Page 17 of Business or Pleasure

I just stand there, frozen, Noemie’s skirt too tight around my hips and her shirt too tight around my breasts and that bruise far too noticeable and dear god why. And how. And fuuuuuck.

Finnegan/Drew is ashen, unsure whether to focus on the spreading fuchsia blotch or the sudden appearance of the one-night stand who wasn’t there when he woke up this morning. He seems to settle for both and neither, mouth falling open while he dabs a napkin two inches to the left of where the stain starts.

“I’m so sorry,” I sputter out, wondering if it would reflect poorly on Stella if I turned and made a run for it. “Your shirt, I—”

“Not your fault,” Finnegan says to the stain. It’s a different kind of voice than the one he used on me last night. Professional. Distant.

The server arrives with another glass of water and a stack of cloth napkins, which Finnegan uses to attack his shirt with a newfound gusto. His manager pulls out a chair for me, and I practically collapse into it, folding my legs to hide the bruise from view.

Slowly, the pieces come together. He lives in LA. He was here for a conference—that must have been Emerald City Comic Con. The way he spoke about his career, the vagueness... he must have been worried I’d recognize him. Hence the fake name. And when those costumed con-goers showed up, he’d acted strange, hadn’t he?

“Well! What a way to break the ice,” his manager says with a laugh. He extends a hand to me. “Joe Kowalczyk.”

“Chandler. And you must be Finnegan.” I place a distinct emphasis on his name.

“Finn,” he says, and when he breaks from the stain long enough for a handshake, his eyes flash with suspicion. As though maybe I planned this all along. His freckles are even more pronounced in the daylight. At night, he seemed to have an air of mystery about him, but at one thirty, the September sun slanting through the greenhouse windows and turning his red hair golden, he looks every bit the Hollywood type. Defined cheekbones, microscopic pores, a my-aftershave-probably-cost-more-than-your- entire-outfit set of his jaw.

This isn’t the first time I’ve touched him, of course, and it’s much less intimate than anything we did in that hotel room. The handshake should be perfunctory. Awkward, maybe. And yet somehow, the way his fingers slide against mine, thumb briefly rubbing my wrist—so slight, I’d think nothing of it if we hadn’t already met—manages to spark far more electricity than anything we did last night.

Last night. The way he kissed me up against the door of the hotel room before everything went so horribly wrong. The way I moaned into his mouth and—

—and faked an orgasm.

I cannot work on this book.

Joe sets down his menu. “Thanks for taking the time to meet with us on such short notice,” he says. “Typically, we’d have arranged a video chat before flying you out to LA, but given you live here, it seemed a little like kismet.”

Finn continues to scrub at his shirt. I can’t look at him, because when I do, I’m going to imagine the guy who asked Does she like that? starring in a movie called Ms. Mistletoe, and I’ll be forced to wonder whether it’s about someone who literally has the last name Mistletoe or if there’s some kind of Christmas-themed pageant where the woman with the most holiday spirit wins Finnegan’s heart. And then I won’t be able to stop laughing. And if I start laughing, I’m going to pop a button on Noemie’s ruffled Ann Taylor blouse and treat Joe and Finn to a show of the five-dollar neon yellow sports bra from Ross Dress for Less I’m wearing underneath.

I do my best to match Joe’s grin. Might as well make Finn as uncomfortable as possible. “I couldn’t agree more.”

Finn starts coughing. Violently.

“Food first, and then business,” Joe says. “And Chandler—it’s on me.”

While both Joe and Finn order portobello burgers, the priciest item on the menu, I can’t bring myself to ask for anything other than the soup of the day, which at $17 is one of the cheaper dishes. I don’t belong here—not in my borrowed clothes, and not with the history I have with Finn. This isn’t my world.

Once we’ve ordered, Joe folds his hands in front of him. With his immaculate suit and slicked-back salt-and-pepper hair, he’s a little too polished for this Seattle weekend crowd. “I’m not sure if your agent told you, but we’ve fallen in love with your writing.”

“She might have mentioned it, but I’d never turn down a compliment.”

Joe laughs. “Then allow me to tell you again: You have a relatable, authentic style that we think would be perfect for Finn’s book. You have this way of capturing even the most everyday details and making them seem significant.”

Finn punctuates Joe’s words with a slight motion of his chin.

I reach for my water, hoping it’ll calm the blush on my cheeks. “I—thank you. I’m honored to hear that.” Joe seems kind enough, but the little experience I’ve had with celebrities has taught me that they’re often not who they appear to be. Knowing Finn’s an actor, I shouldn’t be surprised he gave a fake name or charmed me so easily, even though he’s far from A-list. In fact, it’s a relief I’ve never seen him in anything. I’d be too starstruck to string together a sentence.

Now that I’m sitting across from him in the daytime, there is something vaguely familiar about him, but that could also be simply that now that I know he’s famous, my brain is working overtime to place him.

“We want someone young enough to appeal to the millennials who grew up with Finn on The Nocturnals, but with enough experience to handle a project of this magnitude. It’s been a challenge, finding a writer with that unique combination of skills. Your second book just came out?”

I nod, wondering where I tossed Maddy’s book after I got home last night. “And I just turned in a revision of my next one.”

“Excellent,” Joe says. “Your publishers all spoke very highly of you.”

I’m about to reach my compliment threshold. “What exactly are you wanting this memoir to accomplish?” I ask, no longer physiologically capable of talking about myself. “I mean, obviously, you want it to sell well. But what kind of angle are you looking at for Dr—for Finn’s story?”

“Great questions. There’s a side to every actor that the public never sees, of course. We don’t want this to be a typical memoir. Maybe the chapters aren’t chronological, or it’s a series of vignettes or anecdotes... something like that. Some kind of unique structure. Essentially, we know Finn has a story to tell, and this is our chance to rebrand him, while also capitalizing on what made him popular in the first place.”

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