The Breakup Artist (Cupids Book 4)

by Lila Monroe

I gulp. “That doesn’t sound good. By how much?”

  “Enough,” Eliza says, and I know that it must be bad. “I’m sorry!” she blurts. “I don’t want you to get discouraged. But I always try to keep my authors in the loop. We’ll have to get extra-creative with those marketing ideas, that’s all.”

  My heart sinks. I’ve been so excited about this book. It’s my chance to spread my message to all the women who need to hear that they don’t have to settle for a crappy relationship, and that there’s life after heartbreak. But if we don’t do something, then it’ll sink without a trace and be read by me, my mom, and the guy stocking the remainders bin at Barnes and Noble.

  Unless . . .

  I glance out the plate-glass window of the shop just in time to see Dick Johnson’s grinning face leering at me from the top of a passing taxicab. It’s like a cruel sign from the universe telling me not to look a gift promotional opportunity in the mouth. Turning down Selena’s proposition would be crazy at the best of times. But it sounds like these times aren’t best, not by a long shot.

  “About that,” I say slowly as April leaps up and down, silently clapping and giving Seth high fives. “I think I might know one way to get us some publicity.”

  4

  Wes

  It’s a good thing my hotel gym opens early, because I’m right there at the front door waiting at five a.m. I couldn’t sleep. Between trying to stop Selena and Ryder from killing each other in public and doing my best to keep my bosses at the movie studio happy, I’ve got way too much pent-up stress weighing me down.

  And then there’s the whole Katie factor, too.

  The truth is, I haven’t been able to get her off my mind since last night. Granted, it seems like she’s doing amazing—and God knows she looks it, with the kind of body that should come with a warning sign and the same crooked, mischievous smile I remember—but I still feel like a total ass about how I ended things with her all those years ago.

  Or, more to the point, how I didn’t end them.

  At the time, I told myself that ghosting wasn’t that big of a deal. Sure, it was kind of a dick move, but I honestly didn’t think Katie and I were that serious. And I definitely didn’t think she wanted us to be. Back then it always felt like she was holding me at arm’s length, like she’d never actually let me get to know her. She never argued with me about anything, even what to watch on Netflix or where to go for dinner. She never even texted me first. I kind of assumed she wasn’t into me enough to bother.

  So, sure, leaving like that without even so much as a goodbye was a dumb, coward’s move, but what can I say? I was young, I didn’t want the drama. I landed a great new job in the legal department of a movie studio out in LA and figured, no harm, no foul.

  Yeah, I was an idiot, I know. Because a couple of years later, a woman I was dating pulled the exact same move on me. We’d been together six months, and I was crazy about her, when she dropped me cold. I’m talking blocked calls, no replies to my messages, setting all her social media accounts to private. I didn’t know what the hell was happening, only that it hurt like hell.

  Karma sucks, that’s for sure.

  I started thinking about Katie a lot after that, about what a total douche I was to pack up and go with no warning. Ever since then I’ve been waiting for the chance to apologize, and yesterday, it seemed like I finally had my opportunity.

  But I blew it.

  I try to shake off that particular memory and turn my energy to where I can use it. Like the punching bag. A sweaty workout has always been my favorite stress reliever—or, OK, my second-favorite stress reliever. But it’s the best I can do without a willing female partner. Or in public.

  I don’t realize I’m maybe taking it too seriously on the bag today until my buddy, Jackson, strolls in. I guess he couldn’t sleep, either. “Easy there, bro,” he says, looking amused. “You training to fight Tyson, or what?”

  I ease up, taking a breath. “Nah, trying to keep both my ears, thanks.” I reach down to grab a bottle of water. “Just a lot on my mind, I guess.”

  “Poor baby,” Jackson snorts sarcastically. “You’re not the one watching his whole career go down in flames.”

  I wince. Jackson is an amazing screenwriter, and this new Selena and Ryder movie was supposed to be his big break. A dream project—that’s turned into a nightmare.

  “How are you holding up?” I ask. “You must feel better now that the shooting is over.”

  He gives me a look. “This whole movie is a train wreck. A plane crash. The space shuttle crashing to earth and like . . .” He makes an explosion sound, gesturing with both hands.

  I grin. “It’s not that bad.”

  “It’s pretty bad,” he corrects me, and this time I can’t bring myself to argue.

  Jackson first sold the movie as a quiet, intimate relationship drama, almost like a play—originally the whole thing took place in a cabin in the woods of Minnesota, two star-crossed lovers trying to decide whether or not they can heal their relationship. He was over the moon when Selena and Ryder signed on. The two of us went to Vegas for the weekend to celebrate, eating hundred-dollar steaks and toasting to his future stardom. But it wasn’t long before the whole thing spiraled out of control. My buddy’s meditation on the fragile nature of true love somehow turned into a sequel to Titanic, with Rose’s great-granddaughter stuck on a space shuttle hurtling to a certain doom, while she falls in love with the half-human, half-android man who could save them all. It’s got some truly questionable CGI, a bloated budget, and two stars who can barely be in the same room without going for each other’s jugulars. I guess it’s a possibility that the tabloid gossip around Selena and Ryder’s relationship drama will help sell tickets, but My Heart Will Go On is pretty unlikely to garner Jackson a screenwriting Oscar—or even a chance to write anything else.

  I’m about to suggest a post-workout breakfast—and, OK, maybe an early beer or three—when my phone rings inside my gym bag. I wince when I see my boss’s number on the screen. “This is Wes,” I say.

  “What in the hell is going on out there?” Tripp demands, before Hello or How are you or What’s the weather like out there in New York. In the five years I’ve been working for him, never once has Tripp wasted time on niceties. “Why didn’t you do anything to put a lid on these ridiculous shenanigans?”

  “Wait, what?” I blink. “What shenanigans?”

  “What shenanigans,” Tripp repeats, like I’m being dense on purpose. “Selena Owens hiring some woo-woo relationship coach to help ease her and Ryder through their tragic parting, that’s what shenanigans.”

  “Uh, this is the first I’m hearing about it,” I lie. “But wouldn’t that be that a good thing? Seems like it would help to keep Serena and Ryder civil on the promo circuit.”

  “I don’t want them civil!” Tripp bellows. “I want them in love! America wants them in love! And our shareholders want them in love. Together, Serena and Ryder are box office gold. Apart, frankly, I could give a shit.”

  I mean, it’s not like he doesn’t have a point. “I hear you,” I say as I wave a distracted goodbye to Jackson and head out onto the crowded city street, “but—”

  “Who even is this woman?” Tripp demands. “Some no-name Instagram influencer? Is she a therapist? Has she signed an NDA? The last thing we need is her running to the tabloids or writing some viral blog post about how Hollywood’s most adorable couple secretly want to set each other on fire.”

  “I think she’s pretty well respected, actually,” I say, realizing a beat too late that I’m not supposed to know anything about her either way. But I spent some time checking out Katie’s website last night and I was pretty impressed. “She’s got a book coming out in a few weeks—”

  “A book!” Tripp laments. “Christ on a cracker, that’s all we need. Look, just handle it, will you? She’s on her way into the New York office this morning to sign some paperwork. At the very least, get over there and make sure the contract is airtight.”r />
  I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing my forehead. See Katie again? What could possibly go wrong?

  “Sure,” I sigh. “I’ll be there.”

  I find Katie in the conference room at our offices in Midtown, sitting across an enormous conference table from half a dozen middle-aged white guys in staid blue suits. She’s dressed in tailored black pants and a pair of leopard-print ballet flats and looks remarkably calm for a woman holding her ground against a battalion of studio lawyers billing a thousand bucks an hour—each.

  “Look, I’m not saying I won’t sign anything,” she’s explaining calmly, folding her hands neatly on the table in front of her. “I understand you all need to cover your hind ends. But the reality is that as far as Selena and Ryder’s breakup goes, there’s not going to be a secret to keep for very much longer. It’s happening. The only question is how messy it’s going to be, and that’s where I can help you.” She shrugs. “I respect the fact that it’s your job to try and keep me quiet, and of course I’d respect Selena and Ryder’s privacy, the same as I respect the privacy of all my clients. But this would be the most high-profile job of my career. I’d have to be an idiot to agree not to talk about it at all.”

  I stand in the doorway, taking her in. She sounds cool, collected, and capable as all hell—and honestly, I’m more than a little charmed. She seems like a different person from the girl I dated five years ago. More confident, like she’s grown into herself.

  I wonder if she’d say the same about me.

  Katie looks up and notices me, her expression flickering just for a moment before she clears her throat. “Wes. Perfect timing. Will you please explain to your colleagues that I’m trying to do them all a favor here?”

  “I think we’d be doing each other a favor,” I point out, but then I turn to my colleagues across the table. “The reality is, Selena wants her. And we all have a vested interest in making sure Selena gets what she wants.” I raise my eyebrows. “Do we really want another Mangostein debacle?”

  That gets their attention, six paunchy white faces turning a shade paler all at once. “We’ll huddle and come back with a new draft,” one of them says, before they all gather up their papers and scatter like rodents in the subway system.

  “What was the Mangostein debacle?” Katie asks once we’re alone.

  I shake my head. “You don’t want to know.”

  “I kind of do.” She grins, looking irresistible.

  “I signed an NDA, sadly.”

  Katie tips her head to the side like, Too bad. “Cloak and dagger is kind of your thing, I guess,” she says. “Keeping secrets. Disappearing under the cover of night.”

  I wince, even as I recognize the universe giving me a second—no, a third chance to apologize for the person I was five years ago. “Listen,” I say, “about that—”

  But Katie waves a hand. “Don’t worry about it,” she says. “Seriously, it was ages ago.”

  Something about the way she says it makes me think that we’re not quite as all right as she keeps insisting we are, but the middle of a windowed conference room in a corporate high rise doesn’t feel like the place to push the issue. “OK,” I agree. “Well, in any case, I’m glad you changed your mind about taking this on.”

  Katie smiles then, spinning a little in her chair. “I like a challenge,” is all she says.

  Tripp pings my cell phone again, so I step out to take it. “They get everything sorted out with the divorce whisperer?” he wants to know.

  “They’re still working out the details,” I tell him. Tripp is everything you might expect from a big-time studio lawyer, all pinstripe suits and three-martini lunches. I’ve never actually seen him chomp on a cigar, but you always kind of get the impression that that’s what he’s doing in his heart. “But I’m confident they’ll come to an agreement.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of!” he bellows, then sighs. “I don’t like this. I don’t like it at all. Where’s this supposed healing even happening, Selena’s Ojai place? I’m going to send you out there, make sure nobody tips off TMZ or decides to throw us any curveballs.”

  I stop in my tracks. “Wait, what?”

  “You heard me,” Tripp says. “Pack your bags.”

  “I don’t really think—”

  “I’m not fucking around here, Wes,” Tripp interrupts me. “My Heart Will Go On is our biggest investment in years. We have hundreds of millions of dollars on the line with that movie. I’m not going to see it all flushed down the toilet on my watch just because Ryder Lowell can’t remember to put the seat down, or whatever the fuck. I don’t care if you have to lock these two knuckleheads in one of their trailers indefinitely with nothing but coconut water and rice cakes for sustenance until they work it out. I want them together.” Already he sounds more energized, buoyed by the genius of his own plan. “Now go out there and make sure those two beautiful idiots stay together, for as long as we all shall live.”

  I think of what I told Katie in the hotel lobby last night: that I wouldn’t be there, that none of this had anything to do with me—and can’t help but wince. “Tripp—” I start, then I break off as I look back down the hallway and catch sight of Katie heading for the elevator, shoulders back and head high and victory written all over her face.

  A week with my ex-girlfriend in a movie star’s mansion—billing 24/7 for my time?

  Maybe there are worse things.

  “Sure,” I say into the phone, watching as the elevator doors slide open and Katie gets inside. “I’ll be there.”

  5

  Katie

  After I hold my nerve in the negotiations, the studio suits cave on my non-disclosure, and even wind up offering me an amount of money so big I forget how to speak for a full minute.

  Which they take as a rejection, so they double it again by the time I find my breath. Clearly, Selena isn’t playing around, because three days later, I’m sipping champagne in first class, winging my way to LA. I’ve got my seat back fully reclined, an eye mask pushed up onto my forehead, and a library of trashy magazines fanned out on the tray table in front of me. “Could I possibly get a little bit more of this?” I ask the flight attendant, holding out my empty glass. It’s my first time ever flying first class and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to take advantage of every last perk. “And another hot towel?”

  The last few days have been a whirlwind, full of packing and paperwork—and, OK, a frantic last-minute trip to SoHo with April to refresh my warm-weather clothes. I couldn’t very well show up to Selena’s ranch in Ojai with last year’s falling-apart flip-flops. I’ve got a reputation to uphold.

  Or, at least, someday I would like to have one.

  There’s a driver in sunglasses and a dark suit waiting for me at the airport, my name displayed on the iPad he’s holding like maybe I’m the movie star here. He hefts my suitcase into the back of his black SUV like it doesn’t weigh any more than my purse and whisks me off, out of the city. I watch the busy freeways fade to verdant green valleys as we wind our way north. I don’t know much about this area, but from what I gather from travel websites and Reese Witherspoon’s spread in Architectural Digest, it’s a cool town about an hour outside of LA, in the foothills of the mountains, where Hollywood’s finest like to go relax in nature and pretend that they’re just simple, down-to-earth folks.

  Eventually we turn off the highway onto a winding, wooded lane, then again onto a private road that eventually leads to a Spanish-style wrought-iron gate that swings open when the driver punches a code into the keypad. I gape out the window as we pull down a long driveway: the grounds of the ranch are incredible, full of lush fruit trees and flowering bushes, clusters of fat, spiny succulents lining the pathways that lead to dozens of outbuildings—guesthouses, I think, plus a gym and a stable, with half a dozen glossy palominos grazing in a fenced-in field. The light is golden and dappled through the canopy of leaves overhead.

  Rustic. Down to earth. Sure.

  Eventually the SUV pulls up
in front of the main house, a huge Spanish-style building which is situated high on a bluff, with a red-tiled roof and one entire exterior wall lined with glass doors flung open to the warm, hibiscus-scented breeze. An enormous patio is strung with twinkle lights, and as I climb out of the backseat, I catch the aqua gleam of what I think must be a pool through the trees.

  Holy shit. It’s like the most gorgeous hotel I’ve drooled over on Instagram brought to life—without the annoying influencer guests. If this is going to be my home base for the next week, let me just say, Yes, please!

  I thank the driver and roll my suitcase up to the front door, which is propped open with a heavy brass doorstop in the shape of a horse’s head. “Hello?” I call as I step inside, blinking as my eyes adjust to the dimness inside the house. There’s a grand staircase directly in front of me, with an enormous living room off to the right furnished in a combination of dark wood and off-white canvas, brightly-colored throw pillows scattered across the massive sofa, and what looks like a handmade ceramic bowl in the center of the coffee table. The built-in bookcases lining one wall are stuffed to bursting with art and photography books. The whole effect is several clicks more tasteful and understated than I might have imagined, and I wonder if possibly there’s more to Selena than meets the eye. “Anyone home?”

  “In here!” calls a woman’s voice from down a long hallway to the left of the staircase. “Welcome!”

  “Selena?” I ask cautiously, following the sound of her voice down the hallway, past a series of huge black and white landscape photos—of the ranch itself, I think, the horses and some chickens, a well-kept vegetable garden—before emerging in a kitchen so gleamingly, luxuriously appointed it would make Nancy Meyers pee herself with jealousy. “Is that you?”

  “Not quite,” says a petite, dark-haired woman, poking her head out from behind the open door of a massive stainless-steel fridge.