To the Stars and Back: A Glittering Romantic Comedy (First Comes Love Book 4)

by Camilla Isley

  I lick yogurt off my spoon. “I can be impatient.”

  “Oh, come on, Boss? I’ve been racking my brain with all the possibilities since yesterday afternoon. Was it a woman? Did you pick up an ecologist? Someone from the Peace Corps?”

  Since I hired her seven years ago, Penny has tried to match me with countless women. Actresses, models, singers, famous, non-famous, she’s tried everything. So if I were to tell her I’ve met a girl, she’d bombard me with questions and push the you-need-to-settle-down button nonstop. She means well, of course, but that doesn’t stop it from being annoying.

  So, no, I’ll keep Lana in the closet—so to speak. “Sorry, Penelope, it’s strictly confidential.”

  “Ooooh.” My assistant turns toward Jeff. “He called me Penelope. It must be serious.”

  Jeff nods as he places a golden waffle covered in berries and whipped cream in front of her. “He didn’t come home for dinner last night.”

  Penny pops a raspberry in her mouth. “Nothing romantic, Jeff, he was out with Marvin.”

  “Enough gossip, you two,” I interrupt them. “Can I drink my coffee in peace, please? And, yes, Penelope, I’d like to know what’s on the agenda for today.”

  Jeff refills my mug and Penny, after hitting me with a we’ll-get-back-on-the-topic-some-other-time scowl, reads out my schedule for the day. “This morning, you’re with me. We have to review potential scripts, then lunch, then you have Liam at four—heads up, he’s pissed you stood him up yesterday. But if you told him it was about a girl he might—”

  “Enough with this fantasy,” I interrupt. “There is no girl.”

  She eyes me skeptically. “If you say so.”

  “Is that all for today?” I ask.

  “Only the usual number of dinner invitations to respond to.”

  “Anything interesting?”

  “Indie movie premiere, charity art auction… I have a list if you want to check.”

  “Sorry, not in the mood to be social.”

  “Noted. Oh, yes, and Jimmy Kimmel invited you to read a mean tweet.”

  “Yes to Jimmy, no to the rest.” I scoop up the last blueberry and get up. “I’ll get dressed and we can start in the office. Jeff, would you mind making another pot of coffee?”

  I have a feeling I’m going to need it; reviewing scripts can be stressful.

  “Sure, Mr. Slade.”

  I nod and turn toward Penny. “I’ll be back in five.”

  “Take your time, Boss,” she says, forking another generous bite of her waffle. “I’m loving my breakfast.”

  “Thank you, Miss Jones,” Jeff purrs.

  I roll my eyes at her; she’s always sucking up to the cook, hoping he’ll prepare her special treats, which he usually does. For a girl so lean, I’ve no idea where she puts all the calories. I guess that’s being twenty-six for you.

  Aaaand now I’m starting to sound like a desperate real housewife of whatever city.

  ***

  When Penny joins me in my home office twenty minutes later, she drops a pile of ten or so scripts—the ones that have already passed her pre-screening—on my desk, sits opposite to me, and picks up the top one.

  “Robin Hood remake,” she announces.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Another one? Don’t they have any creativity left to develop new characters?”

  “The cachet is really interesting.”

  “Not interested, I want something new,” I say.

  She drops the script on the desk, laying the foundation of the reject pile. “So I guess it’s a no also to a Pride and Prejudice remake.” She shuffles the scripts and takes out two others. “First installment in the new Batman trilogy?”

  “I said new.”

  “But Batman is a classic,” Penny protests. “And the plot-lines are always fresh.”

  I shake my head.

  Penny sighs, puts the two scripts on the no pile, and moves on to the next. “Small town romance.”

  “Comedy or tearjerker? Sweet Home Alabama or The Notebook?”

  “Sweet Home Alabama. It’s definitely a happily-ever-after romcom.”

  “Title?”

  “Sweet Love and Country Roads.”

  Ach, so cheesy.

  “Plot?”

  “In short, a posh city girl gets banished to the country, fights with the local hunk cowboy—you—then they fall in love.”

  I take a deep breath. “Didn’t I just tell you I’m tired of doing the same movie over and over again?”

  “The story arc might be a trope, but the script is really sassy, and romantic, and will make that tiny part of the female population that’s still resisting you capitulate.”

  “But you know I don’t care about that. I want to climb out of the romantic hero box and move on to more serious movies. Matthew McConaughey didn’t win the Oscar for How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days, he won it for Dallas Buyers Club.”

  “True, but everyone loves him for How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. That’s a cult movie, it grossed more than a hundred million in the domestic market, while Dallas Buyers Club didn’t reach thirty. And How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days came out ten years before.”

  “Exactly. I’m tired of making only commercial movies. I want something more niche.”

  “And if something interesting and more niche comes up, I’ll present it to you. Doesn’t mean you should give up on the romantic comedy of the year on principle.”

  I purse my lips.

  “Read the script at least,” Penny insists. “Then, if you hate it, I won’t bring it up again.”

  “Okay, give it here.”

  I place the pages in front of me in a new “maybe” pile.

  “Next is an epic fantasy. Cool cast, big-bucks budget, and all that jazz.”

  “Months of shooting?”

  “They expect ten.”

  “Meaning a year or more. Location?”

  “A bit in Canada, but it’s mostly New Zealand.”

  I shake my head. “Too much hassle.”

  The thickest of the manuscripts joins the rejects.

  “Dystopian, post-apocalyptic space flick?” Penny asks next.

  I repeat the same questions. “How many months of shooting?”

  “Seven projected.”

  “Location?”

  “Between here and Vancouver.”

  “Is the story any good?”

  “Wouldn’t have suggested it otherwise. And the director is Zander Hughes.”

  “Oh, I love Zander.” I take the bundle from her. “I’ll give it a read.”

  “Great. And last but not least we have three action flicks. You can take your pick of military, spy, and bank robbers.”

  “Which one’s your favorite?”

  “Definitely the spy one.”

  “Okay, leave that script with me and toss the others.”

  “Perfect.” She hands me the last screenplay and stashes the others back in her messenger bag. “You want to move outside?” she asks next. “While you get started on reading those, I can reply to fan mail. It’s too much of a beautiful day to stay in.”

  “And we need our Vitamin D,” I add jokingly. “Please ask Jeff to bring a jug of OJ by the pool.”

  I settle in the half-shade on a chaise lounge by the infinity pool’s edge. Reading assignments in hand, I wait for my freshly squeezed orange juice while musing there are definitely much harder lines of work.

  I love my life.

  ***

  “You owe me,” Liam says—tall, bald, muscular, of an undecipherable ethnicity that’s part African-American, part Asian, with some Caucasian and Latino in the mix—as he marches into the gym, already on the warpath.

  “Sorry, mate, I should’ve warned you I wasn’t going to make it yesterday,” I say.

  “Yeah, you should have. I don’t like my time being wasted.” My personal trainer steps in front of me. “Let’s get to it. Today has to count double. Let’s start
with dynamic stretching—arm rotations.”

  I press play on our workout playlist and mirror his movements for the warmup phase.

  “So,” Liam says. “What was this big emergency you had to stand me up for?”

  I didn’t want to tell Penelope about Lana, but I can be open with Liam. He’s been divorced three years and knows perfectly well what it’s like to have everyone he knows try to match him up with that perfect colleague/friend/relative. Plus, he’s a bloke; if I tell him there’s nothing more to the story, he will listen and forget about the incident tomorrow, not pester me for months with questions.

  So, I say, “I was saving a damsel in distress.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Liam raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Well, at least you burned some calories—forward lunges.”

  We stop the arm rotations and plunge forward on alternating legs.

  “Sorry, mate, but, no, nothing physical. I was offering only emotional support.”

  “Oh! Something bad happen to a friend of yours?”

  “Nah, I’d just met the girl. Found her crying in a broom closet. A boyfriend-cheating-with-the-best-friend situation.”

  Liam arches a brow again, questioningly this time. “And what were you doing in a closet?—squats, to the right, and to the left.”

  “Hiding from the paps. Anyway, I couldn’t leave her like that, so I gave her a lift home.”

  “Oh, so you wanted to turn her day from ‘the day I found out my boyfriend was cheating’ to ‘the day Christian Slade gave me a ride home?’”

  “Nope,” I say between squats. “She had no idea who I was.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Apparently she doesn’t watch TV.”

  Liam flashes me a sly smile. “Was she cute?”

  “Yeah, she was pretty.” More like incredibly beautiful, and with sapphires for eyes. “But it wasn’t like that.”

  “No, no, I get the fascination of meeting someone who doesn’t suck up to you from the moment they shake your hand. Must’ve been refreshing.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And I might excuse you on moral grounds, but as your personal trainer, I have to kick your ass instead.” He stops the squats. “All right, buddy, let’s start with some cardio. One jumping jack, one burpee, push up at the end, and back up from the start.”

  As we start jumping, I’ve no breath left to talk. Also, I take back everything I said before. I hate my life.

  Six

  Christian

  How soon is not too soon to call someone after they’ve broken up?

  Is two weeks enough?

  Assuming she dumped the prick.

  She must have. Lana didn’t strike me as someone who’d stay with a cheater.

  Right, but she also didn’t look like a woman any man would cheat on.

  But most importantly, does she want me to call?

  She gave me her business card, true, but I’m not sure it wasn’t just a spiteful gesture toward the boyfriend—hopefully ex-boyfriend by now.

  Christian, Christian, Christian, why call her? What are you going to do? Invite her to dinner, and then what?

  How will you explain the masses of fans, the hordes of paparazzi?

  A sure disaster. But it’s been two weeks and I haven’t been able to push Lana out of my mind…

  “Have you finished the screenplays?” Penny’s voice brings me back to the here and now of my home office.

  I’m tempted to tell her to take the day off and go home. My fingers are prickling to grab Lana’s business card from the desk drawer where I’ve stashed it and call her—What’s the best time to call a professor? Early morning? Evenings?—but duty first.

  “I have.”

  “And the verdict?”

  “Yes to the romcom and spy flick, no to the dystopian post-apocalyptic.”

  “You didn’t like the script?”

  “No, I did. And Zander is a great director, but I don’t want to spend half a year in Vancouver. And since I have the luxury to pick and choose…”

  “O-kay.” Penny types something on her phone. “Marvin will be disappointed; the post-apocalyptic flick had the highest payoff.”

  “Marvin lives in Bel Air and drives a Lamborghini, mostly thanks to the commissions he earns on my movies. He’ll survive.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Her phone pings.

  “Yep.” Penny turns the screen toward me. “He’s sent an unhappy, possibly crying emoji.”

  (>,_<)

  I stare at the message and laugh. “Tell him to stop being such a crybaby; he’ll still be able to afford his second divorce.”

  “Is he getting a prenup with wife number three?”

  “Should’ve learned by now.”

  “I’m not so sure. You know Marvin, he’s such a hopeless romantic.”

  “Yeah, until his assets are cut in half and he has to go on a saving plan to make wife number four happy.”

  “Why does he keep getting divorced?”

  “Falls in love too quickly, gets tired equally fast.”

  “Isn’t wife number two the one leaving him?”

  I nod. “Seems the lady was faster than him in realizing the mistake this time around.”

  “Cheers to happily ever after.” Penny laughs sarcastically. “At least Marvin tries to find love…”

  And that’s my cue to change the subject before the it’s-no-longer-cute-to-be-a-bachelor-at-thirty-five speech starts. “Right. Do I have anything scheduled for tonight?”

  “Richard and Blair are in town. You’re meeting them for dinner.”

  Richard is one of my oldest friends, from the BH—Before Hollywood—era.

  “Where to?”

  “Verdura. Blair’s a vegetarian, remember?.”

  “Infiltration plan?”

  “I’ve arranged with the manager for you to go in from the kitchen’s back door, and you guys have a private dining room.”

  “Exfil?”

  “Same protocol.”

  “Perfect.”

  Penny stares at me in a loaded silence.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Just saying, if Richard found the courage to fall in love again after what happened to him… there’s hope for everyone.” And before I can even roll my eyes, she adds, “Dying alone is no fun, not even for a Hollywood megastar.”

  “Are we finished here?”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “Good. I’m going for a swim.”

  Not sparing another glance at my assistant, I exit the office and abandon Lana’s card, along with every intention of calling her. The more I’m pushed toward something, the more I resist.

  I’m just wired like that.

  ***

  When I arrive at the restaurant that evening, Blair and Richard are already sitting at the table.

  “Mate.” Richard gets up to greet me, and we hug. “So good to see you.”

  “You, too.” I sit next to Blair—the fiercest, shortest redhead I have ever met—and kiss her on the cheek. “And how’s the woman who pulled off the impossible? Never thought I’d see this one settled,” I joke, pointing at Richard with my thumb.

  “Hasn’t been easy,” she quips back. “But what can I say? I’m irresistible.”

  A server arrives with our menus. I notice the surprise in her eyes as the waitress recognizes me, but she recovers quickly enough to announce the day’s specials without a hiccup.

  As servers’ reactions go, the polite un-acknowledgment of my persona is my favorite and most rare one. Immediately followed by the moderate fan and, in order of increasing annoyance: the enthusiastic fan, usually put to rest with an autograph or a selfie; the crazy fangirl/boy who either asks too many personal questions, tells me too much about herself/himself, or gives me her/his opinion on every single one of my movies; and, most irritating of all, the aspiring actor/actress who tries to slip me a headshot at the end of the night.

  I
can never tell when the fan-moment will arrive. Sometimes even the most composed servers save a surprise for the check. It can start with a simple “Call me” followed by their phone number written on the bill and escalate from there to the most indecent of proposals. But at least at that point I’m already leaving. Anyway, that’s why I prefer house parties: more privacy.

  And also better food.

  I stare at the menu, disheartened.

  “Mmm, Blair?” I ask. “Do you have any suggestions? I’m not much of a veggie person.”

  “You like strong cheeses?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Then try the gorgonzola and walnuts pasta, it’s delicious.”

  I eye the menu, still unconvinced. Nuts and pasta don’t seem like a good pairing. “What are you getting, mate?” I ask Richard.

  “Yeah, the pasta is delicious,” Richard answers distractedly.

  “I need the restroom,” Blair says, standing. Even if she’s wearing five-inch killer heels, she’s still super short, and adorably so, but never tell her that or she might bite your head off. “If the server comes back to take our orders, I’ll have the eggplant parmigiana.”

  As she walks away, I turn to Richard. “What’s up with you? Are you okay?”

  “Sorry, Chris, I’m distracted.”

  “I gathered that. By…?”

  “I’m not really here in LA to meet investors for the magazine,” Richards explains. He’s the founder and editor-in-chief of an online-only news outlet.

  “Oh, and the plot thickens. So, what’s the covert mission?”

  Richard takes his time unfolding his napkin over his legs. “I haven’t told anyone, so you can’t let it show on your face.”

  “Not to worry, I’m a pretty good actor,” I tease as our server comes back with our drinks.

  We give her our orders, including Blair’s, and once she’s gone, I wait for Richard to tell me what the big secret is.

  My friend takes a generous sip of red wine and then says, “I’m proposing to Blair tomorrow.”

  POW!

  Richard drops the bomb without preamble.

  “I… I’m… Wow!” I stutter. “I thought you were done with weddings.”

  “Me too, but Blair, she’s… she’s…”

  “She’s made you lose your mind,” I offer.

  “Pretty much.” Richard’s face brightens in a goofy smile. “But in a good way.”