by Roxy Reid
I pace in front of the coffee shop where we’re meeting, my flippy sundress and white blazer matching my mood perfectly. My strappy white sandals click on the sidewalk. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the cafe window. I look good.
Not that I dressed up for Joshua. I mean I kind of did. I dress up for all my meetings with clients. But I didn’t dress up more for him. I was just in a good mood this morning.
Granted, I was in a good mood because I was going to see Joshua.
It is possible that I have developed a slight crush on the man. I smile every time my phone buzzes with a text from him. Every conversation starts off as a legitimate work question, from me or him. But it has a way of turning into “So how’s your day?” which seems to subtly slide into “Really? Tell me more” and before I know it I’m defending my favorite crappy tv show to him, and he’s defending his motorcycle collection to me.
And here’s the thing: Joshua King is funny. And encouraging. And always says the right thing. And so passionate about his own projects, that it feels like permission to be as passionate about my own.
I’m starting to get how people could fall in love over letters in ye olden days.
Not that I’m falling in love. Ha. Noooooooooooooooooooooo. No, no, no. No.
I’m just enjoying an increasingly close friendship with a man who makes me happy and was voted People’s Sexiest Man Alive.
No big deal. Nothing to see here.
I see Joshua out of the corner of my eye, and my stomach flips a little. He’s coming out of the hella expensive apartment building next to the coffee shop and he looks happier than I’ve ever seen him. He’s smiling, but it’s more than that. It’s like the smile suffuses his whole body.
“Sienna!” Joshua spots me, and suddenly I’m included in that smile. He goes in for a hug in that way that Hollywood people do, and I’m briefly wrapped in his strength and warmth and warm scent.
Ok, there definitely would have been disadvantages to falling in love over letters.
Not that I’m falling in love.
Joshua freezes. “Shit. Shit, shit, shit. This could ruin everything,” his deep voice is tense and quiet in my ear. Because we’re still hugging, I can feel the tension overtake his body. Every muscle is hard and tight, ready for action.
“What’s going on?” I say quietly in his ear.
“There’s some paparazzi behind you,” he says. “And if they notice which building I just came out of, I’m screwed. I’m so fucking screwed.”
I start to pull away so I can sneak a discreet look over my shoulder, but his arms tighten, holding me in the place, and I have a sudden insight into just how strong he is. To go to bed with someone who could overpower her that easily, a woman would have to really trust a man.
It’s a completely inappropriate thought, and when Joshua asks, “Do you trust me?” in that deep voice of his, for a second I’m worried he can read my mind. But then he says, “I have an idea to fix this. I just need to give them a bigger, better story to distract them. But I need your help.”
“Joshua…” I say.
“Just play along,” he says, before letting go of me so suddenly I teeter a little bit at the loss of his support.
A smile is still plastered over Joshua’s handsome face, but it’s not a real smile.
Suddenly I’m desperate to investigate the building he came out of. What secret is big enough it could screw over Joshua King?
He spots something past my shoulder, and his fake smile turns suddenly mischievous.
Joshua reaches out and takes my hand, angling us so that the cameras can see my hand in his. He’s staring at me with so much focus my stomach is actively doing backflips. Whatever he’s doing now is just to distract the cameras. Right?
Joshua uses our joined hands to tug me into him, and my breath catches. He leans down, and our lips are inches apart as he stares into my eyes, then down at my mouth, then back at my eyes. “Darling,” he breathes, and the way he says it sounds indecent. “I appreciate all you’ve done for this project. So I’d like to do something for you, to show my appreciation. And as a bonus, it will deeply, deeply confuse the assholes behind you with cameras. Which should be all the distraction we need.”
I don’t know what’s going on and my hormones are in overdrive, but whatever else is going on, I trust Joshua not to fuck me over. So I nod.
Joshua grins and steps back, but he doesn’t release my hand. Instead, he tugs me over to a boutique shop window a few stores down from the coffee shop. He steers us until we’re both standing in front of the shop window.
“Go ahead,” Joshua says. “Pick anything you want.”
At first, I think he’s joking. It’s a jewelry store, and everything in there is easily worth three months of my salary. There’s one necklace that’s just ropes of delicate pearls and diamonds that would hang down to a woman’s waist.
A camera flashes behind me and my instinct is to turn, but Joshua’s hand tightens, holding me in place. There’s that strength of his again.
Another camera flashes, and it catches the jewelry in the center of the case, which is visible between our bodies to anyone standing behind us.
It’s a row of rings. Big, huge, gorgeous rings.
And that’s when I figure out what the bigger, better story is that Joshua is feeding the paparazzi.
He’s making it look like he and I are ring-shopping. Which implies we’re thinking of getting engaged. Which implies we’re dating. More than dating.
Joshua is solving his problems by telling the whole world I’m having an affair with him, the man who hired me.
I try to tug my hand away, but his grip is strong.
“You bastard,” I hiss.
“Please,” Joshua begs. “Play along. I’ll buy you anything in this store you want.”
I feel like I’ve been slapped. Does he think my professional reputation is for sale? And so cheaply?
I should slap him. I should turn to the cameras and tell them exactly what’s going on.
But he’s desperate to keep this secret of his. And I don’t actually want to destroy his life. And even if I told the truth, half the world wouldn’t believe me. For better or worse, the damage is done.
“Come on,” Joshua says, his voice coaxing. “Anything here is yours.”
“Did we give them enough material?” I ask, my voice dead.
“Oh yeah, definitely,” Joshua says, and I can tell he’s finally relaxed. And why shouldn’t he? The danger to him is passed.
The asshole.
Joshua is still talking, “Don’t worry about them anymore. Let’s go pick out what you want–”
“I want to go home,” I say. And Joshua finally looks at me.
“Ok,” he says, uncertainly, like he knows he’s fucked up but isn’t sure how. “I’ll walk you to your car.”
I’m about to argue, but the paparazzi are getting bolder. A camera flashes, closer to me. Then another.
“Josh, is she the one?”
“Did she say yes?”
“When’s the big day?”
“Hey, lady, what’s it feel like to be the most successful gold-digger in Hollywood?”
Joshua growls and puts himself between them and me. “Back. Off,” he says, and I don’t know how he does it, but they actually do.
They’re still taking photos as we walk away, but no one’s calling me an opportunistic slut, so I guess there’s that.
When we get to my car he opens the door for me like a gentleman.
As if that little bit of gallantry is going to make me forget whose fault this all is.
I get in, eager to close the door and shut the world out.
“Wait!” Joshua says. “Aren’t you going to tell me your big idea for the launch?”
I hesitate. That would definitely be the professional thing to do.
But I don’t feel like extending professional courtesy to him when he has so spectacularly failed to return the favor.
“I’ll
text you,” I say, and my tone is biting, even to my own ears. “We work better over text.”
I slam the door and drive away. Joshua King just fucked me over.
8
Joshua
“So,” Darian says over the phone. “Did she say yes?”
For a second I think he’s talking about Sienna, and my fake-ass marriage proposal. I get that Sienna’s pissed at me – she’s a private person – but she was going to be in those pictures no matter what. All I did was shape the narrative, so I wouldn’t alienate one of the biggest names in Hollywood, and lose the chance of getting her in my movie.
Which brings me back to the topic at hand.
“Yes,” I say, as I finish making my sandwich. “Well, sort of. She wants to read the script again. And she wants documented proof that every woman on the project is getting paid the same as their male equivalents. And if any of this leaks to the press before she makes up her mind she says she’ll assume we’re trying to pressure her and withdraw from the project because, and I quote, ‘I don’t work with sniveling wimps.’”
Darian laughs.
“But yeah,” I finish. “Assuming all of that goes according to plan, she’s in.”
“I can’t believe it,” Darian says, his voice awed. “You got Elinor Swift.”
I fight the urge to tell him to hush or knock on wood.
Elinor Swift is one of the most revered names in Hollywood. If a role doesn’t go to Meryl Streep, it goes to Elinor Swift, and vice versa.
Having her on the project basically guarantees that a) we get taken seriously and b) the movie itself will be as good as it can possibly be. Elinor won’t accept anything less.
This is why I had to distract the photographers today. If they’d realized I’d come out of her apartment, they could have published speculations just close enough to the truth to scare Elinor away from the project.
I’m sure Sienna will understand. Once I tell her.
“Hey, Darian,” I say. “What’s a good I’m-sorry-you-got-mobbed-by-the-paparazzi gift?”
“Why, Josh,” he says. “I thought you’d never ask. You know I put up with a lot to be in this relationship with you.”
“Not you, you dweeb,” I head out to my back deck, and eat my sandwich in the sun while I tell him about what happened with Sienna.
“Ooof,” he says, when I finish. “You’re brutal, man.”
“What are you talking about?” I demand. “You know I had to distract them somehow.”
“Sure, but you didn’t have to throw her under the bus to do it. Why didn’t you pretend to be choking? Or pick a fight with someone passing on the sidewalk? Or get amazing news on the phone and drop just enough details to keep them guessing? You know how rough this town is on women. Especially women who want to be taken seriously for their careers and not for the men they’re dating. Or in this case, not dating. Remember how pissed you were when that P.A. implied she and you were a thing, because it made you look like an unprofessional asshole?”
“Yes,” I grit out.
“Well, you just did the same thing. But worse. So why did you do it? Why did you pick this lie?”
I realize I don’t have an answer for Darian. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the thought that I just fucked up way worse than I realized.
“Joshua? You there, man?”
“Yeah. Yeah I’m here,” I sigh. “So what’s a good apology gift, in this scenario?”
“I don’t think that will work,” Darian says. “Anything you give her will feel like a payment, or like the kind of thing a real boyfriend would get for his girl. And both of those things will just make her angrier, from everything you’ve told me.”
I run a hand through my hair, “You don’t understand. I need to make this better.”
“Why? So she’ll plan the launch? She’s going to do that anyway. You’re paying her to do that.”
“No. So she won’t hate me. I don’t want to ruin her life,” I say.
This time it’s Darian who sighs, “Here’s the thing, Josh. You didn’t ruin Sienna’s life, just like the P.A. didn’t ruin yours. Sienna will get through this. She’ll finish the job and move on. You’ll just be her baggage.”
I frown. “What do you mean?”
“You know, a couple years from now, when some guy asks to marry her for real. And instead of just being thrilled, she’ll remember that time you used a marriage proposal to screw her over. But it’s ok. If she’s as smart as you make her sound, she’ll just tell her new dude, and they’ll talk it over, and bond, and she’ll come out of it happier than ever.”
I don’t like Sienna’s pretend future fiancé. He sounds like an asshole.
“Look, you were an asshole,” Darian says, unknowingly echoing my thoughts. “There’s nothing you can do to make it up to her. So just apologize, go back to being professional, and let it go. She’ll be fine in the long term. You’ll just be the backstory to her happy ending.”
It’s hard to express how much I hate that sentence. You’ll just be the backstory to her happy ending.
But he’s right. I know he’s right. There’s a million reasons Sienna and I don’t belong together, and the fact that I’m the kind of guy who’s hounded by paparazzi is the least of them.
Still. The backstory to her happy ending. Fuck.
I hang up without saying goodbye.
It’s an hour later and I’m staring down at my phone. I’ve pulled up Sienna’s number, but I have no idea what to text her. Finally I just type I’m sorry. But it’s not what you think. Please come over so I can explain.
Immediately, I see the little dots that show she’s typing. And then they stop. And then they start again. And then stop.
This is ridiculous. My heart is pounding like this is a goddamn chase scene, all because some woman I met a few weeks ago may or may not letting me explain myself. I chuck my phone on the couch and walk away.
It dings with an incoming text message, and I jump over the coffee table, scrambling for the phone.
You want to explain, you’re coming to me. Otherwise don’t bother.
Without wasting a beat I type, Where do you live?
I’m in my baseball cap and sunglasses disguise when I have the Lyft drop me off in front of Sienna’s apartment. I don’t think she’d appreciate it if anyone recognized my car in front of her place.
I stroll up the lawn to her first floor apartment and knock. It’s a cute little building from the 50s, in a quiet-ish neighborhood that’s only about ten percent overpriced.
The welcome-mat in front of her apartment says Welcome, Bitches in pastel pink cursive. It surprises me since I’ve never heard her swear, but it’s also kind of perfect for Sienna. Tough and soft, all at the same time.
I’m about to knock again, when Sienna opens the door.
And something about seeing her is a punch to the gut. She’s not in her normal sharp L.A. business woman clothes. She’s in an old college sweatshirt, and her bare feet peek out from flannel pajama pants that drag on the floor. Her hair is piled up on top of her head, leaving her neck bare and exposed. It’s the kind of thing a woman might wear around a long-term boyfriend to cuddle on the couch on a lazy weekend.
It’s also the kind of thing a woman wears when she’s home alone and isn’t expecting company.
Suddenly I’m aware of how much bigger I am than her. How did I not notice that until now?
I realize how much Sienna’s businesswoman persona is a kind of armor. And for the first time ever, I’m seeing her without it.
What’s she doing answering the door without her armor on?
Sienna blinks up at me, and pushes her glasses up her nose, “I didn’t think you’d come.”
I frown.
“After I told you I lived on the other side of town. You didn’t text back. I didn’t think you’d come,” she repeats, like maybe I’m a bit dense.
I brace myself on the doorframe, trying to find purchase in this conversation, “You said you wa
nted me to come and told me where you were. Of course, I came.”
“I didn’t say I wanted – oh, never mind. But you’re tipping the pizza guy when he gets here,” Sienna turns away and walks back into her apartment, but she leaves the door open, which I take as an invitation in. I shuck my baseball cap and sunglasses, leaving them on a side table by the door.
Her apartment is so tiny I have a moment of fear that it’s a studio. My horny subconscious really doesn’t need to know what Sienna’s bed looks like.
But it’s a brightly lit two-story one bedroom, with soft white carpet, and small potted succulents sitting along the window sills. A narrow but tiny kitchen runs along one side of the room. The rest is simple but comfortable looking furniture in pinks and greens and blonde wood.
Sienna plops down into a fluffy chair, and I settle gingerly onto the couch. I feel like a lumbering commoner begging for the queen’s forgiveness. And the normal ways I get women to forgive me are really not appropriate in a business setting.
“Well?” she gestures for me to speak. “Explain yourself.”
I hesitate, “Well, uh. Do you know who Elinor Swift is?”
“Do I know– Josh, of course I know who Elinor Swift is. If you’re going to ask stupid questions you can just get out–”
“She agreed to be in our movie,” I cut her off. “Maybe. There were some qualifications. One of them being that media can’t find out about it until she’s made a final decision.”
And then I tell her the whole story.
I’ve just finished, when the doorbell rings.
The pizza’s here.
I jump up to answer the door. Sienna gives me a quizzical look.
“Hey, you wanted me to tip,” I say, and she settles back into her chair.
But that’s not the real reason. For some reason, I don’t like the idea of some random delivery guy seeing Sienna without her armor on. Which is stupid. A) She’s an adult, and knows what she’s wearing. B) She’s dressed more modestly than a nun. And, most importantly, C) even if neither of those things were true, it wouldn’t be any of my business.
