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I disconnect the call and sit down.
I look up to see my parents watching me, concern on both of their faces. My mother comes to where I’m standing and touches my arm.
“You should be grateful. Yes, it’s a good story, but it doesn’t make sense for the studio’s brand. I know you care about this topic, but it’s risky.”
Her gentle voice only annoys me because I know she’s happy this happened.
“Mother, every time we begin this process, we take a risk. The upside of those risks are usually just that we’re going to make a tremendous return on our investment. This project? We could do that and we could actually tell a story that matters.” I look between them. “I read the book. You should, too. You’ll see why it’s so special.”
“If you can’t get her to agree, none of that even matters,” my father says softly.
He’s absolutely right. “You’re right, Dad. Thanks for the advice,” I say as I stand up and stalk out of the room.
“What advice?” he ca
lls after me, but I don’t respond.
I’m not going to sit here and hope that Sol Kline can convince her. I grab my keys, jump into my car and head to Los Feliz. If she’s going to turn us down because of one clause that I actually thought she’d jump at, I need her to look me in the face and tell me why.
Not that it matters. I’m not taking no for an answer.
4
Lucía
Sunday night means The Walking Dead, shrimp tacos and margaritas. Tonight, I’ve doubled the tequila in my drink. I need it. Sol is pissed at me and I’m avoiding him. I know he thinks I’m crazy. Hell, I think I’m crazy, but I can’t accept the clause Artemis added. It would throw my life into total disarray. I’d have to rent a place in Malibu and I can’t afford that in addition to the rent at Jessica’s for three months, or however long I’d be there. Even if I could, getting someone to rent me a space once they learn I’m undocumented is next to impossible. So, I can’t.
I’m disappointed. Getting this close to the film actually happening made me realize how much I wanted it. And then there’s Reece. I haven’t stopped thinking about Reece since we met. I keep replaying his impassioned speech he made during our meeting. His eyes were so intense as he told me why this matters to him. I would have enjoyed working with him.
I assumed the reason he became head of the film studio was only due to the fact that his parents own it. But yesterday, I could see that he’s flexible and decisive at the same time. It’s rare to see those qualities in people who’ve had everything handed to them and haven’t had to compromise or sacrifice much.
I take a sip of my drink and wish Jessica were here instead of out on a date. I could use a little company and comfort tonight. I’m just piling the pico and guac on my taco when I see the headlights of a vehicle as it parks in front of our house. I barely register it because we live on a busy street. When our doorbell rings less than thirty seconds later, I almost jump out of my skin.
I already know it’s not for me. Sol and Jessica are the only friends I have who know where I live and Sol wouldn’t show up without calling. It must be one of Jessica’s guys who got their date night wrong. I contemplate not answering—I’m not in the mood to console one of her love-sick boyfriends—but the doorbell rings again and I know that the lights and the television make it obvious someone is home.
I look down at myself. I’m wearing one of my gauzy beach cover ups, but it’s decent enough. Reluctantly, I pause my show with a sigh, push off the couch and rush to the door. As I approach, I see a tall, obviously male silhouette through the door’s glass.
I swing the door open. “Jess isn’t—” I can’t control the squawk of surprise that escapes when I open it and see Reece Carras standing on the other side. He’s the last person I’d expected to see and for a minute I just stand and gape at him.
He’s dressed so differently from when I last saw him. In his office, he wore a suit, his hair styled off his face. Then, he’d looked every inch the young movie mogul-and that he is.
But tonight, he’s dressed in jeans, Chucks, a V-neck white T-shirt that clings to his muscular chest and reveals a tattoo that covers his entire right bicep. His tanned, muscled bicep. His five o’clock shadow is more like a light beard now and a dark lock of hair rests on his forehead.
His eyes are hooded and he’s looking me up and down in a way that makes me feel as if I’m standing in front of him naked. His gaze feels like the touch of a hand. I feel my nipples harden as his eyes sweep past them.
I cough and he brings his unfathomably dark eyes to my face. He doesn’t look the slightest bit chagrined when I scowl at him.
“Are you done?” I ask him, placing my hands on my hips.
“Well, I was just giving you a chance to finish,” he drawls and I blush.
I brush my hair with my fingers and straighten my dress before I step outside and pull the door closed behind me. “What are you doing here? How do you even know where I live?” I cross my arms over my chest and plant my feet. I hate how defensive I sound, but I’ve been thrown completely off balance by his unexpected visit.
His eyes flare with annoyance. “Your address was in the paperwork you filled out to enter our office building. All of our visitors’ information gets scanned into my address book,” he returns evenly, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against one of the porch columns. “You know exactly why I’m here,” he snaps, all traces of humor disappearing from his dark eyes. I have to stop myself from gulping down the ball of nerves lodged in my throat. Suddenly I see the executive who runs his movie studio like a well-oiled machine. Someone who isn’t used to hearing no. He’s not here to flirt with me or make small talk.
“Don’t play coy, Lucía.” He pronounces my name the way a lot of Europeans do—with the c pronounced ch.
I correct him. “It’s Loo-seeah. I’m Mexican, not Italian. And I’m not playing coy.” I draw out the last syllable.
