Page 58 of Unexpected Company
“Your ex may have been a cheating douchebag, but he connected me with some great people in the industry. And believe it or not,old man –” she grins far too widely for someone who calls themselves my best friend–“There is overlap between the people who make his career and the ones who make yours.You’re both big deals.”
I scoff. “I’m really not. Not like him. Look at his follower count. I have a quarter of that.”
Mary scowls. “One day, I will make you see how big of a success you are, Garrett Reed. Now stop being boring and go get your superstar.”
“You can be really mean, sometimes. You know that, right?” I say, fondly. I have a lot to thank Mary for since that first draft that she had bucket loads of faith in, to the television deal she couldn’t wait to shove in my face when I walked in.
“You love me and wouldn’t have me any other way.”
True.
By the time I get home, I’ve convinced myself that showing up at a party to surprise Roman, when I don’t even know if hewantsto see me, is a terrible idea. But then my phone pings with a message and I open it, my body alive with a mix of excitement and apprehension.
Mary:If I know you – which I do – you’re doubting yourself right now. Thought you might want to see this.
She’s attached a screenshot taken from a book review site, where someone has given my unreleased book a one star rating, followed by a review that reads. “Here’s a question for DI Jack Sniper. What’s the best cup of tea to drink when you’re missing someone so badly it hurts? Tried my usuals. Nothing worked.” The review ends with three emojis – a winking face, a broken heart and a Christmas tree.
Chapter twenty-three
Roman
If Christmas is my favourite day of the year, New Year’s Eve is the one I dread the most. The years I get Liam to leave me alone on the night are okay. But ones like today, where I have to go out, be surrounded by people who claim they love me, but don’t even know me and then smile until my cheeks ache, they suck.
I look down at the outfit I picked out. Tight black jeans, paired with a white tank top that’s cut into slits over my chest and covered in sequins. My hair is damp, and I ruffle a hand through it until it sticks up in all directions, giving me that ‘just got out of bed look.’ My eyeliner is thick and dark, and I’ve applied a dash of white glittery shadow above my eyelids and a swipe of gloss over my lips.
There’s an hour before I need to meet Liam, so I throw on Garrett’s flannel shirt and sit on my bed, my legs crossed beneath me. I pick up the polaroid from my side table, tracing a finger over the smiling man in the photo. I wasn’t expecting to hear from him – not yet – given he wasn’t set to leave thecottage until tomorrow – but that doesn’t prevent me checking my phone constantly, in the hope he missed me enough to stroll into the village to send me a message. My gut twists, my mind working overtime to convince me that he’s not going to call.
Lying back on my bed, I rest the photo on my chest and stare up at the ceiling. Outside, a siren pierces the dark, and a dog barks. The sounds I used to find comfort in, now unwelcome.
My production team has been setting up for a video shoot next week, not that I take much notice of it – my room is the only place in this house that feels remotely like mine. And even with my weighted blanket and Garrett’s flannel, it still isn’t my home.
When I lay awake last night, my body begging to be held by more than the darkness wrapping around me, I realised I haven’t had a home since my mother died. That is, until the cottage. Until a sexy writer with epic kitchen skills and a hug that could heal all my fractured pieces, walked into my life clad only in drips of water and a towel around his waist.
I chuckle, thinking back to our first meeting and to how I thought Liam had paid him to be there with me!
He’ll call.
Clicking on my phone, I find his author page on a popular review site. His books have thousands of reviews, some of them nasty as fuck – seems we have that in common – but most loving DI Jack Sniper and the author himself. Scrolling down, I find the entry of his next release. Smiling, I give it one star, and write a message I hope he will see.
“You look hot, Supernova,” Spencer says, leaning in to kiss my cheek. His cologne tickles my nostrils and I pull away as quicklyas I can without coming off rude. He’s dressed in a navy suit, his five o’clock shadow purposeful and his hair set in a wave to the side. His eyes sparkle – one blue, the other green – and the bar through his tongue glints when he flicks it between his lips. I bet he spent hours and thousands of pounds on his outfit. Good looks don’t help the fact that he’s a dick.
One I have to keep close because ‘it’s good for business’, as Liam says. Though I note my best friend keeps his distance when Spencer is around.
“Thanks,” I say, scanning the packed night club. The entry is on a higher level, and over the railings, there’s a dancefloor a level below, heaving with gyrating bodies. Spencer wraps a hand around my wrist, and leads me to a back area, cordoned off with red velvet ropes on golden poles. The tables are black marble, sparkling beneath the twinkling lights, and there’s a mix of single seats and long leather sofas arranged around the space. A handful of people I recognise mingle around the VIP area, some sipping on champagne, others with pints of beer in hand.
Liam appears minutes later, scowling when Spencer knocks his shoulder into my friend. He hands me a flute of bubbly, rescuing me from Spencer’s grip and leading us to a long sofa.
“How long do I need to play buddy-buddy with the guy?” I ask, leaning into Liam’s ear so he can hear over the music.
“His dad has an in with an up-and-coming trainers brand. Spencer says he can get you a sponsorship deal, so we play nice as long as that takes.” The man in question eyes us from where he’s leaning against a tall bar table, talking to a guy dressed in dark jeans and transparent white shirt.
“Who is he talking to?” I ask, nodding my head towards the other guy. Liam follows my gaze, Spencer’s face tipping into a wicked grin when he spots my best friend looking his way. The guy next to him is gesturing with his hands while he speaks, oblivious that Spencer’s attention is elsewhere.
“Some guy from a magazine. I don’t know his tie to Spencer or why he’s here, but it’s no doubt to benefit the Parks in some way.”
A group moves towards us. I recognise the brunette in the middle of the crowd as Carly Tiffin. She has an extreme food channel called Trial by Tiffin. We’ve crossed paths a few times over the years since she made it big. Carly gives me a smile when she reaches me, and I stand, giving her a hug.
“Been a while, superstar,” she says. “I’m glad you didn’t tank after the ‘incident’.” She makes air quotes around the word. One day, we won’t talk about this anymore. Today is not that day.
