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Jeff Jones: Need to see you tomorrow. What time are you available?
Maybe if I pretended that I had a new phone number, I could get out of it. No doubt he wanted to talk about my horrible behavior and make sure I understood my NDA.
Where was that conversation a month ago?
My phone buzzed again.
Jeff Jones: I know you’ve seen this text.
What the…
Jeff Jones: Has no one explained read receipts to you?
Dang it. I’d turned them off on my last phone but hadn’t gotten around to it on my new one.
Me: I have to be at my other job tomorrow 10-6
Jeff Jones: Give me a sec.
Ha. Like I was going anywhere. Although I would use this second to reset my settings on my phone. Goodbye, read receipts.
Jeff Jones: Come over at the regular time to walk Pongo. We’ll talk then.
Me: Okay. See you tomorrow.
Did I sound easy breezy, and not like the freaked-out space cadet I clearly was? They still owed me my last paycheck, so of course I was going. But would Roman Grier be there? If he was, I needed to apologize, and then what? Ask him to read one of my screenplays? Gag. I’d never beenthatperson, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to start now. Not with Roman Grier.
He probably wouldn’t be there anyway. I was getting all worked up for nothing.
The front door to our apartment crashed open, and I jumped.
“Spill it all. Now.” Molly slammed the door behind her, tossed her purse onto the couch, and marched toward me like an invading army general.
I shook my head. “I can’t.”
“Seriously? You get photographed with last year’s Sexiest Man Alive, and you won’t tell me anything?”
I winced. I’d forgotten about that title. With all his leading roles in rom-coms, the magazine had dubbed him America’s Boyfriend. Le sigh. And I’d crashed into him like the actress in a rom-com. Not that I was expecting a Hollywood ending with my story. Life never turned out that way in reality.
“Sophia? Hello?”
I blinked back into the present with Molly’s hand waving in my face. “Sorry. So what’s going on with you and the lead singer? Did you call him back?”
“Ha.” Molly snorted. “Don’t think you’re going to distract me with my little fling with the lead singer of a garage band, whose biggest claim to fame is headlining at our shitty neighborhood bar. Charlie wishes I called him back. No, what you’re gonna do is tell me what you can about Roman Grier without breaking your little NDA. Is this it?” Molly tipped her head at the sheaf of papers in front of me.
“I literally can’t! Look, here it says when I signed this contract, I agree to never discuss in either person, writing,or any other form of communicationanything that happened at the address or with the owner’s property, which means the dog, too. I can’t even mime the situation for you. You have to promise me you won’t say anything, Molls. I would be in so much trouble. I can’t afford to pay whatever someone like Roman Grier would come after me for. You can’t tell anyone what I’ve already told you. Or that I worked for Roman Grier.Please.”
“Fine.” Molly huffed before turning around and heading for the fridge. “I won’t say anything or ask any more questions. There’s no need to ruin your mascara. You know I won’t say anything.”
I hadn’t even realized I’d teared up. Swiping under my eyes, I took a few seconds to breathe. Molly was such a tenacious friend—in both the best and worst ways. She’d fight to the death for anyone she loved, but she’d also pursue the smallest thing with dogged intensity.
And it killed me. I wanted to talk to her. I ached to hash out this whole weird situation with someone.
But I couldn’t.
So instead, I swallowed all my worry and fears and helped Molly make dinner.
Although judging by her concerned looks and pursed lips, I wasn’t fooling anyone.
