To my literary agents, Josh and Tracey Adams; my editorial compatriot, Emma Dryden; and my fearless (and underemployed, by me) assistant, Kelsey Tressler—thanks for bringing the awesome, all the time.
To Roman (Chewy) White for impromptu toy instrument jam sessions and years of laughs; Katie Lu Krimitsos for sushi and butt-kicking; Kim Frost for her companionship on so many late-night drives; my local writing amigos, Tom, Chris, Liz, Larry, Usman (and Gemma and Geodie in spirit), for lots of great talks and a little bit of critiquing; to Jackie P. for modeling determination; and Kim L. for conversations about viscera.
Thanks, of course, to Tessa Woodward and everyone at HarperCollins. And to my lovely coauthor, Veronica Rossi, for a ridiculous number of laughs and virtual high-fives along the way. It’s an honor, Minty.
Lastly, to my crazy, hilarious, awesome family: Lisa, Mustafa, Alex(panda), Andrew, Dina, Samantha, and Abby. And to Brenda, Jose, Liz, Anna, and Kyle. We’re weirdos, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
—LO
My deepest gratitude goes to the following people: Lorin Oberweger, for your friendship and general brilliance. Josh and Tracey Adams, for black-belt agenting. Tessa Woodward, for the support and editorial guidance—thank you. The rest of the William Morrow gang, Molly Birckhead and Megan Schumann especially, for all your efforts to spread the word about the Boomerang world. To my family and friends, thank you for being the reason why. Finally, to the bloggers and readers out there, thanks for taking another ride with me.
—VR
Excerpt from Rebound
Chapter 1
Alison
Some nights call for a Catwoman costume.
And this is definitely one of those nights.
Reason number one: It’s Halloween. I haven’t lost my mind completely, contrary to what my parents seem to believe after my spectacular last-semester wipeout.
Reason number two: I’m on my way to a party hosted by the new girlfriend of my ex-boyfriend. I’m pretty sure that calls for an armor of sleek leather. And a whip.
I stretch out, stiff as a ski, across the back seat of my Porsche Cayenne, while Philippe—my best friend and unofficial stylist—steers the vehicle in much the same way he does everything: with the grace of a polar bear on rollerblades. It’s amazing, because he’s compact and lithe, and his sense of style is ridiculous. And yet, in twenty-two years, he doesn’t seem to have established a firm connection between his brain and his appendages.
He lurches to a stop at a green light, and I almost tumble from the seat. Behind us, a car blasts its horn, and Philippe rockets away again, throwing me back into the plush upholstery.
“Sorry,” he mutters, and his shoulders lift into a shrug.
If I could sit up in this costume—or even breathe, I’d never have let him behind the wheel. But a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. Tonight, that means having Philippe sew me into a skintight leather costume, complete with a glossy mask, pert ears, and a faux mink tail, so that he can deliver me to a party where I’ll get to face the living reminders of my worst mistake.
All in the name of business, I tell myself, trying to euthanize the butterflies in my stomach. Tonight’s agenda: Get in, get out, and make sure nobody gets hurt, including me.
That means nothing stronger than club soda. A lesson I’ve learned through hard, and humiliating, experience. I just need to say some polite hellos and stay long enough to size up my soon-to-be coworkers and, most especially, Adam Blackwood, CEO of Boomerang and the person my dad plans to make the recipient of an obscene amount of money.
Philippe maneuvers the car up the winding canyon road. Wispy clouds drift overhead, framed by a hazy night sky tinged gray by the faint glow of city lights below.
“How’s it going back there, Miss Daisy?” he asks.
“So funny. If you hadn’t made this so tight, I could sit up there with you. I’m going to need you to cut me out of this thing.”
“Well, I sewed you in,” he says. “I can cut you back out again.” Philippe purses his lips and glances in the rearview mirror. “And do you or do you not look amazing?”
I take a deep breath and run my hands along the costume’s bodice, which is elegantly boned and cut to perfection. He’s created an absolute miracle in giving me curves in this thing and in making it sexy but not trashy.
Struggling to a half sitting position, I say, “I do.”
Tonight, he’s helped me feel delicious and daring—as far from society girl Alison Quick as it’s possible to be while in my own skin. And that, I realize, is exactly what I need to face the night ahead.
“And are you or are you not heading into a lion’s den filled with ex-lovers and people you may someday have to fire?”
I laugh. “I love your imagination, but I think you need to have more than one of something to refer to it as a plural.”
He tosses me a meaningful look and almost runs my car into a sage bush.
“Watch out,” I say. But he’s right. One ex-boyfriend. And one big regret. I guess that makes it plural.
The GPS directs us up a steep side street, and we climb up toward a sprawling modern home that looks carved into the hillside. The backyard must have an incredible view of the city.
“I really can come in with you,” Philippe says for the third time.
“But you don’t have a costume,” I tease.
It’s tempting to bring him along as a buffer, but he’s too safe. If he comes in with me, we’ll be glued to each other all night, and I need to mingle with these people. Even though I’m anything but natural at this part of the game. Especially sober.
“That doesn’t matter. I can just say I’m dressed as a hot-ass fashion maverick.”
I laugh. “True. But I promise I’m okay. And you’re just a phone call away if I need you.”
As we approach the house, I see that the long driveway is crammed with cars, which means I’m facing a steep walk in high heels. Of course, these are sleek Gucci knee boots, totally worth the discomfort. Besides, I always commit, and you can’t be Catwoman in sensible shoes.
Philippe stops the car, and I remind him to put it in park before getting out to help me.
He does, leaving the engine idling, then slips around to the back to give me a hand as I wriggle my way out of the back of the car like a mackerel flopping across the deck of my dad’s boat.
Finally, I manage to plant my stiletto heels on the ground. “Wow,” I say. “I’ve never felt so graceful.”
“The leather will loosen up,” Philippe promises. He scans me with eyes the reddish brown of cinnamon and, biting his lower lip in concentration, makes a few adjustments, including reaching right into my bodice to manhandle my breasts.
“I beg your pardon.” I glance around for other partygoers but, mercifully, we’re alone. Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” drifts down to us, along with murmured conversation and laughter. I feel another tingle of nerves and anticipation.
“Please,” he rolls his eyes. “They’re merely accessories to me.”
I slap at his hands. “I object to the use of mere in reference to my breasts.” Especially since it’s true. And especially since I’m going to face Ethan’s new girlfriend, Mia, who’s built like a curvier Scarlett Johansson.
He runs his fingers around the mask, tugging it down just a bit. His Issay Miyake cologne wafts over me, as familiar to me as the scent of the ocean or the stables where I keep my horses—all scents I love.
“You look amazing, Ali. I promise, I wouldn’t let you walk in there otherwise.”
“I know.” I lean down to give him a kiss on the cheek. With these stilettos I’m probably 6'2'', which puts me a good six inches over Philippe. “You’re the best. And I’ll be fine.” Now that I’m here, a part of me looks forward to the night. Not to seeing Ethan but to getting a feel for the others and making my first report to my dad later. He always says I have infallible instincts where people are concerned, though I’m not sure I’ve proved that to myself ye
t.
“I have total faith,” Philippe says. “Now go have some fun.”
“This is work,” I remind him.
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. But ’go have work’ doesn’t have much of a ring to it. Besides, you’re also allowed to have fun.”
“I know, I know.” I face up the hill and square my shoulders. “Fun it is.”
Chapter 2
Adam
I take the hill up the Gallianos’ street with a little heat, hugging the turn into their steep driveway and skidding to a stop in front of their house. It’s eleven, and judging by the thumping music and the people milling outside who look over as my tires let out a squeal, the Halloween party has hit its stride.
A flustered parking valet jogs up to the Mini Cooper in front of me. I know that car. It belongs to my head of Human Resources, Rhett Orland. Shifting into neutral to let the engine cool, I smile as my employees pile out one by one.
Paolo emerges from the passenger side wearing a fitted tuxedo and shining wing tips. Stepping onto the driveway, he slips on a top hat and gives the cane in his hand a twirl. He makes a perfect Latino Fred Astaire.
Sadie slithers out of the backseat in a fire-red Lycra bodysuit and adjusts the gigantic blue wig on her head, the words Thing One in bubble letters across her chest. Pippa’s next and she’s Thing Two, naturally, since those two always do everything together. Standing side by side on the driveway, they make the absurd outfits look pretty good.
Finally, Rhett climbs from driver’s seat. For a second, I think he’s naked until I see that he’s wearing a loincloth.
Tarzan. Of course. Rhett is shredded and the costume lets him share that with the world. All those CrossFit hours finally paid off for the guy.
Rhett hands the valet his keys and reaches into the car for a bushel of bananas. Nice touch, I’ll admit.
I lower my window as another valet jogs my way, bending his lanky body to my window.
“Is this really a Bugatti?” His eyes are wide as they sweep inside my car. “Holy shit. It is,” he says, answering his own question. “Sorry. I’ve just never seen one of these in real life.”
“Understandable. They’re pretty rare.”
“Look, sir,” he says, even though he looks my age, early twenties. “I’m going to come right out and say this. I don’t think I have the balls to parallel park this thing for you.”
“No problem.” I adjust my black mask and get out, leaving the keys in the ignition. “How about you keep it right here?” Slipping a hundred out of my wallet, I hand it to him.
I’m not worried about my car and, as much I’m always up for a night with friends and employees, being able to make a quick exit whenever I want is a good option to have.
“Sure, thanks!” The valet takes the bill. “Thank you!”
“Hey! Adam!” Sadie waves from the Gallianos’ entryway. Her huge wig looks neon blue under the porch light. They’re all there, waiting for me as I round my car and jog up the steps.
“How’d you know it was me?” I say, spreading my hands.
Pippa smiles and looks me over. “Dang, Zorro. Looking good. You should wear that to the office.”
If I wasn’t the president and CEO, I’d be tempted. Something about wearing the mask feels good.
“No,” Rhett says. He shifts the bananas to his other arm. “Please don’t wear that to work, Adam.”
As head of HR, he’s the company’s voice of reason.
“I’m with Pippa.” Paolo lifts the cane, pointing at me. “We should run ads with you this way, Adam. Girls would flock. Or flock more. Now, let’s party.” He taps the cane on Sadie’s ass. “Move your Who-ter, girl. Get it?”
“Actually, no. I don’t.”
“Never mind,” Paolo says as we step inside. “Neither do I.”
We head to the bar in the expansive living room and order drinks. I sip my Scotch and look for the hosts, my friends Joe and Pearl.
Their home is stylish, fittingly for a photographer’s home, modern and sleek and packed with priceless artwork, but it looks different tonight. Less like Pearl and Joe Galliano’s house, more like a Halloween rave.
People dance at the center of the room and on the patio outside. A DJ is set up on a small platform in the corner. Everywhere I look, it’s a churning sea of colorful masks and costumes. Aliens. Stormtroopers. Flappers and angels. They’re all here.
Cookie, my head of marketing, comes over and joins us. As a group of six now, we take over one side of the bar, and as the drinks flow, the laughs grow louder. Rhett had his upper body waxed to be Tarzan tonight and Sadie and Pippa want the details, strip by strip. Riveting stuff.
My employees are people-people, like me. Being socially comfortable is a necessary quality to be on my team. I sell personal connections—and that starts with the corporate culture. But they’re also tight-knit. It’s not unusual for them to congregate together before diving into the social fray, which they’ll do effortlessly when they want to.
“It’s so, so awesome,” Sadie says, as the conversation shifts to Cookie’s costume. “What is it again, exactly?”
Cookie scowls and sips her Midori sour. “None of your concern,” she says, but her free hand does a nervous sweep over her silver gown. It has a high neckline, long sleeves, and a small train, sparkling with tiny encrusted crystals.
In a word, it’s severe. In a few words, she looks like the Chrysler Building.
“She’s the evil witch in that Disney movie,” Paolo guesses. He crosses his foot at the ankle, striking a pose. “You know the one with the white hair?”
“Cruella de Ville?” Sadie says. “Maleficent?
“Do either of those have spiky white hair?” Paolo shakes his head. “Geez. You don’t know Thing One about Disney witches. Ha. See what I did there?”
“I know! Elsa from Frozen!” Sadie guesses. “That’s why you did all the blue eye shadow, right, Cookie?”
When Sadie’s locked into something, the girl’s unstoppable.
“Cookie’s not a Disney character, you guys,” Pippa says. “She’s the witch from the Narnia movie. Look at her shoulder pads. She’s, like, the Ice Queen or whatever.”
“The White Witch, you illiterate little shits,” Cookie blurts, like she can’t take it anymore. “But you’re all wrong.” She shakes her head. “Jesus. You’re like human Novocain. I can actually feel my brain going numb.”
“I have a question,” Paolo says. “How do you feel numbness?”
“Should we do your annual reviews right now, children?” Cookie asks. “What do you think?”
That stops the conversation dead. Everyone takes the moment to sip his or her drink, terrified but also fighting back laughs. Pippa, Sadie, and Paolo report directly to Cookie, but everyone’s afraid of her. Even though she’s just a big, soft Yeti monster. Cookie just has that kind of arctic charm. I trust her right down to her frosty heart, though.
Most people think success is built on brilliant ideas, but they’re wrong. Success is built on brilliant ideas placed in the hands of great people, and I have a talent for finding those. My team can be a little eccentric, but they’re dedicated and loyal, and excellent at their jobs—Cookie included.
Pippa and Sadie decide the DJ is hot and disappear to run that down. A half second later, Paolo decides the same thing and leaves as well.
I wait until Rhett’s preoccupied with the bartender before I lean down to Cookie’s ear. “You forgot it was a costume party, didn’t you?” I ask.
Cookie looks at me, her lips pressed in a thin line. Then she nods. “Yes. But don’t tell them.”
I knew it. She’s dressed as herself. I wink. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
She excuses herself, claiming she needs some fresh air, but I know she’s just going find ways to torment Paolo. I see that Rhett has donated his bananas to the bar. With him and the bartender in a deep discussion concerning daiquiri mixes, I study the room.
A petite girl in a skintight camo dress and c
ombat boots catches my eye. Her smile sends me a clear message. She’s cute but not my type. Closer, a girl dressed as Sailor Moon checks out a tall cowboy in a white Stetson. His back is turned to her, but he must sense her attention. He turns and touches his hat, giving her a cowboy salute, and her smile goes wider.
I take another sip, marveling at the connection that’s happening right before my eyes. Amazing thing, attraction. Powerful. A lot of money to be made from it. Which I’ve done.
With Boomerang, I’ve captured the fun of playing the dating game in a sleek website and created a thriving online community. It’s made me enough to afford the things I love. Good food and surfing vacations. A house on the sand in Malibu and a car that suits my affinity for raw speed. The best thing about Boomerang, though, is that it’s a constant reminder that relationships with women should be kept strictly fun—and very temporary.
The DJ must have met Pippa and Sadie because the song “You Sexy Thing” starts playing, and the two of them come bouncing out to the dance floor.
“I love this song,” Rhett says at my side, then he’s singing. “I believe in miracles. Since you came along!”
He belts it out like he doesn’t care. I join him for the chorus.
“Dang, Adam!” Rhett says, looking at me. “You can really sing!”
“Nah. You’re just comparing me to yourself.”
Rhett grins. “I’m too smart to do that. Hey, don’t look now but that army girl’s checking you out.”
“Saw her. But I’m a lover, not a fighter.”
Rhett laughs. “Right.”
We both know that’s not true. When I want something, like the upcoming investment deal with Quick Enterprises, I fight until I get it.
Through the patio doors, a nun, a stripper, and a handful of vampires step into the room. It feels like the beginning of a bad joke.
Boomerang Page 28
