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“Call me if you need me!”
“Will do.”
London decided to take a shower and figure out what she wanted to do from there. When she got out, her phone was vibrating. Max.
Instead of returning the text, she called. “Hey, you. What’s up?”
“You’re what’s up, beautiful. Are you here yet?”
“Yep. Just got here a couple hours ago.”
“What are you doing right now?”
“Getting dressed. What are you doing?”
“Just finished a meeting in Midtown with a couple producers.”
“Where in Midtown? We’ve rented an apartment near Bryant Park.”
“Really? That’s perfect. I can come by and swoop you up.”
“Too much trouble. Just tell me where you are and I’ll catch a cab.”
“All right, beautiful. Can’t wait to see you.”
“Me, too, Max. See you soon.”
* * *
“Hey, boss, got a minute?” Frida walked over to where Ace huddled with the builders designing the set. “I think we’ve finally got the invites set. There are just a couple names I need to run by you before I send out their confirmation.”
“Let me take a look.” Frida handed over her tablet. “Sean Black. Yeah, he’s cool. He’s a pro baller, starting up his own line. This other name, Brigitte Desrochers?”
“I believe it’s pronounced Bri-geet, emphasis on the geet.”
“Don’t know her. Did you do a search on her?”
“No, but I can.”
“Cool. I’ll be over here trying to recreate snow.”
Because their rain cylinder had been such a hit, the team’s new goal was to fill the runway with powdery snowflakes. Strange juxtaposition for a spring line, but an idea that’s indeed out of the box.
Ten minutes later Ace was deep in conversation with the engineer.
“Ace.”
He waved Frida off. “Give me a few minutes.”
“Okay.” She waited fifteen minutes. “Ace, I’m sorry, but I think you should see this.”
His immediate scowl confirmed his displeasure. He walked over. “What?”
A party picture filled the screen. He almost snatched the tablet out of her hands. “What’s this? Which one is Bridget or Brigeet or whatever her name is?”
“She’s right here,” Frida said, a shaky finger pointing to a pretty girl at the bar. “But that’s not why I’m showing you this picture. Look here, in the corner. That’s Carly. All hugged up with and talking to—”
“Maxwell Tata.”
Ace was stunned. As he stared at the picture, a mental video began to play. Carly, London’s assistant. Who knew all of her information. Traveled to all the cities. He studied the picture again. It had been taken in Paris. Where Max met London. Right after she’d been kidnapped in Milan. Two weeks after fashion week wrapped, Carly had given her resignation. Moved to LA.
Every bad feeling he’d ever had about Max pitted at the bottom of his stomach. I might meet Max for a drink. Don’t be mad. I put him off all summer. We’re friends. Max’s not that kind of guy. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.
He pulled out his phone. “London, where are you? Give me a call as soon as you get this. It’s important. Call me ASAP.”
* * *
“…I had dogs in the pool, horses in the yard and a cameraman facedown in the sandpit!”
“Oh, my gosh!” London’s eyes teared up she was laughing so hard. This is the Max she’d fallen for: funny, the life of the party.
“What did you do?”
“What else could I do? I yelled ‘cut’!”
“Bwa-ha-ha!”
They’d met at a bar near 57th Street owned by an Irishman, a friend of Max’s. The crowd was loud and drinks flowed freely, though London refused the offer of a third glass of wine.
“Believe me, after that production wrapped I was ready to leave the West Coast.”
“I can understand. The only thing crazier than what you’ve told me is that it’s all true. But seriously, why did you move east?”
“I didn’t sell my house in Los Angeles, just went bicoastal for a couple reasons. The producers I met with earlier have some deep-pocketed investors interested in launching reality-TV shows.”
