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“I’m just happy,” she replied innocently.
“Uh-huh. I’ll punish you for fibbing too,” he declared, raising his eyebrows. “I need to get back to work. Go and put some clothes on, and I’d love some coffee.”
“You’re wish is my command,” she replied, picking up her bikini bottom and sliding up her long legs.
“Are the plans for the party under control?”
“Yes, things are coming together. Mandy McCormick is Matt’s party planner and she’s incredibly organized and efficient. Did I tell you we have a rehearsal tonight?”
“Yes, but I’d forgotten. Has Matt been cooperative?”
“Actually, he’s been amazing. I’d heard he was moody, but he’s been an absolute angel, and he hasn’t made a pass at any of us.”
“Bear in mind you are married to the head of the studio, and Stephanie is his agent’s wife. No doubt he’s on his best behavior.”
“Maybe,” she said thoughtfully, “but I think there’s more to it than that. He’s sort of—mellow. Even Mandy said he’s changed over the last couple of days.”
“I wouldn’t read too much into it,” he said, rising to his feet and moving across to his desk.
“I have to run over to Stephanie’s,” she replied, then muttered, “Damn, my butt hurts.”
“Good. Maybe it will remind you to bring me my coffee before you leave.”
She laughed out loud, then left the room.
* *
THOUGH GRINNING AShe sat down, Tia’s remarks about Matt gave him pause, but not about the television star. John Stanley hadn’t been himself either. He had never been the most well-humored man, but recently his behavior could only be described as preoccupied and erratic. It was time to find out what was going on. Reaching for his phone, he called John’s office at the studio.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
WHILE ALMOST ALL HIScolleagues worked exclusively on their computers, John preferred reviewing paper documents. But as his head throbbed and he stared the reports littering his desk, he was beginning to think maybe he needed to change his ways.
He had overslept, and when he finally did wake up it was with an overpowering headache. Fighting the urge to stay in bed, he had taken a hot shower, downed a handful of aspirin, and drank a large, strong mug of coffee. But Stella was nowhere to be found. Angrily climbing into his Porsche, he’d sped from the Colony, stopped at the local Starbucks to pick up a triple espresso latte and a bagel, then headed over Malibu Canyon to the freeway.
But he hit traffic.
