Making It, #2

by Christina Ross

  I was so nervous about tonight, I longed for a martini. But since I needed to see if Hunter was going to play it straight and not drink so he could remain sharp, I decided it was best to decline. After I told the hostess that I was fine, I turned and looked at Hunter as he strode toward us. And when I did? I was a goner.

  Because Hunter also had brought his A game.

  He was wearing an expensive black suit with a matching black tie. His coal-black hair was slicked through with gel in ways that accentuated his square jawline. I nodded at him as he approached me with an extended hand.

  “She’s mine,” he said to the hostess.

  “Of course,” the woman said.

  Well, that was kind of possessive . . .

  Hunter and I shook hands for the second time that day, and it didn’t escape me that his touch was just as electric as it had been the first time.

  What is it with this man? I’ve been single four years now, for God’s sake. I’m better than this!

  “We have the corner table,” he said. “I don’t know about you, but I hate to sit with my back to the room. I kind of felt that you’d feel the same way.”

  So, already he understands me? What the hell . . . ?

  “I couldn’t agree more,” I said, meaning it. “Watching the crowd is part of the fun.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “You never know what kind of stories you’re going to see. Let’s sit down.”

  As we moved toward the far right of the room, it didn’t escape me that because we had the corner table, Hunter and I would be sitting next to one another, our knees practically touching as we drank, ate, and exchanged small talk before we got down to business at the end of the meal over coffee or a digestif. I was so physically drawn to him that the idea of being so close to him unnerved me. But beyond that, I also knew that I had a job to do. I was here to nail down a solid deal that I could present to Pepper and her mother in the morning. What I needed to do right now was look at Hunter as a mere businessman—and not as a man with a million-dollar smile or a body built for sex.

  Maybe he’ll be boring, I thought as we approached our table. In this city and in my experience, people who possess Hunter’s kind of success and his good looks generally love to talk about themselves. And please may it be so, because nothing turns me off more in a man.

  After Hunter pulled out the table for me so I could sit down, he took his own seat, pulled the table toward us, and asked me what I’d like to drink.

  “What are you having?” I asked.

  “I haven’t ordered yet.”

  Another potential tactic? I need to stay sharp! How best to play this . . . ?

  “I think I’ll just have an iced tea,” I said.

  “Julia, you can’t be serious,” he said. “After what we went through with those girls today, you and I both need a drink. I’m having one. Hell, I’m having a double scotch—neat.”

  So, he is going to drink—and a double scotch, no less. Fine! I need a drink to settle my own nerves, so consider me in!

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll have a Belvedere martini with a twist, because there’s nothing sorrier than watching a man drink alone.”

  He smiled at me when I said that.

  “You’re quick.”

  I smiled back and thought, Not when it comes to my martini, Hunter, because I plan to nurse the hell out of that for the next two hours.

  When our waiter came by with the menu, Hunter and I ordered our drinks, then exchanged a bit of small talk about how great the spring weather had been. When our drinks arrived, we touched glasses and sipped.

  “Here’s to working together,” Hunter said, as his impossibly blue eyes flashed at me.

  “Working together? Are we talking business already?”

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to get the business bullshit out of the way so you and I can enjoy the evening together.”

  “But what if I don’t like your offer?” I said. “I mean, consider the tension then.”

  “You’re going to like my offer, Julia.”

  Please let it be the mother lode!

  “All right,” I said as I took a breath. “What’s your offer?”

  “I’ve talked with the network,” he said.

  “I presumed you would.”

  “I told them about Pepper, how she interacted with the girls, how her presence on set was like Adele setting fire to the rain, and then I told them about Pepper’s social media following, which stopped them short. I said that Pepper had offered to post about the show throughout the season on Instagram, Twitter, and Facebook in an effort to entice her followers to watch.”

  “Her millions of followers,” I said.

  “Exactly,” he said.

  “So, what’s the offer?”

  “For eighteen episodes, one million dollars. You wanted seven figures, and I got it for you. Done deal?”

  I thought about it for a moment, then I sank into myself. After watching Harper over the years, I knew that there were two types of deals. Either the lowball offer came first, or they wanted your client so much, they came forward with their absolute best and highest in an effort to lock things down. Since Hunter started shooting next week, was he under pressure to give me his best offer now? Or was I in a position to get more? I seriously didn’t know, especially since Pepper had lied about our meeting with ABC.

  Go with your gut . . .

  And then my gut spoke.

  “Here’s the good news,” I said as I sipped my drink. “We’re halfway there.”

  At that, his eyebrows shot up.

  “Halfway there? Julia, I’ve already told you that no one on that show comes anywhere close to making that kind of money—not even Lexi Reynolds. She’s the show’s star, and she makes half that. Let’s be reasonable here.”

  “I am being reasonable,” I said.

  “Is this about your meeting with ABC?”

  I refused to acknowledge Pepper’s lie. Instead, I just shrugged at him.

  “Here’s the thing,” I said. “After its first season, The Terrible Teens is off to a good start. It has legs. But if you want those legs to run and compete with the kings and queens of reality television—where the real money is, Hunter—you need Pepper Winters to take your show to the next level. We both know that she’s your best chance of doing so. We also know that her social media following is worth a hell of a lot more than one million dollars when it comes to the free advertising she’s agreed to push your way. What’s worse for you is that Pepper also is aware of it. Because of her popularity, it’s just a matter of time before she gets the deal that she’s seeking. Tonight, the only question in front of me is who is going to sign her first.”

  “How much do you want, Julia?”

  “Two million for eighteen episodes, plus a $500,000 signing bonus,” I whipped out of my ass.

  “No way,” he said, looking at me as if I had three heads. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “It isn’t, and you and I both know it.”

  “But we don’t have that kind of budget,” he said.

  “Then tell the network to get your budget in line, because others have far more to spend, and they’ll be happy to do so.” He winced when I said that. I felt a stab of guilt when I saw the disappointment on his face, but I nevertheless stood my ground. I was here to get the most for my client, and I already knew that if I couldn’t get Pepper on The Terrible Teens, I’d just find work for her elsewhere—because she was that marketable. “Hunter, look. You’re the showrunner. Sign Pepper, pay her what she’s worth, watch your show go into the stratosphere due to her seventy-five million followers, and when you go into negotiations with the network for season three? You’ll be thanking me for making you rich.”

  “I can’t pay Pepper that kind of money, Julia. We just don’t have it.”

  “Then I guess our evening is over,” I said, calling his bluff. I took another sip of my martini, put it down on the table, then started to push the table away from me so I could stand u
p to leave.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m going home.”

  He placed his hand over mine, and his touch was nearly enough to do me in. Still, as tantalizing as it was, I couldn’t allow myself to feel what I’d initially felt—which was wanting to place that hand of his between my legs. Pepper’s deal was too important to me, so I slid my hand away.

  “Wait,” he said. “At least let me make a call and see if I can make this work. Because I do want to work with Pepper.” He leveled me with a glance. “And also with you.”

  “Do you really want to work with me?” I asked. “Otherwise known as the evil she-devil who’s putting you through hell right now?”

  As irritated as he was with me, he still cracked a smile when I said that.

  “Let’s just say I don’t give up easily.” He stood. “Give me a minute. I’ll step outside, make a few calls, and see what I can do.”

  “I need you to do all of it, Hunter,” I said. “Not a penny less. I’ve outlined the reasons why.”

  “I’ll be back,” he said. “Look over the menu, because you and I are having dinner tonight. I didn’t wear this suit for nothing, you know?” And with that, he started to walk through the crowd of chatting diners. I watched him move toward the exit and step out onto the sidewalk as a dark cloud of wonderment overcame me.

  What now? I worried. What if he comes back claiming that he can’t go any higher? What if he calls my bluff? Pepper wants to be on that damned show! She’ll be furious with me if I blow this opportunity for her!

  And then I knew.

  If he did come back and say there was nothing more he could do for me, I knew for a fact that he’d beg me to reconsider. And if he did, I’d sigh, I’d ask him to commit to the figure on paper, and without any promises, I’d tell him that as low as his offer was, it nevertheless was my obligation to present all offers to Pepper and her mother. I’d say that I’d show them in the morning, and by noon? He’d know whether or not we had a deal. But if only to underscore how disappointed I was, I’d have to cut the evening short and leave in an effort to save face. There would be no meal for us. No further conversation. I’d need to leave to underscore how disappointed I was in him and his network because if I did that? He might reach out to the network again—and if they knew that I’d abruptly walked out on him, maybe then they’d see the light, and I’d get a call later with a better offer. Perhaps even on the cab ride home . . .

  While he was gone, I stared at the martini winking and blinking on the table in front of me, and felt that it was mocking me. A part of me wanted to down the whole thing, but since I knew better, I just reached for my glass of water and drank that while I looked over the menu.

  I loved French food, so naturally, everything looked mouthwatering to me, from the escargot and the steak tartare to the Dover sole meunière and naturally the coq au vin. When I glanced at the dessert menu, I remembered having the molten chocolate fondant when I came here with Harper. I knew that if Hunter could somehow come through with the deal I’d demanded, I actually could stay here and relish it again.

  It was a good ten minutes before he reentered the restaurant, and when I watched him walk toward me, his handsome face gave away nothing. It remained expressionless, so much so that my stomach started to feel queasy as he pulled out the table and sat down next to me. In the little rush of air he created in that movement, I caught a hint of the cologne he was wearing, which was clean and masculine without being overpowering.

  Kind of like him . . .

  Without saying a word to me, he lifted his glass of scotch to his lips and took a long pull from it before he turned to me.

  “How long have you been an agent?” he asked me.

  “Why the question?”

  “Just curious.”

  “And I’m curious about whether you’ve locked down this deal for us.”

  “We’ll get to that,” he said.

  “Now you’re just trying to hold me hostage.”

  “What if I am?”

  “It’s against the law?”

  He picked up the menu and started to look it over. “I’m having dinner with you tonight, Julia. Time for you to accept it. So, what looks good?”

  “A potential deal?”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry,” he said as he placed his hand on my forearm, which sent another heated rush through me. “We’ll have dinner, we’ll get to know one another better, we can relax and let go of a difficult day—and then I’ll tell you what their final offer is. OK?”

  “Why are you doing this to me? Are you a sadist?”

  When he looked at me, I thought that no man had any right to have eyes so preternaturally blue, or lashes so thick and dark.

  “Here’s the thing, Julia,” he said. “First, I find you interesting. Second, since I haven’t found many interesting, beautiful, quick-witted women in this city, I’d like to get to know you better, regardless of what the network has offered. So, how about if you allow me to have that?”

  When he said that, not only did I flush yet again, but dimples I never knew he had suddenly dented his cheeks as his mouth quirked in a self-satisfied smile before he returned his attention to the menu.

  “The filet mignon sounds good,” he said.

  How ironic, I thought in despair. Because here I sit, feeling utterly filleted . . .

  CHAPTER SIX

  “TELL ME ABOUT YOURSELF,” he said after we’d ordered.

  “I hate being interrogated.”

  He laughed when I said that, and I hated that I could sense that his laugh was genuine—and not an effort to try to disarm me into accepting the shitty offer I knew was coming my way.

  Because this? This breaking of the bread we were about to have? Even though he seemed to be enjoying himself with me—for whatever reason—I knew in my gut that he had to be working some sort of angle here. Because this man? This man was so ridiculously hot, he couldn’t be interested in just having a get-to-know-me dinner with the likes of me when he could have a supermodel. He was just being all sexy and charming and interested in me in an effort to cushion the blow that was coming my way at the end of the meal. I was no fool. I knew what he was doing.

  He’s pulling a tactic!

  But since I couldn’t get out of this now, what the hell. Tactic or not, I had no choice but to play along. And in the meantime? Maybe I’d learn a few things about him.

  “Where did you grow up?” he asked.

  “On the wrong side of the tracks.”

  Again that deep laugh, which fell smack under the category of ‘too sexy for your own damned good.’

  “Why do I doubt that?” he asked.

  “Probably because I’m wearing Tom Ford and good shoes? You really shouldn’t let them fool you, you know.”

  “Noted. Now, how about if you answer my question?”

  “I grew up in Connecticut,” I said. “Hartford, to be exact, which is your cue to hold up a disco ball over my head, because after spending most of my life in that boring town? I still need all the excitement I can get in my life.”

  “You can figuratively consider that done. What do your parents do?”

  “My mother owns a pastry shop, and my father teaches science. How about your parents?”

  He paused before he said, “That’s a complicated question.”

  “How can it be complicated—they gave birth to you.”

  “That’s the thing,” he said. “I don’t know who gave birth to me.”

  And that took me aback.

  “Sorry?” I said.

  “I was a foster kid,” he said. “From what I understand, the people who created me were a couple of drug addicts. The state took me away from them when I was a few months old, and then I got bounced around from family to family over the next sixteen years. If I were to psychoanalyze myself, that’s probably why I got into reality television. I saw a lot of shit when I was growing up—from the bottom of the bottom to the top of the top. I never knew when
or where I was going to be displaced. When I was sixteen, I ended up with good people. Successful, kind, loving people. I call them my parents. As for the rest of them? Not so much.”

  Did he come up with the idea for The Terrible Teens based on past experiences? I wondered. Had he been a troubled kid? Or by his casual admittance of what had to have been a difficult upbringing, has he come to terms with his past? Because it certainly seems as if he has . . .

  I had to believe that was true, because there was nothing in Hunter’s easy demeanor that suggested he was embarrassed or ashamed by anything he was sharing with me. If anything, his willingness to talk freely about his past told me everything I needed to know—if his past had left any scars, he’d dealt with them long ago and put them to bed.

  “So, who do you consider your parents now?” I asked.

  “Robert and Helen Steele,” he said. “They adopted me when I was sixteen, thus my last name.”

  “What do they do?”

  “My father makes documentaries. My mother is a poet.”

  “Robert Steele . . .” I said. “Why do I know that name?” And then it came to me. “Wait a minute.” My eyes popped. “No way. Did your father win the Academy Award last year for his documentary on the sex trade in Thailand?”

  Hunter smiled when I said that.

  “You see,” he said. “There’s a reason I wanted to get to know you better, Julia, because not many people could have nailed down such an obscure connection.” He nodded at me. “Yes, that would be my dad,” he said proudly. “You’d love him and my mother. Best people in the world.”

  “Where do they live?”

  “Here in Manhattan.”

  “Did you grow up here?”

  “Not exactly,” he said. “First, I started out in Queens, then the system bounced me around the other boroughs as they saw fit until I finally ended up here in Manhattan.” He took a sip of his scotch, then clocked me with a glance. “Listen, Sad Eyes, it is what it is, so why dwell on it, right? What matters is that I ended up with the right people, and that I’m happy. I don’t think about my past unless I’m asked about it. Otherwise? Total waste of time and energy because I’m not one to live my life in the rearview. But enough about me. Who do you take after? Your mother or your father?”