“Jules!” I yell, waving like a woman stranded on a deserted island with Max, just about to be rescued by a crew of shirtless men.
“Mia! Baby!” he calls out, cool as fuck. He steps away from the crowd of people fussing over him and toward me. I would cue the entrance music but Jules already has live entertainment. A shirtless drummer playing bongos flips his dreadsover his shoulders and leans into a syncopated beat as Jules walks toward me. His perfectly tanned skin is finely dusted with sand. When he wraps me in a hug, his sun-warmed skin against mine, I feel a little lightheaded. Proximity to beautiful, charismatic people has a narcotic effect on me, clearly.
“Look at you!” he says. “That yellow dress. Mmm. You look yummy.”
While I wag my tail like an overexcited cocker spaniel, Max steps between us. “Hi, I’m Max.”
“Oh.” Jules looks between us. He gives me a littleyou go girlnod of approval and says, “Nice to meet you, Max. I’m Jules. Want a beer or a water or something? I’ve got a cooler on the set.”
Max reaches for a beer on a nearby craft services table and grabs me a water. “You want one too?” he asks Jules.
“No. I don’t drink.” He gestures to his face. “Gotta stay hydrated for this glow.”
“Yo, Jules,” the photographer calls. “How about a shot of you with a surfboard?”
Jules nods. Then he drops to the ground, does a bunch of push-ups, and flips over for some sit-ups. “Gotta pump ’em up before the shot,” he explains.
He trots off and strikes a pose next to the surfboard, dragging his waistband lower and staring off at the beach like the waves are calling him. I stare harder. Max just looks annoyed.
After half an hour of watching Jules flex and pose, I’m so relaxed. Does it even matter that I don’t know who I am? Parents,job, friends, GoldRush…who freaking cares! One of the crew members brings over a beach chair and an umbrella. Jules tells someone else to make sure I have a refreshment, and I’m sipping San Pellegrinolimonatathrough a straw. Max declines the chair and paces, looking tense. “What a waste of time,” he mumbles. At this point in the day, his T-shirt slogan (“It’s not your limbic system, it’s mine”) is probably right. I still don’t know what the limbic system is, but it’s definitely his because mine is perfect.
“I don’t think Jules is going to kill me,” I announce. “If you want to go home…”
“We still don’t know why you’re here. I’m staying.”
When Jules is done being spritzed and pampered and has done all the required flexing, he drops into the empty chair next to me. “Let’s get down to business. This date with Crystal…”
Ahhh.He’s not my gay bestie. He’s not my second boyfriend. He’s one of my clients (yay me!) and he wants a date withCrystal,the woman who…hung up on me and is supposed to be dating Kobra? I decide to be vague. “Tell me what you’re thinking…”
“I can’t wait to meet her. She sounds”—he kisses his fingers and flares them out like a TV chef—“perfect.”
For the second time that day, I wonder: does every man on the planet have a thing for Crystal? First Kobra, now Jules. This woman must be a porn star you can bring home to meet the family. “She is definitely perfect,” I respond blandly. Must be.
“It’s been a while since I’ve been in a good relationship.”
“Tell me what you need from me,” I say, all professional, almost like someone who knows where she lives, or her middle name.
He sits back. From the look on his face, he’s getting into the spirit. “It needs to be splashy, something really impressive. A five-star restaurant, skydiving maybe. Have Crystal wear something fab, something that will work in the fanciest restaurant but is easily convertible to a walk on the beach.” He looks at me like I know what I’m doing.
I open my Notes app and start tapping away like a professional.
“Oh, and let her know that we’ll be doing a lot of Instagramming. I’ll probably go live on the date at some point. She might want to stay away from bold patterns. Solids usually look best.”
Only half joking, I say, “Are you going to wear clothes?” Does he ever wear clothes?
“Yes. Actually, I’ll probably wear a blue suit. Crystal should wear something that complements nicely.”
After I write down everything that Jules wants, none of which I have any clue how to provide, I say, “I can’t wait to make this happen!”
“Sunday at 8. It’s gonna be good.”
I freeze. Did he just say Sunday? As in two days from now? There is literally no fucking way I can make that happen. “This is so exciting!” I say. “I better get going so I can finish somelast-minute details.” I look over my shoulder at Max, who has wandered back toward the craft services table and just popped open another beer. “Hey Max, are you ready to go?”
He stares at the freshly opened beer, takes a long glug, and chucks the half-full bottle into a trash can several feet away, a long arc of beer flying out and splashing a model nearby. He turns back to me. “Yup.”
On the way back to the car, I start complaining. “I don’t know how I’m ever going to give that man what he wants but I’m assuming he paid the going rate for this match.”
“What’s the rate again?”
