I notice walking next to him that Jake is a bit taller than I thought earlier. Or maybe it’s just his presence. There is a certain warmth to him that makes him feel larger or more pervasive. In the way he pulls back my chair, in how he holds the door open, in the way he places his hand, gently, on the small of my back when we cross the street in front of a waiting car.
We make it to my meter. The night is stunning around us—clear and warm and crisp, all at once.
“This is me,” I say. “And this is Sullivan.”
Jake considers the car. “Can I call her Sully?”
“Him,” I correct.
Jake holds his hands up. “I don’t like to make assumptions.”
Then he lifts one hand up to cup my elbow. “Can I see you again?” he asks.
I nod. “I’d like that.”
He doesn’t hesitate—he leans down and kisses my cheek. His lips are soft, but then again, most lips are.
“Drive safe,” he says.
“No broken carburetors here.”
He rolls his eyes. “All right, good night.”
I watch him check the street both ways and then jog across, up the block, before I get inside. I open my bag. Sure enough, there are two missed calls from Hugo, and a text:Must b good. I’m at Laurel. U coming?
And then I take out the paper. It occurs to me that I should not have stuffed it down into my bag. I should preserve its integrity. It is, after all, the final note. The one I have been waiting for. It shouldn’t be bent or crinkled.
Luckily, it’s held up well. Just some granola crumbs. I brush them off.
Jake, it reads. No more, no less.
Just finished, I write.Give me twenty.
I want to tell someone, and he’s the only one I can. Daphne Bell has finally met her match.
Chapter Three
Hugo, three months.
We met in an acting class, or outside an acting class, rather. Neither one of us was there to act. I was picking up a young actor who had recently been hired for a new show on the network that employed me as an assistant. We were due back on the Warner Bros. Studio lot in fifteen minutes, and the class was running over. At this rate, if we left now, we’d be ten minutes late.
I was standing by the doors to the studio in Hollywood, hopping from foot to foot and checking my watch, when a guy who looked like he was auditioning for the James Dean reboot showed up beside me.
“You’re late,” I told him. “The class is almost over.”
He had arrived in a convertible Porsche. It was parked haphazardly next to Sullivan.
“I’m picking someone up,” he said. “I’m not an actor.”
I laughed. Because honestly? I’d never seen someone wholooked more like one. And my life at the time consisted of mainlining audition tapes most of my waking hours.
He kept watching me. “I’m trying not to be insulted,” he said.
“You’re wearing a white shirt and a leather jacket.”
He looked down at his torso, considered it. “You should have seen what I had on before this.”
I noticed his stature, how tall he was. I’m not a short woman, five foot seven without a slouch, but he was towering. Hold-your-head-back-in-your-hand-and-look-up kind of tall.
