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“Anyway,” I continue. “The point is, you’re here, and you’re you— and I’m here, and I’m me—” I break off, rattled. Which never happens. I use words for a living, and I’m actually pretty good at it. Charming, even. But apparently, not right now, when I’m a mere three feet away from the most intriguing, confounding woman I’ve ever met.
I take a deep breath, and corral my racing thoughts– and libido. “What I mean to say is, have dinner with me,” I finally manage. “Tonight? We can get to know each other, for real,” I add.
Something flashes on Ivy’s face as she finally stops and turns to me. “Look, you don’t have to do this,” she sighs. “What happened between us the other night was fun, but … it was a one-time thing. It’s fine.”
Fun. Fine?! I open my mouth to add that it was also mind-blowing and unforgettable, but Ivy’s brow is knitted in stern concentration as she continues.
“It was Halloween,” she says firmly. “People do crazy things on Halloween. They’re not themselves! Plus, the costumes, the champagne … we got swept up in the fantasy, that’s all. It wasn’t real. It was Lola, and Indiana Jones. Not us.”
It felt pretty damn real to me– and from the flush on her cheeks, and the way Ivy is looking at my mouth, I’d wager, it was for her, too.
“So, that’s a ‘no’ on dinner?” I check, coming back down to earth with a bump. “How about drinks? Coffee? A chaste walk with ice cream in the park?”
Ivy cracks a smile, and damn, if it doesn’t send my pulse racing all over again. “No. Thank you,” she adds, and I swear, I hear a note of regret in her voice. “I think it’s for the best.”
I don’t know how anything could be better than replaying our night on the rooftop until we’re too sweaty and exhausted to move, but she’s made herself clear.
She doesn’t want this. It was just one night. One extraordinary, possibly-life-changing night to me, but she feels differently.
I exhale in a rush. But instead of feeling disappointed, I’m more curious than ever.
“Ok. Neighbors, then,” I agree cheerfully, sticking out my hand. “You can come borrow a cup of sugar, any time.”
Ivy blinks. Like maybe she wasn’t expecting me to quit so easily. “Neighbors,” she repeats, and shakes my hand firmly. “That works for me.”
* * *
I leaveher to her shelving and wander out of the museum, even more intrigued. Because Lola, super-sexy secret-agent was fun, alright, but Ivy Fortune, smart-mouthed small-town historian?
She’sfascinating.
I still have a million questions for her, and maybe she’ll drop her guard long enough to give me some answers. Either way, this unexpected vacation is shaping up to be far more interesting than I ever imagined …
My phone buzzes in my pocket, just as I step outside. It’s my manager, Dickson, calling to check in from LA. “Feeling relaxed yet?” he wants to know.
“Surprisingly, yes,” I reply, looking around. The town is peaceful, in a rustic kind of way, with the leaves turning, and the mountains blanketed in shades of red and gold. The stores still have pumpkins out front from Halloween, and there are ads for Thanksgiving turkey dinners in the window at the grocery store, and a special deal on mountain biking tours.
I can’t help thinking of the place like a movie set. If I was filming here, I’d start with a series of establishing shots: an older couple strolling down the street in matching beanies. A little kid sipping a hot chocolate outside the coffee shop. A cherry-red pickup truck rolling through the intersection, sending leaves dancing in its wake …
“Just remember to switch off that brain of yours,” Dickson says, as if he can sense me storyboarding from three thousand miles away. “Three movies in two years is too much for anybody, even a workaholic like you. You need to take some time off, take it easy. Recharge.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be hustling me to take on more work, not less?” I ask, amused. “You work on commission, you know.”
But Dickson just chuckles. He’s an old-school Hollywood guy in his sixties, the kind of man who still dresses up in a three-piece suit for a Martini lunch at the Polo bar. “I’ve been in this business almost as long as you’ve been alive, kid,” he reminds me. “I’ve seen plenty of talented people hit the gas too fast, then crash and burn. This is a long game. Look at Spielberg, Tarantino, Scorsese … you think they’d still be around making movies if they burned themselves out the first break they got?”
“I know, I know,” I sigh reluctantly. “Rest, relaxation … my sister sent the memo.”
“Jeez, you sound like it’s a fate worse than death!” Dickson chortles. “You’re on a vacation, enjoy it. Get drunk, sleep in past noon, let that brain of yours recharge enough to be inspired. It’s all part of the creative process,” he adds. “How is your next blockbuster going to show up unless you make the space for it in that overactive imagination of yours?”
“Is that why you quit at noon on a Fridays and go golfing?” I ask, teasing. “You’re making room for inspiration to strike?”
Dickson chuckles. “I’ve closed more deals over a nine-iron than you’ve had hot breakfasts, sonny,” he says. “Trust me, in twenty years, you’ll be thanking me.”
“I’m already thanking you now,” I tell him. “And since I have you, did you hear anything about the Bermuda Triangle action pic—?”
“Relaxation!” Dickson barks, cutting me off. “Talk to me after you’ve gone a week without checking for your name the trades.”
He hangs up, and I smile. Dickson is a character, but he hasn’t steered me wrong yet. After my first movie blew up, I had all kinds of managers and agents buzzing around, making big promises and dropping all the right names. Dickson was the only one who sat me down, and gave it to me straight: flavors of the month come and go in Hollywood, but with a little talent, and a lot of work, I could build a career for the long-term.
