The Breakup Artist (Cupids Book 4)

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The Breakup Artist (Cupids Book 4) Page 3

by Lila Monroe


  So what could Selena possibly want with me?

  Back in the lobby of the Griffin for the second time in twelve hours, I give my name to the clerk at the front desk, who shows me around a corner to a special elevator that leads directly to the penthouse. The car whooshes upward, and I barely have time to take a deep breath and collect myself before the doors open again and suddenly I’m face to face with a frighteningly polished woman who could be twenty-five . . . or forty. Either way, her forehead is as smooth as a baby’s ass.

  “Katie!” she croons, extending one perfectly manicured hand to shake mine. “I’m Suzie, Selena’s publicist? We spoke on the phone?” Her voice lilts up like a question at the end of every sentence. She’s wearing basically the same outfit I am—jeans and heels, plus a jacket—but somehow manages to look a hundred thousand miles more glamorous than I could ever hope to. Is that a Hollywood-person thing? I wonder. Is there something in the water? Is it because no one ever has to take public transportation?

  “Thanks so much for coming by on such short notice?” Suzie continues, leading me into the penthouse suite’s massive dining room, which boasts a table with room for at least a dozen. “If I can just get your signature on a couple of things really fast? We can go ahead and get started.”

  She hands me a sheaf of papers that’s roughly as many pages as my TV manual . . . and just as dense. I don’t have time to read it in any detail, but the general thrust of it seems to be that what happens in this hotel room stays in this hotel room on pains of death, dismemberment, and public shaming on the internet.

  Now I really am curious.

  I scrawl my name on the dotted line, hoping I haven’t just signed away my firstborn to a tiny goblin who spends his night spinning straw into gold. “All set.” I hand the papers back.

  “Awesome, right this way.”

  I follow Suzie down a carpeted hallway. We turn a corner into a luxuriously appointed living room—

  And I stop in my tracks.

  Because sitting on the wide white sofa the size of a luxury yacht, somehow looking even more absurdly lickable than he did this morning, is . . .

  “Wes?”

  3

  Katie

  “Oh, good,” says Suzie brightly. “You two know each other?” She smiles. “Katie, you can just make yourself comfortable here. Selena will be with you in just a moment?”

  My entire body is flushing at the sight of Wes there on the sofa, one arm flung over the back like he spends all his days and nights lounging in the posh hotel penthouses of Hollywood starlets. Which, for all I know, maybe he does now.

  Comfortable. Right.

  The door swooshes closed behind Suzie—even the catch of the knob sounds expensive—and I’m left to stare at Wes in disbelief. Earlier in the lobby, I only let myself steal quick glances in his direction, but now I can’t help but notice that the last five years have been very, very good to him: his dark hair is cut shorter than it was when we were together. His chest is broader than I remember, the muscles in his arms more defined. He’s changed out of his work clothes since this morning and is dressed in dark jeans and a soft-looking gray Henley that just begs for someone to run their hands all over his chest.

  Can I volunteer as tribute?

  No! Down, girl.

  “What are you doing here?” I finally manage. A thousand different possibilities are running wildly through my mind. None of them make a lick of sense whatsoever, and most of them involve Wes and Selena Owens wrapped in some kind of hot, torrid affair. “What’s this about?”

  Wes looks annoyingly casual. “We can just wait for Selena to explain.”

  “Sure,” I agree, perching a safe distance away from him on the opposite end of the sofa. “Because why not make this as unnecessarily mysterious as possible?”

  I think of how close he and Selena were sitting today in the hotel lobby. I swallow down a dangerous flare of jealousy that burns hotter than an ill-advised shot of Fireball. “Are you—?” I start to ask, then change my mind.

  Wes cocks an eyebrow. “Am I what?”

  I shake my head. I don’t care who he’s dating now, I remind myself firmly, even if she was voted Maxim’s sexiest woman alive for three of the last five years. “Never mind.”

  “Look,” Wes says, rubbing his palms on his thighs, which—is he nervous? “I know this is probably weird.”

  “What, this?” I gesture around at the living room, remembering the show of utter fabulousness I’d hoped to put on when I saw him again. I might not have the professional blowout or the hot piece of man candy on my arm, but at the very least I’m not wearing vomit all down my person. Might as well try to fake it. “It’s fine. I’m used to it. I have a lot of celebrity clients, actually.”

  Wes tilts his head to the side. “You do?”

  “Absolutely,” I lie cheerfully. “A-listers. Billionaires. Heads of state.”

  “Can I ask who?”

  “Nope,” I say crisply. “Sure can’t. Discretion is priceless. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Fair enough.” Wes clears his throat then. “In any event,” he says, “while I’ve got you here. There’s something I should probably say. Something that’s been on my mind for a while. Even before we ran into each other today.”

  I try to ignore the way my heartbeat kicks up inside my chest. “Oh?” I ask archly. “What’s that?”

  He takes a deep breath. “I just wanted to say—”

  But just then, the door opens and Selena Owens strolls in. She’s dressed casually, in leggings and a long, cozy-looking cardigan, a pair of UGG slippers on her feet. Her dark hair hangs over her shoulder in a long, glossy braid, and her face is stripped of makeup; in this moment she looks more like the most popular girl from my high school than an international movie star.

  “Katie!” she exclaims, like we’re old friends. She opens her arms, and I stand there, awkward, while Selena freaking Owens hugs me like her long-lost BFF.

  There’s a ferocious yapping noise, and Selena breaks away, smiling. “Jimmy Chew!” she exclaims to the tiny brown furball nipping at my heels. “Down! He gets so jealous,” she adds with a breezy smile. “Please, sit down. Can we get you anything? Tea? Champers? Thank you so much for coming. I’m so glad you’re here.”

  I blink. “Of course,” I say, taken aback by the whirlwind of smiles and generosity. Aren’t celebrities supposed to be demanding assholes, expecting mere mortals to be constantly at their every beck and call? I mean, I guess I am at her beck and call right now, technically, but she does seem legitimately grateful. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, you’re the Breakup Artist,” she says, sitting back on the sofa and folding her hands in her lap. “And I need to . . . break up!”

  “With Wes?” I blurt before I can stop myself.

  “What?” they say in unison. Wes blanches, and Selena lets out a musical laugh.

  “No, silly. With Ryder.” Then, as if she’s worried I’ve never heard of him: “Ryder Lowell? My boyfriend?”

  “Um, right. Of course.” I look pointedly away from Wes. “I . . . didn’t realize you two were having trouble.”

  “Nobody does,” Selena says, rolling her eyes. “Our publicists are all working overtime, trying to keep stuff out of the tabloids. But the truth is, it’s always been kind of . . . tempestuous. We fought like crazy all through filming our last movie. We must have broken up and gotten back together like, every single day.”

  “I see . . .” My brain is racing to catch up. “But you’re ready to call it off for real?”

  Selena nods. “Except, I always say that. And every time I try to move on, Ryder just pulls me back in. He makes a grand gesture, he promises me he’ll change, he does that special thing with his tongue on my—”

  Wes coughs loudly. She stops.

  “Anyway,” Selena continues, “you know how it goes. But this time, I have a secret weapon. You! Do you believe in kismet?”

  “Um . . .” I pause, lost.

/>   “Because I do. I read your blog after we ran into you this afternoon,” she continues, “and I realized the universe brought us together for a reason! I need a breakup, you’re the Breakup Artist . . . It’s fate! With your help, Ryder and I can have the perfect, stress-free uncoupling, and release each other back into the world with love and grace. Right?”

  I don’t know what to say. Stress-free, loving, and graceful? I don’t think there’s a breakup in the world that can claim that prize.

  No matter what Gwyneth likes to tell you.

  “I’m not so sure . . .” I begin tactfully, but Selena interrupts, enthusiastic.

  “Don’t be modest! If anyone can do this for us, you can,” Selena exclaims, beaming. “If we all spend a week together, you and me and Ryder, we could really dig into this thing, do the work, and consciously uncouple once and for all!”

  I almost fall off the couch in shock. “A week?” I squeak. Even Wes looks surprised.

  “Is that enough time?” Selena asks, blinking. “You can just come on out to my ranch in Ojai. There’s plenty of space there for you to work your magic. The energy out there is very calming.”

  She makes the offer as casually as if she’s inviting me across town to a different Starbucks than I usually go to. All at once the absurdity of this entire situation hits me like the 6 train at rush hour. I remember the chicken gyro—or is it yee-ro?—waiting for me back at home, far away from any ex-boyfriends or celebrities or small yappy dogs who are, at this very moment, relieving themselves in the corner of this hotel suite.

  “I, um, appreciate your confidence in me,” I say sincerely. After all, it’s not every day that a gal who has both Oprah and Michelle on speed dial comes to you asking for help. “But this is way above my pay grade. Not to mention the fact that your fans would kill me.”

  Breaking up America’s sweethearts? I might as well kick a Care Bear or punch Taylor Swift in the face.

  Selena pushes her bottom lip out, downcast. “Will you at least think about it?” she presses sweetly. “We’d pay for your time, of course. Whatever you want!”

  “No, it’s not about the money—”

  “Didn’t you say you had a book coming out?” Wes asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken since Selena entered the room, and I whirl to look at him. He’s watching me carefully, with a kind of crafty, let’s make a deal expression on his face that I can only imagine they teach you on your first day of law school. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity, right? What better way to prove you know what you’re doing than to put your money where your mouth is for Hollywood’s most beloved power couple?”

  I gulp. On one hand, I don’t actually think it’s true that there’s no such thing as bad publicity—just ask Exxon. On the other, Wes kind of has a point . . .

  Eliza said we’re pretty much on our own when it comes to marketing my book. And I can only dream of the kind of column inches that Selena gets just strolling to walk the dog. If I pulled this off . . .

  But still. This is crazy, right? There's no way I can coach a couple through their breakup when it’s happening in the eye of a celebrity whirlwind.

  But if I could . . .

  “I’ll think about it,” I say at last. “But I can’t make any promises.”

  “Yay!” Selena says, bouncing up to hug me again. “Thank you!!”

  “I said, no promises,” I try to explain, but she’s already beaming.

  “I told you. Kismet!”

  “Selena?” Suzie walks in. “Time’s up. Your glam squad is waiting.”

  “Awesome.” Selena sends me another smile, then is whisked away to her next appointment, while I’m steered to the elevator and sent back down to earth.

  I mean, the lobby.

  I step out, dazed. It feels like everything that happened today, from the green smoothie debacle right up through this meeting, was some weird fever dream—like any minute I’m going to remember I have a chemistry test I haven’t studied for, then look down and realize I’m not wearing any pants.

  I’m nearly across the lobby when someone calls my name. I turn back. It’sWes.

  Again.

  “What is it now?” I ask. “You just suddenly can’t get enough of me after all this time?”

  It’s the closest I’ve come to saying anything about the way he dumped me, and I watch his expression flicker with something that might be shame.

  “Look,” Wes says, tucking his hands into his pockets. “I know Selena can be a handful, but the truth is, we could really use your help.”

  I look at him suspiciously. “What is this even really about?” I ask. “You guys are sleeping together in secret, is that it? And you want me to step in and keep it from getting too messy?”

  “What?” Wes looks at me like I’m crazy. “I’m on the legal team for the studio. A company grunt, that’s all. And from a company perspective, this whole thing is a ticking time bomb we need to defuse before it blows the hell up in everyone’s faces.”

  I frown, confused. “Selena’s a time bomb?”

  “No, but Selena and Ryder are,” Wes sighs. “The movie went way over budget, it was a nightmare to shoot. We need it to be a massive hit. Hundreds of millions of dollars are on the line. And if word leaks that our perfect couple actually hate each other and can’t stand to be in the same room for the press tour . . . We’re all screwed. If anyone can convince them to be civil, you can.”

  I snort. “And how would you know? You haven’t exactly had me on speed dial these past years.”

  “I know enough,” Wes says, and I tell myself I’m imagining the sudden heat in his voice. But I can’t help but remember those months we spent together—eating noodles in Chinatown and walking through the park at sunset, limbs tangled together under the sheets in his tiny apartment uptown. He used to wake me up in the morning by running his fingertips along the ridges of my backbone.

  And then he disappeared without so much as a goodbye.

  What’s one of my first rules for a breakup? No backsies.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” I tell him, feeling determined. “And like, not to state the obvious, but I’m sure neither one of us is dying to spend a week together.”

  Wes shakes his head. “I won’t be there,” he promises. “I’m in town for meetings this week, that’s all. I’ll head back to LA in a few. This has nothing to do with me.”

  I’m not totally convinced, and Wes can tell. “Just take a day before you turn her down. This could be really great for you,” he says.

  “And I’m sure you won’t stand to benefit at all if everything works out OK, either,” I say, just a little salty.

  He grins. “What’s wrong with that? Selena’s happy, the movie studio gets what they want, you cash a big check . . . Everyone wins.”

  Except I already know what it feels like to be on the losing side of this guy, and I don’t want to risk a replay. I give him another suspicious look and turn to walk away. “I’ll think about it.”

  Wes leaps to get the door. I’m surprised by the gentlemanliness of the gesture, and for a moment I feel myself soften.

  “Take care of yourself,” he adds, with a familiar smile that gives me the worst feeling of déjà vu.

  I gulp and back away. I’d tell him the same thing, but I don’t have to. When it comes to taking care of things, Wes Baxter puts himself first. Always.

  After a sleepless night and distracted workday weighing Selena’s offer, I finally call it quits on my latest blog post and go visit April—with a couple of pick-me-up lattes, too. Her florist shop always puts me in a better mood. She expanded her storefront last year and the place is completely magical, with flowering vines crisscrossing the ceiling to form a sweet-smelling canopy, and a living wall of succulents behind the cash register. There are ready-made arrangements in vases on every surface and more in refrigerated cases lining the back wall, an explosion of colors and scents that never fails to lift my mood.

  But today, I can’t shake my indec
ision. “I just don’t know what to do . . . Help me?” I beg, with a desperate sip of coffee. “What should I do? Should I take the gig?”

  “I can’t believe you’re even asking!” she tells me, hopped up on both caffeine and on Hollywood drama. She shoves a couple of peachy tea roses into a vase in preparation for a fancy event on the Upper East Side. “More than that, I can’t believe Selena and Ryder aren’t actually going to live happily ever after, floating blissfully in their pool of money. They sure know how to fake it. I’ve seen all the movies. Twice.”

  “I don’t think it was entirely fake,” I say thoughtfully. “I just think some couples are better apart than together, that’s all.”

  Like Wes and me, for example.

  “Spoken like a gal in the right line of work.”

  I turn. April’s boyfriend, Seth, has come down from his office on the floor above the shop. He greets April with a kiss and smiles. “Speaking of which, weren’t you just looking for creative ways to promote the book? I can’t think of anything more headline-grabbing than this.”

  “Wes said the same thing, actually,” I admit.

  April raises her eyebrows. “Oh, Wes did, huh?”

  “Before I said goodbye to him forever, yes,” I clarify as my phone vibrates inside my purse. “Hey Eliza,” I say, fishing it out and swiping to answer. “What’s up?”

  “Well, I wish I was calling with better news,” she says, her voice full of regret. “But . . . the Powers That Be have decided to cut your print run.”

 

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