a smile. It wasn’t that long ago that they had no idea who she was. Sure, they’d snapped a few pictures on her way in because she dressed nicely enough to be “someone.” But now they knew her name. It was a reminder of how far she’d come in the last few years. It was this side of five years ago that she and her brother had been desperate to save the family business, and now strangers with cameras clamored for her picture.
“Who are you meeting, Cat?”
“Where’d you get the boots, gorgeous?”
“Smile pretty for me, baby.”
“Sorry, gentlemen,” she said with an apologetic grin. “Running late!”
Their comments followed her inside as the hostess stood stalwart guardian between the restaurant’s diners and those outside wanting a piece of them.
“Catalina, lovely to have you with us again,” the hostess offered the perfunctory celebrity greeting.
“Thank you. I’ve been dreaming about your kale salad all day.” It was a lie. Cat had been fantasizing about Courtyard’s very thick, very juicy bacon cheeseburger. But there was a price to pay to look the way she looked on camera. The days of eating whatever she wanted and drinking as much as she could were tapering off. Thirty-two meant making more good choices than bad, a sacrifice that she was constantly reminding herself was worth it in the long run.
Her heels clicked on the tile floor as the hostess led her back into the restaurant and heads turned in her direction. She was used to it by now… mostly. Dark bamboo lined the walls and kitschy chandeliers threw off dim pools of light. High backed tufted leather booths offered diners a modicum of privacy. Or, for those who preferred to be seen, there was a selection of high-top tables clustered around the sleek bar.
The hostess led her to a booth under a folksy painting of a rooster.
“Catalina King, you always know how to make an entrance,” her agent Marta sighed. She rose and gave Cat a kiss on each cheek.
“You should talk,” Cat teased, taking in Marta’s curve-hugging white dress and glossy black hair. The former Mexican soap star turned producer’s ex-wife had carved out a very profitable niche as a fierce agent to Broadway stars and TV talent. Her cavernous three-bedroom Upper West Side apartment and Bentley were proof of a never-quit work ethic.
They slid into the booth, and Cat ordered a flat water.
“First thing first,” Marta said, her accent lightly tinging her words. “How’s it working out with Henry?”
Cat leaned back against the booth. “He’s perfect, and you’re a diabolical genius for suggesting I steal him from that bitchsicle.” Meeghan Traxx was an asshole of epic proportions. The woman was a fellow Reno and Realty star but had the personality of a cactus and the soul of a dementor. The woman had trolled Cat’s brother and his wife every chance she got. And Cat took great pleasure in stealing the woman’s abused assistant from her.
“You were a year late on the assistant front,” Marta pointed out. “You keep trying to do it all yourself, and you’ll end up combusting.”
“I should have listened to you a long time ago,” Cat admitted. She was a control freak. But she liked it that way. No one was going to be as invested in her career, in her brand, in her plans as she was—no matter how much she paid them. Though, now that she had Henry handling more mundane matters, she’d really begun to make progress on her pet project.
The server returned with Cat’s drink, and they placed their orders. Cat sighed internally when she ordered the kale salad.
“So, what do you have for me?” Cat asked. Marta and Cat both shared an appreciation for business first, another reason they got on so well.
“Yet another magazine cover offer,” Marta said, booting up her tablet and taking out her stylish reading glasses.
“Topless?”
“Of course.”
“Pass,” Cat said, sipping her water.
“They promised it would be—and I quote—‘most tasteful’,” Marta added.
“These girls are worth more than a magazine cover,” Cat said, pointing at her chest with both index fingers.
