Page 2 of Relationship Goals

I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block out the embarrassing memory that tends to replay itself in situations like this, which are rare these days, and nearly every night as I fall asleep.

For anentireyear.

As if my presleep shame ritual remembrance isn’t enough, no one else is going to let it go, either. I thought my career was over.

Finished.

Until I nailed the audition for Richard Grace and wound up here.

I blow out a slow breath, a rush of air that barely steadies me.

Jean’s irritation doesn’t bother me. Hell, I can’t blame her for worrying. I’ve certainly proved to be a cannon so loose I might as well fall right off the pirate ship I’m strapped to in a riotous explosion of wood splinters and smoke.

She’s one of the best in the business and helps me keep my shit together, which is more than I can say for myself. I’m the queen of random interviews, the princess of paparazzi weirdness, and if it weren’t for Jean, I’m positive my acting career would be even more of a joke.

For some reason, though, Jean believes in me. She always has, ever since I came to LA as a teenager fresh out of school with high hopes and stars in my eyes. My parents were semi-supportive, though they still constantly ask if I have a backup plan, ask if I’ve thought about going back to school, if I’m sure this is right for me.

Jeanknowsit’s right for me.

That means something.

I smooth my dress, ignoring the fact that my palms are sweating.

This is phase one in my plan to reinvent myself after the red carpet fiasco: impressing these guys and the celeb gossip sites. I have to demand respect to get it. Be so good they can’t ignore me.

What phase two looks like? I have no idea.

One step at a time.

I twist the buckle on the front of my off-brand leather tote, a present from my mom several Christmases ago, delivered with the message that it would be a great bag to carry a laptop in, and did I know my old high school was looking for a theater teacher?

She means well…but it still hurts.

My fingers work the buckle back and forth, back and forth, until Jean rests her hand on my wrist, silently telling me to stop. I flash her another smile, this time grateful for the physical reminder. Taking a deep breath, then another, I exhale slowly.

“They’re ready for you, Ms. Hunt,” a pretty blond woman says, opening the door. She’s the embodiment of LA—immaculate, toned, and tanned—a Sunset Boulevard demigoddess.

Jean and I stand, finally leaving the sunny waiting area we’ve been relegated to while the owners presumably readied themselves for us.

Here we go.

“Just Ms. Hunt,” the woman says to Jean sweetly.

“You okay with that, Abigail?” Jean asks, too professional to throw a fit in front of the secretary.

Am I okay with that?

I specifically asked Jean to come with me. She’s become a deft hand at blocking the foot I keep trying to shove in my mouth.

I swallow hard and channel my inner business baddie.

“Of course.” I nod brusquely but then soften it by grinning at her, and like most people, she smiles right back.

Worst comes to worst, I’ll just charm their pants off.

I step into the conference room and immediately regret that thought.

Two older men stand as I walk in the room, holding out their hands.

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