by Roxy Reid
“Yes, yes, yes, yes, YES!!!” Poppy says, jumping up and down with excitement.
And I have to say, it’s pretty rewarding having an eight year old as a client. When we get to the ballroom she drops her backpack, stunned. Then she races to the middle of the room and spins around, her arms spread wide. She looks up at the ceiling and gasps, “There’s stars! On the ceiling!”
I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe. There are indeed tiny mirrors mosaicked onto the ceiling in swirling, abstract designs. I kind of love it that when this kid looks up at them, she instantly sees stars.
“Will there be dancing? At my dad’s event?” Poppy asks as she mimes waltzing around the floor with an imaginary partner. Someone’s obviously been watching a lot of Disney.
“I don’t think so. It’s really more of a cocktail party.”
Poppy stomps her foot and turns to stare at me, “Then why are we having it in a ballroom?”
Yep, I definitely like Poppy King. She asks the hard-hitting questions.
She’s still looking at me like I am personally responsible for everything wrong and stupid in the world, so I set my purse by the door and join her in the center of the room.
“Tell you what. We can have our own dance now,” I hold out my hand dramatically. She doesn’t take it.
“But there’s no one here,” she says.
“So? That didn’t stop Beauty and the Beast. Rocky and Adrian. Hilary Duff and Chad Michael Murray in the gazebo in that horrible Cinderella movie.”
“What are you talking about?”
“What I’m talking about, is that sometimes you have to make your own magic, even if there aren’t any extras to back you up.” I wiggle my fingers, “So how about it kid? Wanna dance?”
She giggles. But then she takes my hand, and we start skipping and spinning and twirling. Poppy starts belting something that might have been from Frozen, if Idina Menzel was tone-deaf and eight.
I’m sure we look like maniacs, but she’s got that happy-carefree-kid-look I’m a sucker for. And I’m having more fun than I’ve had in a long time.
“Testing out the room for me, honey?” a man’s deep voice says, and I spin.
Joshua King is standing in the doorway. Somehow he looks even better than he looks on screen. I’m not sure if it’s the height, or the easy broad strength of him, or that spark in his eyes as he smiles at us. He’s the kind of man who makes you very aware that you’re a woman.
“Daddy!” Poppy screams, and runs to him. Mr. King swings her up, and she hugs him like she hasn’t seen him in ages. And maybe she hasn’t. He’s a busy man. It was hard enough to get this meeting on his schedule.
Which jolts me back to reality. I’ve got a contract to get signed. I try to tug my pencil skirt down after all that dancing, but I think I just succeed in drawing his attention to my legs.
“Mr. King. So nice to meet you. I–” Shit, I need my binder, with the floor plan mock-ups, and the cost estimates. All of which is on the other side of the room. I scurry over to him, trying not to think about how I’ve got… shit, only 15 minutes now, to make the most demanding man in Hollywood fall in love with this room.
“Joshua is fine.”
“Right. Joshua. Nice to meet you. I’m Sienna Bridges,” I hold out my hand. He shakes it, and hell, that’s distracting too. His hand is warm and strong and exactly not the kind of hand you want to be thinking about during a business meeting.
“As you found out for yourself, one of the advantages of this hotel is the intuitive layout,” I say. “It will be easy for your guests to come and go throughout the evening, adding to that laid back California sophistication you’re going for. I think you’ll find the view speaks for itself. And the room itself can be set up in a number of different configurations–”
“What, are you going to school for marketing or something?” he asks with a lazy grin.
Oh good, a comedian. And a patronizing one too. I do my best to fake a laugh.
Joshua stuffs his hands in his (no doubt very expensive) pockets and wanders the room, taking the time to inspect everything. I follow. I can forgive him the dumb joke if he just approves my perfect venue choice.
He starts inspecting the mobile bar.
“We can move that of course,” I say. “What do you think about doing ten around the perimeter?”
“That’s not a bad idea. But don’t worry about this stuff. You can go back to watching Poppy now.”
My jaw clenches. I’ve spent weeks on this, and he wants to waltz in and what? Get a feeling for the room? Make a decision off of whether or not it has good vibes? While I babysit?
I mean I like Poppy. I like her much better than her father, at this moment. But that’s not what I was hired to do. And I’m about to tell him as much, when I hear Carlotta’s voice in my head. Do anything he wants.
“Of course, I’m happy to give you some space to make your decision,” I try to swallow my pride, and turn to see Poppy watching the whole thing, eyes wide.
And, ironically, that’s the thing that does it. Because it’s not just me. It’s every woman at my firm he’s going to treat like this. And it’s Poppy, who’s not even ten yet, and already getting the message from her dad that women are for childcare, not business.
I turn back to face Joshua King, movie star. I walk up to the other side of the bar, and place my hands on it, taking up all the space I can. Making him look at me.
Which he does. I’m getting his full attention for the first time. And hell, it makes my stomach flip. He’s fierce and beautiful… and beginning to get irritated.
Well good. I’m irritated to.
“I’m happy to give you an autograph, or answer any questions you have when your shift ends,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “But when you’re on the job, Poppy comes first. No exceptions. No matter who else is in the room.”
Well, that’s a weird requirement to have.
“Mr. King, I appreciate that you love your daughter. But my job is not to take care of her,–”
“–it absolutely fucking is–”
“–it’s to help you plan your launch party for what’s going to become the ‘it’ champagne in Hollywood. But I can only make that happen if you let me do my job and show you this room.”
And then something beautiful happens, something that I will remember until my dying day: Joshua King blushes.
“... You’re not the new nanny, are you,” he says. And it’s not a question.
Wordlessly, I shake my head.
“There you guys are!” Poppy’s actual nanny shows up, popping gum, cell phone in hand. “It took me forever to find this place.” She half waves, “Hey Mr. King, nice to meet you,” before tromping over to Poppy, who proceeds to inform her that Daddy said fuck again.
Looking back at Joshua, I think he’d like to say it a few more times.
But I’ve got a pitch meeting to save. I clap my hands, like a cheerleader calling her squad to order, “Great. Now that we’ve got that sorted, let me walk you through the space. Unfortunately, we only have this room for a few more minutes, but I’ve got detailed pricing and floor-plan proposals we can go over in the hotel coffee shop. Then, assuming you don’t have any objections, we’ll get this contract signed, and your champagne that much closer to launching.”
But Joshua’s already shaking his head, “Unfortunately, I’ve got an objection.”
“Tell me what it is, and maybe we can work with it–”
“I don’t want it at a hotel.”
I stare at him. The man wants me to plan a high-end event for hundreds of people in three months, and I can’t use any hotel as a venue.
I scramble, “You know, maybe if we use a separate entrance. We could talk to the hotel about renting the back terrace too, then set up a red carpet, which would take the guests straight into the ballroom…”
He winces, looking almost apologetic.
I feel my dreams of a perfect venue disappear, and I sigh, “You’re not
going to budge on this, are you.” It’s not a question either.
Joshua shakes his head. They mentioned how demanding he was. No one mentioned how damn likable he looks when he’s making you jump through hoops.
I know I shouldn’t ask but, “How long have you known you didn’t want it at a hotel?”
“Since about 3:45 today.”
I can’t help it. I groan as I stalk over to the wall and grab my purse. I worked my ass off. I wore my uncomfortable high heels. I ironed my skirt.
“I’ll reach out to your secretary to get another meeting set up as soon as possible. But in the meantime, are there any other—” insane whims “—specifications that you would like to share with me?” I dig a pen and notebook out of my purse and turn back to face him. I’m waiting to hear about a sudden need for custom ice sculptures or a moral opposition to brick.
Instead he says, “Let me take you out to dinner.”
“... What?” I ask.
Joshua comes forward, hands spread wide in that I’m being reasonable gesture men seem to learn at birth. “We got off to a bad start, which was entirely my fault. And now I’m making a decision that’s going to create a lot of extra work for you. So let’s grab dinner, my treat, and you can bring that notebook and quiz me on details to your heart’s content.”
I narrow my eyes. It sounds reasonable enough, and I’m willing to bet his taste in food is excellent. But he’s also dated half of Hollywood, and I have no intention of being the person who officially changes his score to half of Hollywood + 1.
“Poppy and… the new nanny will be there, if it makes you feel better. At another table because you don’t do childcare. But, you know. There,” he finishes, somewhat lamely.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, my eyes sliding toward the nanny. “You don’t know her name.”
“If I knew her name, would I have got her confused with you?” Hollywood’s bad boy whispers back, looking harried. “Brittney didn’t tell me.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. The sound seems to delight Joshua.
“Ok, fine,” I say, giving in. “Take me to dinner and convince me you aren’t the most demanding man in all of Hollywood.”
“Any requests?” Joshua asks, as Poppy skips over to join him.
“Somewhere worthy of these shoes,” I think about it some more, “and I want cheese.”
He and Poppy both look down at my black patent leather, pointed toe, four inch heels. It could be my imagination, but it feels like it takes a little too long before his gaze slides up to mine.
“I can do that,” Joshua King says, with a cocky grin.
Heaven help me, because the man is annoying and presumptuous and, you know, my client. But I think he could be a lot more than just that.
And that little voice inside of me, the one that says no, not him after almost every date? For the first time in years, it’s silent.
4
Joshua
I’m not sure what exactly qualifies as “worthy of these shoes” in restaurant terms, but we go to a sleek, airy fusion place warmed up by murals on the walls. It’s good, but it opened up a few years ago, and there’s no longer a line to get in, which is a must when you’ve got an eight year old in tow.
The waiter asks if we want to sit inside or outside, and before I can answer Sienna says, “Outside.”
Sometimes I forget what it’s like to be a normal person who doesn’t have to worry about the paparazzi dogging their every move. And hey, this is Sienna’s lunch. I don’t want to be a spoilsport.
So we’re all seated outside. Poppy and the new nanny (who’s name, Sienna discovered on the ride over, is Becky) are seated at the closest table to the water bowls the restaurant sets out for passing dogs. On the one hand, it’s a little too close to the sidewalk for my liking – one of my actor friends had his daughter ambushed a few years ago by an unhinged fan. The daughter was fine, but I don’t think I’m ever going to be over the fear that something like that could happen to Poppy.
On the other hand, dogs. Who can argue with a kid who wants to be closer to dogs?
Sienna and I sit at a table farther away from the sidewalk, but I still put on my sunglasses, and run my fingers through my hair to change the way it’s normally parted.
“What are you doing?” Sienna looks at me over the top of her menu.
“Becoming invisible,” I say, shifting my posture.
“That can’t really work…” but she looks around, and sure enough, passersby have stopped doing double takes. She turns back to me in wonder, “It actually works.”
I grin. Wonder looks good on Sienna Bridges. She’s got big blue eyes set in a face a little too fair for Hollywood, emphasized by scholarly glasses. She’s also got the soft, natural curves of a beautiful woman who has no need to diet to look flawless on screen and doesn’t care about competing with those who do. Combined with all that silky dark hair, it makes her look a little old-world. If someone did a modern day Snow White retelling, I’d cast someone who looked like Sienna Bridges.
“I am kind of good at acting,” I tease, and she blushes. That looks good on her too. Not that it matters, since this is not a date. It’s a business meeting. “What do you think of the menu?” I ask, trying to distract myself.
She looks down at the menu and starts perusing. After a while she gasps, then laughs, delighted, “Everything on this menu has cheese. Literally everything. Pasta, tacos, paninis, palak paneer. Pizza.”
“Hey, I listen,” I say, and I don’t mean it like a line, but it comes out that way. Everything I say to this woman sounds like I’m flirting.
Possibly because I am. But I’m trying not to.
Luckily, Sienna doesn’t notice. She’s craning her neck to look at the restaurant, “Why isn’t this place packed? A cheese centered restaurant is amazing.”
“Believe me, Poppy agrees with you. But for some reason the see-and-be-seen crowd don’t seem to.”
When we order, Sienna hesitates between the macaroni & cheese and the tacos, so I suggest getting both. She looks scandalized, like I suggested getting a round of heroin as an appetizer. It appears Sienna Bridges does not live on the edge.
But then she turns to the waiter and does something that surprises me. She orders both. And throws in a side of fries. And informs the waiter that we will be ordering dessert too.
Sienna looks definitely triumphant when she turns back to me, and I mime applause, which cracks her up.
Damn, I like making this woman laugh.
But before my brain can go too far down that road, she pulls out that notebook of hers, “Ok. Back to work. Tell me everything you want this party to be.”
I lace my fingers behind my head, and think about what I need to launch this production company even though she thinks I’m focused on launching champagne. “Sophisticated,” I say. “Polished, gorgeous. But not pretentious. I need it to have all the trappings of success that the people who look for that sort of thing will expect. But I also need it to feel alive. Magical. Like you can’t wait to see what’s next.”
Sienna leans in, tapping her pen on her paper for emphasis, “But the Marigold had all of that. And if you just didn’t like that hotel, I can get another one. Frankly, at this stage a hotel ballroom is your best bet for all of those things.”
I shake my head, “It can’t be a hotel ballroom. That feels too… after-party. Like something any actor can throw together. I need something different.”
She bites her lip, a small point of pressure on the lush softness of her mouth, and I only briefly lose my train of thought, because I am a goddamn gentleman.
“What is it? What are you trying to keep yourself from saying?” I ask.
Sienna sets down her pen, “Just that an after-party association is exactly the kind of thing you want for a high-end drink like this. You want people to think of moonlight, and parties, and wild nights, and amazing vacations. You want the type of people who like being pursued to think that if they order a bottle, they can meet so
meone as dashing as Joshua King. And you want all of the people who like doing the pursuing to think that if they order this drink, they can be Joshua King.”
“I never knew all it took to be me was high-end alcohol,” I say dryly.
She waves my concern away, “You know what I mean.”
I do. I also know she thinks I’m dashing.
Our food comes, and after Sienna praises the waiter effusively for providing her with cheese, we dig in. She moans in pleasure as she savors the flavor, and I return to trying to keep my mind out of the gutter. Or rather, out of the sheets.
“Ok, here’s the thing,” Sienna says, after she’s polished off two tacos and started in on the macaroni & cheese. “You’re instincts aren’t wrong. A hotel venue does make it feel a little more after-party, a little less once-in-a-lifetime, chase-your-dreams. I love the event you’re describing. But it’s not a drink launch. It’s… I don’t know. If you wanted to launch the next Facebook, but with glamour. If movies got launched, instead of leaked to the press, you’d launch it like that. But you’re not launching a movie, so-” She looks up from her mac & cheese, and trails off as she sees my face, “Oh my God. You’re launching a movie. You’re using this party to launch a movie.”
“What? No. That’s crazy,” I laugh, and it sounds high pitched and nervous. I think my voice actually cracks, like a teenager.
My voice didn’t even crack when I was a teenager.
Sienna points at me with her fork, “Joshua King. You are lying. And badly. Which, now that I’ve seen how good you can act, I find insulting.”
“Ok, fine. I am using the party to launch… something. And it’s bigger than a movie, but for the purposes of planning this thing, it’s probably best to think of it as a movie.”
“Bigger than a movie? What’s bigger than a movie? A franchise? Wait, no...a production company?” She drops her fork in shock, which tells me all I need to know about my poker face. Her eyes light up and she lowers her voice, “Oh my God. It’s a production company.”
