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Georgina: So sorry! I lost track of time reading something at a coffee place downtown, and then got stuck in traffic. My navigation app estimates arrival time of 5:49. Don’t you dare touch your butterfly net before then. Save yourself for me.
Me: I’ll stay locked and loaded for you, baby. Gate code 874593. I’ll be in my bedroom.
Georgina: Can’t wait. PS I’m starving. Is there food?
Me: Amalia’s soup.
Georgina: Oh yeah! So excited. Don’t eat without me! XO
Me: Of course not. See you soon. XO
Smiling like a goof, I toss my phone onto my mattress next to me. For the love of fuck, I just texted her “XO.” I’ve only ever texted that sardonically to Josh. What is this girl doing to me?
My phone on the bed next to me rings, drawing me from my thoughts, and when I glance at the screen, I see it’s Isabel calling me. Fuck. She’s been calling me all day, without ever leaving a voicemail. Sighing, I pick up my phone.
“Hi, Isabel.”
“Finally!” she shouts. “I’ve been trying to call you all day. Why haven’t you picked up?”
“I’ve been in meetings. Why didn’t you send a text or leave a voicemail?”
“Because what I’ve got to say has to be said in an actual conversation.”
My heart stops. No. In a flash, my brain hurtles back to that drunken night in the Hamptons. How long ago was that? I wore a condom that night, didn’t I? I’m positive I did... Oh, God, please tell me I wore a condom... and that it didn’t break.
“I’m getting married,” Isabel declares, and every hair on my body wilts in relief.
“Did you just sigh with relief?” Isabel shouts, going from zero to sixty on a dime.
“I sighed, but it was with happiness for you. So, who’s the lucky guy?”
“Seriously?”
“What?”
“I call you, out of the blue, to say I’m getting married, and that’s your reaction? I’m happy for you, Isabel, who’s the lucky guy?”
I chuckle. “How should I have reacted? I know you’ve always wanted to get married.”
“To you, dumbass!”
“Well, we both know that was never going to happen, so it’s good you’ve found your Plan B. Now, are you going to identify the lucky man you’re going to pledge yourself to for eternity, or not?”
She pauses for a long beat, before saying, “It’s Howard.”
“Devlin?”
“Obviously, Reed.”
Holy fuck. Even lying here on my bed alone, I make a face like I’ve just swallowed a bite of rancid yogurt. Howard Devlin is a sixty-something-year-old blow-hard billionaire movie producer/studio head who thinks his shit doesn’t stink. He’s always had an obsession with Isabel. That’s not a secret. Ever since she first met him at her first big audition. But she’s never given him the time of day. And now, suddenly, she’s agreed to marry him? It was Howard’s studio that signed Isabel to her four-movie deal a couple weeks ago. Did Howard make this engagement a condition of the deal? Is this a PR stunt? It’s got to be. Isabel can’t possibly love him. And she certainly doesn’t need his money. She’ll probably net upwards of fifty million by the time those four pictures are done, assuming they hit as big as hoped. Was fifty million Isabel’s price to slip a ring on her finger? Or did Howard sweeten the pot, on top of that, to coax her into saying yes to his proposal?
“I didn’t want you to find out online,” Isabel says. “I’m going to post a photo of Howard and me tomorrow, with my rock on full display.”
“You’re making it ‘Gram official, huh? Wow. This is serious.”
“I want you to comment on the post. It’s important people see we’re still good friends, and you’ve got no hard feelings about me dumping you and moving on.”
I chuckle. She didn’t dump me. And I definitely don’t have hard feelings. But what I say is, “Fine with me.”
She sighs. “Thanks.”
Oh, shit. I shouldn’t do it. I don’t give a fuck what she does. But that “thanks” sounded so damned defeated, I can’t resist. “Are you okay, Isabel?”
“Of course, I’m okay. I just got engaged. I’m on Cloud Nine.”
She sounds resigned. Detached. Just plain sad. But, unfortunately, I’m not the guy who can make her happy. Surely, Howard Devlin isn’t, either. I’m not sure anyone could make Isabel happy, actually. Her online avatar is the happiest woman alive. But the real Isabel? She’s got a gaping hole in her soul she’s never been able to fill—though, God bless her, she keeps trying.
“So, Gary said you’re throwing a party on Saturday night,” she says, referring to Gary Pembroke, her agent, the top guy at the top talent agency in Hollywood. A guy who represents the highest echelon of A-listers, some of whom have already RSVP’d for my party.
“Yeah, my entire roster will be there, other than RCR and a couple others. Plus, a pretty impressive crowd from your world will be there, too.”
