Page 4 of Famous for a Living

Just a little varicose vein.

Just dry hands that have seen a bit more wear and tear than the polished skin of the teenagers I seem to be perpetually surrounded by.

All things I just have to carefully blur to keep unnoticed by the world around me. All normal with age and the passing of time.

And yet.

“You, my dear, are forever and always going to be the face of Club. No question. Don’t even let any other thought linger in your pretty head.”

These were Bobby’s first words when we met at a party six months ago and he pitched me the idea for Club. That I would not only be partner, but my face would be the logo itself for the exclusive, audio-focused platform.

I’ll never forget his eagerness as he clenched my hands with that dramatic and yet compelling way of his and said with all the conviction in the world, “From the moment people crack open their eyelids and reach for their Advil and phones to the second it’s lights-out at each day’s end, you and your gorgeous smile will be right on the screen, beckoning them to click on that button and hold off on their to-do lists a little longer. You. Cat Cranwell. Our icon.”

Not only would I be the face, but with a bit of algorithm fine-tuning, the app was going to quietly and consistently boost me to the top of everyone’s page.

Over and over, day in and day out.

Until the thing that crossed everyone’s minds every single day, like a whisper in a breeze, was the question: What is Cat Cranwell up to today?

It was the win I needed.

I took a week to discuss with my finance team and another week to gather the strength to ignore their cautionary tales and plunge anyway.

And then, as if materializing from my thoughts, he’s here.

“Of course, they still haven’t gotten my headshot right,” Bobby says, the heels of his boots clicking against the last of the spiral glass steps as he winds up to the top, then snaps a magazine on the banquet table. It’s one of the magazines featuring our faces on the newsstand outside the Montana this morning. “You would think after three hundred articles someone could have used the correct headshot . . .”

“Hey.” Serena swiftly picks up the magazine that had been tossed over a plate of fine cheeses. “No ink on the table.”

He briefly surveys her with a pinched frown, and I can instantly picture the two of them as five-year-olds going nose to nose on the playground. His eyes flicker toward the butter knife and the cake beyond.

“Overstepping your duties as always, I see,” he says.

“Late as always, I see,” she retorts sardonically.

I rub more lotion on my hands and wait while they embark on a string of insults, which, given past experience, tend to go on several minutes.

At last, with a triumphant smile and a can-we-be-done-now air, he shifts his attention toward me. Opens his arms. “My birthday girl.”

The square brass buttons the size of little doorknobs down his shirt quake at his movement, and several of his gold rings dig into my back as we hug.

It’s long. He’s a long hugger.

“This is cashmere,” he growls and pulls back as Serena pokes his side with the butter knife. He looks on the verge of jumping into another fight, but with visible self-control trains his eyes on me. “I come with news. Tremendous news.”

“Oh?”

And somewhere between Bobby’s blazer and silk button-down, like a magician, he produces a stack of papers. Takes away my lotion to set them in my hands.

As I turn the stapled pages, I see the writing is, quite literally, in another language.

“What’s this?” I look up.

“That”—he clicks a pen—“is yet another major marketing firm confirming they want in. And not just in, but saying they will expend everything they can to push it to the top in their regions.” Bobby smiles. “No other app has had this level of support out the gate.”

Serena frowns as she steps closer, looking over my shoulder.

“Really? Another one?” I flip through the indistinguishable pages and lines of small-text paragraphs. “What is this? The fifth?”