by Lauren Layne
“And you both all but shoved Dylan in a cab so that Oliver would have to walk me home.”
“We didn’t want Dylan to be late to the airport,” Claire said innocently.
Audrey nodded in solemn agreement. “His job is very important. Super demanding. Did he not tell you once or a thousand times?”
Naomi conceded with a laugh. “Okay, I’ll grant that Dylan was a little . . .”
“Conceited? Invasive? Full of himself?” Claire said.
“He’s a good producer,” Naomi pointed out.
“That I’ll believe. He certainly was determined to get the dirt on you.”
Naomi winced. Dylan had been a little obvious in his attempt to get information about her from her friends that night. But he’d called later to apologize, and Naomi could cop to being a little pushy when she wanted something.
“Any regrets on signing the contract for the TV show?”
“Oddly, no. I mean, things are moving fast, but so far I haven’t had to do much,” Naomi said, taking a sip of her wine. They were right, she had given herself a plus-size pour.
It wasn’t the most responsible way to deal with the fact that she couldn’t stop thinking about Oliver Cunningham, but it was effective.
“Tell ya what,” Naomi said, looking back to Audrey to change the subject. “I’ll give you the full rundown on Oliver if you fill me in on Clarke.”
Audrey blinked in surprise, then laughed. “Clarke? Clarke West? As in . . . Clarke?”
Naomi laughed. “Yes, as in Clarke. The Clarke. What’s the story there? Gay?”
“Definitely not.”
Claire’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve had a straight best guy friend who looks like that for twenty years? How does that work?”
“What she said,” Naomi said, pointing at Claire. “Wait, no, let me guess. You guys hooked up and had no chemistry but decided to be friends rather than exes. Ooh, or you’re secretly in love but aren’t ready to admit it to yourself?”
Audrey raised her eyebrows. “Those are my only two options?”
“Pretty much.”
“Says who?” Audrey demanded.
Naomi shrugged. “Movies?”
“Every teen TV show ever written,” Claire chimed in.
“Well, that’s true,” Audrey admitted. “But I hate to break it to you ladies, Clarke and I don’t fit into either of those categories.”
“He’s not gay. And not an ex? And you’re not secretly in love?” Naomi asked skeptically.
Audrey smiled. “No to all of the above. We really are just friends. When I was in first grade, a mean third-grade girl stole the locket my grandma had given me for my birthday. He made her give it back, then played hopscotch with me until I stopped crying.”
“How did you not fall in love then and there?” Claire asked a little dreamily. “That’s so romantic.”
“I was six, so not so much,” Audrey said. “I idolized him, but more in the big brother kind of way, since my actual big brother was much older.”
“Okay, but what about after you developed hormones,” Naomi asked. “Surely then you realized your best friend was ridiculously cute.”
“Yeah, but he’s a couple years older, so he got hormones first. By the time I figured out the whole boy-girl thing, he was already a ladies’ man, and I was smart enough to recognize a heartbreaker, even if he was my best friend.”
“Wait, he was a heartbreaker, at what, twelve?”
Audrey gave Claire a look over their wineglasses. “You’ve seen him.”
“I have. Which is why I can’t believe there hasn’t been something. A drunken fling? Secret crush? Give me something. He’s too hot for there not to be a story there.”
“No story,” Audrey said firmly. “Your turn.”
“My turn what?”
“You know what. Oliver Cunningham.”
“Well, as you ladies now know, Oliver was not my childhood hero. Quite the opposite. He makes that bitch who stole your locket sound like a sweetie pie,” she said to Audrey. “End of story.”
“Um, not end of story. You’re neighbors with some seriously delicious animosity. Have you told him who you are yet?”
Naomi shook her head.
“Naomi. You’ve got to tell him,” Claire said.
“What good would that do?”
“Well, the woman he’s seriously crushing on wouldn’t be lying to him, for starters.”
“He’s not crushing.”
Claire and Audrey exchanged a look.
“He’s not! He’s just . . . intrigued.”
Like she was by him.
“Trust me, I am not Oliver Cunningham’s type.”
“What’s his type?”
“You two,” she said, pointing between them.
“Well, obviously you have something in common with us. Brayden certainly liked all three of us,” Claire said, her tone just a bit caustic.
“He married you,” Naomi retorted. “And he at least let Audrey think he was going to marry her someday. He never made any such promises to me. Brayden saw me for what I am. The real me. Just like Dylan sees me.”
“What’s that mean? The real you?”
“You know.” She waved her hand dismissively. “A little brash. Fun. The one you do tequila shots with on Friday night, not the one you take home to Mom.”
“Well, you lucked out there. Brayden’s mother was a nightmare,” Claire said.
“Still. You know what I mean.”
“Actually, not at all,” Audrey protested. “Don’t talk about yourself like you’re . . .”
“Trash?” Naomi said for her.
“Stop it,” Claire said sharply. “You want to know who really sees you, it’s me and Audrey. And like it or not, it’s Oliver, too, if you could see past your childhood grudge to give him a chance.”
“Hey!” Naomi said, a little stung. “For the record, we had dinner together.”
Audrey clapped. “That is so cute.”
“Cuter than Clarke playing hopscotch with you? And it was just dinner.”
“What kind of dinner?” Claire demanded.
“Foie gras and caviar, what else? We had spaghetti, Claire. What does it matter? I fed him really bad pasta.”
“You fed him? Oh my gosh. You like him.”
“I don’t.” Naomi was increasingly feeling wildly out of her depth. “Or I don’t know if I do. What I do know is that I’ve had dinner with a guy in the past week, and you haven’t. We’ve already established that Clarke doesn’t count,” Naomi said, lifting a finger in warning to Audrey, who was about to protest. “I may be confused, but at least I’m trying.”
“Hmm, I need more wine,” Audrey mused, starting to stand.
“You get more wine after you agree to go on a date. Any date,” Naomi said.
“I haven’t met anyone I want to go on a date with,” Audrey said primly.
“Me neither,” Clare said, more emphatically.
“Well, that’s too damn bad,” Naomi said. “We agreed to help each other avoid Manhattan’s crappy men, not avoid all men.”
“Is there such a thing as a man who’s not crappy?” Claire tapped her chin.
“Oh, stop. I’m not saying you need to commit to an entree. Just sample the buffet,” Naomi said. “It’s only going to get harder the longer you wait.”
Audrey slumped back against the couch. “I hate that she’s right. I swear, every day, I wake up with another bitterness wrinkle.”
“A what?”
“Here,” Audrey said, pointing to the corner of her eyes. “Bitterness.”
“She could be onto something,” Naomi said. “My mom fed on bitterness, and she had whopper crow’s-feet.”
Claire’s hand lifted to her face. “So what are you suggesting?”
“Just that we all agree to go on a date. Just one. Painless.”
“Says the woman who has two men panting after her.”
Naomi didn’t dignify that with a response.
“All right,” Aud
rey said after a moment. “I’m in. I’ll even let you guys pick the guy, since I confess it was lame of me to bring Clarke to the dinner party when I insisted you guys bring an actual date.”
“And I’ll let you pick someone for me, too,” Claire said. “Since the date I brought was actually for Naomi.”
“Whom Naomi didn’t want.”
“You sure about that?” Audrey waggled her eyebrows. “Who are you going on a date with?”
“Dylan. Obviously.”
“You sure?”
Naomi opened her mouth, but no words came out.
Damn it. She wasn’t sure.
MONDAY, OCTOBER 22
Is this lip gloss too extra?”
Naomi didn’t even glance up from her phone as she replied to her assistant. “Deena, there’s not a thing about you that’s not extra.”
“Which normally I take as a compliment . . .”
“Meant as one.” Naomi continued to type on her phone.
“But, I’m worried the sparkle will look too garish on camera.”
“Wait, what?” Naomi finally looked up. She and her assistant were sitting at a conference room table at StarZone’s Flatiron headquarters while they waited for Dylan and the rest of the team to join them. “You know that we’re not actually filming today, or anytime soon, right? They’ve barely started the script.”
“But the casting director will be here, right?” Deena asked, adding an extra coat of gloss that really did seem to have more glitter than a kindergarten art project.
“I want it to be known that the best person to play Deena is, in fact, the actual Deena. Not some bimbo poser.”
“Noted. But I’m pretty sure the first season is going to be all about my childhood. Pre-Deena.”
“Damn.” Deena dropped the gloss back in her purse and pulled out a pack of gum. “Wintergreen?”
Naomi shook her head.
Her assistant shoved a stick in her mouth and studied Naomi. “So. This producer guy. Dylan Day. He’s hot, right?”
“Don’t make me regret inviting you,” Naomi muttered, turning her attention back to her phone.
“You need me. I’m going to take notes.”
“On what?” Naomi looked pointedly at the lack of notebook, laptop, or tablet.
Deena tapped her temple. “All up here. Big hair, big brain. So is he hot, or what? He looked hot that day in the office, but I only saw his butt. Do you know he dated the actress from that show about the sorority? She was pretty, but like half his age.”
Naomi nodded, even as she zoomed in on a picture of Audrey and Clarke on Instagram. Damn, that woman had good skin, even with those bitterness wrinkles.
“So are you guys dating?”
Naomi gave in and laughed. “Deena!”
“Don’t think I haven’t noticed that he’s basically the only person who has your direct number.”
“Which must mean we’ve eloped, right?”
“Your sarcasm is extra thick, which means I’m onto something.”
“Fine. Okay. We went to one dinner that was half date, half business meeting, and he was my date to a friend’s dinner party.”
“But he wants to do it again.” Deena didn’t ask it as a question, and she wasn’t wrong. Dylan had made no secret of his interest in seeing her again now that he was back from Dallas, but she’d been dodging, saying she was busy.
Which was true. Her job took up most of her days, and that was before she’d agreed to take on Walter Cunningham. Still, she didn’t regret offering to help. Walter had stayed with her all day last Wednesday and most of this morning before Serena had taken over so Naomi could attend this meeting. And as much as Naomi had enjoyed her time with Walter, she’d been even more surprised, and alarmed, to realize that she’d enjoyed the moment Oliver had come home in the evening even more.
And the way it had felt so right for the two of them to have dinner—for the second night in a row—was downright terrifying.
“Have you kissed yet?” Deena asked, snapping her gum.
“No! I’m just helping out with his dad for a few days.”
Deena’s jaw stopped working her gum for a moment. “You know Dylan Day’s dad? Damn, woman, you work fast.”
She was saved from having to explain—or trying to explain—the mess she’d gotten herself into with her new neighbor and ex-nemesis as the conference room doors opened.
“Sorry for the delay,” Dylan said, greeting them with a grin. “You must be Deena.”
“In the flesh,” Deena said, shaking his hand and giving him an unabashed once-over. “Yep. Hot.”
Naomi groaned, but Dylan only laughed and gave Naomi a quick wink.
How was it that a wink from Oliver Cunningham could keep her up all night, but a wink from this guy, who was exactly the type of guy she’d always gravitated toward . . . nothing.
The group took their places around the table, and a tall, wiry woman who introduced herself as Libby, the casting director, got right down to business.
“I’ve got our little Naomi.”
Naomi blinked. “What? Already?”
“Well, we’ll still have full casting calls to make sure, but I guarantee you’re going to flip over this kid. She’s based in LA, but her Bronx accent is spot-on.”
Naomi nodded, trying not to get hung up on the irony that she’d spent years trying to get rid of her New York accent, only to have some child star from Hollywood put on that very same accent for entertainment.
No, not just entertainment, Naomi reminded herself. Accuracy. The entire reason for doing this in the first place was so that girls growing up like Naomi did would know there was more than hairstylist and waitress jobs in their future if they wanted it.
“I’m sure she’s perfect,” Naomi said with a smile. “But when we do open it up for casting, can we be sure to put feelers out in the outer boroughs? It may be a long shot, but I’d love if we could find a girl actually from the Bronx.”
“Absolutely. You got it,” Dylan said. Naomi thought she might have seen Libby give just the slightest eye-roll, but the other woman nodded and jotted something in her black notebook.
“Naomi, Caleb Davis, head screenwriter,” a bald guy to her right said, standing to shake her hand. “I’m delighted to say we’ve already got some homework for you.”
Caleb pushed a fat stack of paper across the table. “The pilot. I’ll send you a PDF, too, but I find sometimes the old-fashioned way is best.”
“Wow.” Naomi blinked down at it.
“Told ya we were moving fast on this,” Dylan said.
“Take your time reviewing it,” Caleb said. “And by take your time, I mean if you could have any feedback by next Monday, that’s my deadline.”
Naomi laughed as Deena pulled the script toward her and took a peek at the first few pages. “Got it. Anything I should look out for?”
“Actually, yeah.” Caleb shot a quick look at Dylan, who took over.
“The script’s good,” Dylan said, leaning forward with a smile. “Caleb’s a genius, and pulled together a pretty compelling story of your childhood from the dozens of interviews you’ve done over the years, plus interviews with people who knew you back then—”
“Wait.” Naomi held up her hand. “What?”
A man from her left wearing the most boring blue suit, white shirt, and blue tie combo on the planet jumped all over her incredulous tone. “It was in the contract. Page twenty-three, section 5C, specifically authorizes us to interview all sources we find relevant.”
“Don’t know if you could tell, but lawyer alert,” Dylan whispered loudly, nodding toward Blue Suit.
Everyone chuckled, and Naomi forced a polite smile. “I read the contract. I guess I didn’t expect that people who knew me twenty years ago would be considered relevant.”
“Well, they’re not, really,” Caleb admitted. “We rounded up a few former classmates, but while there was no shortage of people who wanted to tell us about how they ‘knew you when,’ nobod
y seems to really know you.”
“I was a shy kid.”
It was her standard line, but it wasn’t really true. She’d just been a smart kid. Smart enough to know that most people would throw you under the bus to save their own ass. She could thank Oliver Cunningham for that lesson.
“There is one gap we’re hoping you can fill,” Caleb said, flipping through a yellow legal pad until he found the note he was looking for. “One of our researchers discovered that you briefly transferred out of the Bronx school district when you attended the third grade in school District Two?”
Naomi went still. She didn’t know crap about school zones, but she knew exactly where she’d spent the third grade.
“What does that mean?” Deena asked.
Dylan studied Naomi for a moment, then looked at Deena. “It means Naomi went to third grade in Manhattan.”
Deena shook her head. “Nope. They got it wrong.”
Dylan looked back at Naomi, and she realized she should have seen this coming.
That they wouldn’t be satisfied summarizing her childhood with a series of inspirational anecdotes about how instead of a lemonade stand, she’d sold her own jewelry made out of paper clips and buttons, or how she’d made her own Barbie clothes out of bits of cloth she’d swiped from the mean seamstress who’d lived upstairs. Of course they would want the drama.
And she had to give them credit. They’d gone sniffing and found the jugular of Naomi’s childhood in under a week. Might as well admit the bare minimum now to stop them from digging further.
“They’re not wrong,” she told her assistant quietly.
Deena gave her a startled look. “Really? You grew up in Manhattan?”
Naomi snorted. “Hardly. I lived there for a year. Less than.”
“Why? Where?” Caleb already had his pen ready.
“Park Avenue.”
Deena’s gum stopped smacking for a moment, then resumed a moment later, and she wisely kept from mentioning the calls from 517 Park Avenue and the fact that Naomi had made a last-minute decision to buy that apartment after signing a lease on the Tribeca condo.
Caleb frowned, flipping through his notes. “You live on Park Avenue currently, right?”
“Right.” She sat back and crossed her legs, hoping her clipped tone and cool demeanor would signal nothing to see here, move along.
