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Sympathy fills her eyes, and she opens her mouth as if she already had an argument ready but closes it again. “Look, I know. I know it’s scary, but you’ll be fine. He’s asking to meet you, not the other way around. A legitimate film producer is interested in meeting with you.You, Mari. That’s a huge deal. If you don’t go, someone else will. How many other authors would kill to be in your position? What if, let’s just say, you don’t respond?” She purses her lips, twirling her wrist in thought. “It’s fine. It’s okay. You’ll move on. Forget about it. Wonderwhat if,sure, but you can deal with that. But what if maybe, just maybe, he reaches out to Darlene Cosgrove to talk about her books next? How would you feel if you learned they went out to dinner and had a great time? If they became friends? If he turned one of her nonsense books into a movie? Can you honestly tell me you’d be okay with that?”
Bitterness creeps into my chest. She knows how I feel about Darlene Cosgrove—how fake she is, how she pretends to be something we both know she’s not. If I pass up this opportunity and it’s handed to my arch enemy, I’d never forgive myself. Besides that, I can’t deny the allure of having any of my books turned into a film or television show. The idea that my books could be brought to life in such a way is mesmerizing. Not so long ago, I used to lie awake and dream up casts, imagining who would play which character. This sort of thing is rare. Hollywood producers don’t just reach out to midlist authors and ask them for coffee. It’s so unheard of, in fact, I’d hate myself for letting it pass me by.
Decision made, I nod. “Fine. You’re right. It’s a huge opportunity. And, if we don’t click, at least I tried. There’s no harm in meeting him.”
“You don’t have to be anyone but yourself. Pretend he’s just another reader. You’re never nervous to meet them.”
“Readers are different. They get me. Theylikeme.” At least, they like the personI used to be.
“He’s a reader, too, though, Mari. Just remember that, and you’ll be fine.”
I glance down at the email again. “Should I agree to go to his house? That feels a little strange, doesn’t it? Maybe I’ll ask if we can stick with the original plan and meet for coffee instead…”
“I don’t know. What if that comes across as rude?” she asks, touching a finger to her bottom lip thoughtfully.
“Would it? He offered that first. I could just say I’d feel more comfortable meeting for coffee. Or just brush off the invitation to his house and say, ‘Let’s meet at Mudhouse,’ or something.”
She nods slowly, eyes searching the air. “Yeah, I guess that would be okay. Maybe don’t say you’d feel more comfortable not going to his house. That might come off wrong and make him feel weird. Just word it differently somehow…”
“Well, now you have me second-guessing,” I point out, lowering my phone. This time, I’ll send my response from here, not my computer. That’s how cool and casual I am.See? Totally effortless.
“I’m sure it would be fine to go to his house. I mean, famous people want their privacy, right? Besides, what if you need to talk business? You don’t want to do that in public.”
“I hardly think he’s going to make some crazy offer when we meet for the first time,” I say, though I have no idea how Hollywood-types work. Maybe thisisnormal after all. “He may just want to say hello and tell me he’s enjoyed my books. For all I know, he’s going to do some documentary on what happened to Declan and Liam and is just luring me there to get my take on it.”
“Oh, stop. He is not.” She gives me a look. After a beat, she says, “It’s up to you, I guess. Whatever you’re most comfortable with.” She’s convincing, but I can tell what she thinks is right. I know she thinks I’m on the verge of scaring him off.
Maybe I am. Maybe it wouldn’t be the worst thing if I did.
Even as I think it, though, I know I’m lying to myself. I want this to work out more than I’m willing to admit.
“If it were you, you’d just say yes to his offer?”
She sucks in a breath, speaking slowly. “If it were me, I’d take him up on the offer to meet at his house, yes. I don’t really see the harm. If he were to try anything, it’s not like we don’t know who he is. He’s a huge name. He’s not going to risk his reputation. Besides, his wife will be there, and you’ll be able to give me the address. I’m not sure what the other risks would be. It’ll be like we’re young and hip and going on first dates. You can text me when you get there to let me know it’s safe, but if I don’t hear from you, I’ll call the police. You could even wear one of those bracelets Declan got you before. The one where you tap to let the other person know you’re thinking of them. Except this time it would be to let me know you’re alive. One tap, I’m safe and sound and on my way to stardom. Two taps, I’m locked in a concrete room. Save me.”
It’s a joke, but I don’t like it. Besides, if Declan’s bracelet still exists, it’s likely packed away or lost, and I don’t have time to order a new set before the date Owen has proposed.
“Funny.” I let out a breath. As she’s saying it, it sounds ridiculous. This is a high-powered film executive. He’s not going to do anything to harm me. More important than his address, Kassara has his name. If he knew the mental gymnastics I’m going through over whether or not he’s dangerous, he’d likely withdraw his offer and never speak to me again.
Be cooler than this, Mari.
I type out a response quickly, letting him know that I’d be happy to come for a visit at his home and I’ll be free that day. I pass the phone to Kassara for her to read over it and, when she’s done, she presses send before I can overthink it and tosses the phone back to me. She elbows me gently as I lock the screen, taking a large gulp of my wine and wishing it was something stronger.
“They’d be really proud of you, you know?” she says gently, and I don’t have to ask whom she’s talking about.
“Well, they aren’t here, are they?” My voice sounds more bitter than I mean for it to—as bitter as this cheap wine.
She looks down, unbothered by my tone.
They never will be again.
Before I can set down my empty wineglass, my phone screen lights up with an incoming email. I’d expected to wait days for a response like last time. Could it be him again already?
Kassara leans toward me to look, too, and I open up the email and read the address he’s sent, along with the proposed time for our meeting.
3 p.m. work for you?
A perfectly safe time. Not yet dark. Not late enough for anything nefarious to happen. It instantly puts me at ease.
