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She returned to her desk and tapped Leigh’s number from the recent calls list. What she was about to say technically wasn’t a lie.
“Hi again, sorry to call late. I could use a bit of inspiration. Seeing Jonathan the other night reminded me how helpful he was when we did the movie. I thought I might bounce some ideas off him. Can I have his number?”
4
NO TALKING, NO KISSING
It was a miracle he had gotten anything accomplished the past two days. When he wasn’t under pressure to write the week’s three behind-the-scenes blog posts, review edits, voice over the promo spots for two upcoming shows, and start researching the lineup and itineraries for next season, his brain went to her.
He could call her now that the day was winding down, if he knew how to reach her.
Her phone had been charging on the kitchen counter when he left, and he was tempted to take her number or enter his so he wouldn’t have to ask Leigh. But that was creepy, to go into someone’s phone.
And what if she had no intention of a repeat?
Besides, what would he say if he called? Sending a text would be easier, but even that content eluded him.
Rich, the show’s production manager, stuck his head around the doorframe of Jonathan’s office.
“Dude, we’re heading to Susana’s Cantina for happy hour. You coming?”
He hesitated for a moment, hoping for some divine telepathic intervention, but nothing came. “You bet. Just finishing up here. I’ll catch up.”
He bookmarked the browser tabs he had opened, shut down his computer, and checked his phone for the hundredth futile time.
When he got to the restaurant, his team was seated at a table outside. Sirens wailed a few blocks away while a bus released its brake with a blast of air and pulled away from the nearby curb. This was good, the people and the noise and the hustle and, soon, a salt-rimmed shot of tequila.
“. . . drink, sir?” The waitress was looking at him impatiently, wanting his order. Good, she didn’t recognize him, some middle-aged jerk wearing sunglasses on a cloudy day.
As the evening wore on, the noise level climbed and the age of the crowd fell.
Music drifted out from the band playing inside. They ordered more food. He liked going out with his staff despite the age difference—he had at least a decade, probably closer to two, on most of them. And since he always picked up the tab, they liked going out with him.
They were bright, funny, and hardworking, some of them aspiring to be like him some day. He should tell them not to worktoohard.
He didn’t get this gig because he deserved it; he got it because—okay, maybe he had some skills, but none that truly distinguished him—mostly, he had been plain fucking lucky.
He looked around the table. It hadn’t always been like this. Even with his corporate credit card, the team hadn’t usually included him in their plans. In the earlier days of the show, he was a dick.
Not because he was any kind of perfectionist, mostly because he thought a dick was how he was supposed to be.Act like you own it, or it will go away as fast as it landed in your undeserving lap.
And then he met Anna, and somehow cheating on Delphine also seemed like something an insecure, mediocre but lucky travel show host might do to fit the role, so he did.
Might as well play the game, go all in.
His modicum of success had gone to his head. Part of him knew the risks, the irreparable damage if he continued. But he and Anna didn’t stop. With each meeting, he swore it would be the last—right until the point he unzipped his pants again.
He would come home and shower. Most of those nights, he slept on the couch. But some, he would get into bed beside Delphine, and she would turn over and want to spoon.
She would say she missed him, and he would say he missed her, too. Which was true—they made great companions. The part he didn’t say was that he hadn’t thought of her so much while he was having sex with someone else.
They were easy prey for the tabloids, Anna and him, and social media had a field day. He wished he had earned that level of attention from the show. And that the network hadn’t had to step in to foot the bill to scrub the negativity, repair the reputation.
He signaled the server as she brought a round of drinks to the next table.
“Make it a double this time, please,” he said when she came over.
What he had done to Delphine still disgusted him, and alcohol dulled the sharper edges. He had come perilously close to sinking his career, too.
