Page 24 of Take 2
His green eyes widen.
“Oh, you’re in the movie business?” Sam asks from the front.
“Yes, he is.” I give Preston a wide smile. “He’s filming a movie in Monaco right now. Hence our trip.”
“Wow,” Sam says. “I have my headshot and resume in the glovebox.”
As I suspected he might.
Getting to LAX is always a nightmare, but watching Preston forced into conversation about Sam’s acting experience makes it quite pleasant. After we’re left at the curb, Preston sighs as he slides Sam’s stuff into his laptop bag. “He has my phone number from the reservation.”
“That’s so convenient.”
We go inside, and I almost feel guilty for getting to skip the line with our first-class tickets.Almost.
“Are you going to be a pain in the ass the entire time?” He takes his passport out of the back pocket of his jeans.
“Maybe.”
A woman in a purple dress suit checks us in and gives us boarding passes even though we’ve already got them on our phones. In line for TSA, I say, “I promise not to say something stupid to sabotage your security screening.” No, having him strip-searched only sounds funny in theory. Realistically, I need his clothing to stay on.
“How very thoughtful of you.”
“Well, I don’t know if my name is on my hotel room or if you put them both under yours so I can’t leave you here.”
Preston puts his bag on the conveyor belt behind mine. “Can’t leave any loopholes open. You’re too clever.”
“I’m glad you’re aware of that.”
On the other side of security, he says, “I could have let our driver know that you’re also a screenwriter.”
“I don’t think he gave you enough time to get the words in.”
“Oh, I could have slipped it in. But I didn’t. Because I’m being nice to you.”
“Hm. Do you think not retaliating will make me reconsider being a pain in the ass? Because it’ll just make me up my game.”
He opens the door to the lounge for me. “You have a limit.”
The lounge is—oddly—the first thing that makes me realize I have transcended from my life as a girl in Wisconsin. It should have been the quick agreement to first-class tickets halfway around the world or the car service. But it’s not until I settle in front of the wall of windows while Preston gets us a round of free drinks that I realize I don’t recognize my life anymore. I guess that’s because it’s been happening gradually. I’ve met movie stars, been on film sets, and attended two Oscars. That all made more sense than a spur-of-the-moment trip to France with Preston Greene, though.
He sets two rocks glasses on the table and sits across from me.
“Thank you.” I take a sip of the vodka and soda. He watches me. His attention has mass and weight, but he doesn’t explain it. So I have to ask what’s on his mind. “What is it?”
“Can you be open-minded?”
“I’m a writer. Of course, I am.”
“About me?”
I swallow more of my cocktail. “It would be easier if I understood your motives here.”
Now, it’s his turn to use alcohol to buy time for thought development. “I want you to meet Rafael. I want you to be as successful as you’ve ever wanted to be.”
Does he feel guilty for winning both Oscars I was nominated for? Is this trip another pity gift like the vodka after the last awards? I’m so pathetic for accepting both.
“I … appreciate that.” Even if I don’t fully understand or maybe believe it. “Us being friends just seems unlikely.”
