“So you know how we’re doing all of this because Jules paid you thirty-five grand?”
My eyes are wide now. “Uh-huh.”
“Well, he didn’t pay you anything.” He lets that information sink in for a second before continuing. “You paid him $100,000 to use GoldRush. He just has to post a few times using#GoldRush. And he agreed to take Crystal to several locations where he will be photographed by paparazzi.”
I sit bolt upright in the bed. “WHAT? Am I insane?”
“I thought so at first, but maybe not. He’s an influencer, so you’re paying him to influence people, I guess.” He puts his palms up and gives me a half smile. “This is all new to me.”
I pull the covers over my face. “I almost got arrested looking for a Crystal replacement today. I could have given him anyone. I could have gone.”
“Joke’s on us.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter. I really needed to find Crystal. If we were in Oz, I think she’d be the Wizard.”
“But at least you’re so crazy rich that you can blow one hundred grand on wild bets like paying Jules for an Instagram post. Must be nice.”
I laugh like it’s funny. It’s definitely not, considering that I actually have no money. I keep that to myself. If I don’t go into a Netflix coma right now, I’m going to explode.
Instead of leaving, Max turns on the TV and leans back to watch with me. “I’m just going to watch until I fall asleep,” I say. I think about turning onGrey’s Anatomy—the casting call made me all nostalgic for it—but then I have a flash of awareness. Max is with me and he’s not planning on sleeping through the show. “What do you want to watch?”
“Um, I might just read.”
“Okay, I’m picking something out for you then.” It’s like a fun little gift-giving challenge. I settle on a documentary calledThe Beginning and the End of the Universe.
I don’t know if it’s what he would have picked, but he smiles contentedly and rubs my arm in acknowledgment of…my TV choice, or maybe more. Before I drift off, the narrator’s monotone voice says, “It’s a good rule of thumb that, in science, the simplest questions are often the hardest to answer.”
If that isn’t the truth.
“Wake me up in an hour, will you?”
He nods. “This bed is the size of theTitanic—and so muchnicer than the couch.” He spreads so far out that we’re not even touching anymore. Damn. “Just think, if Kate Winslet’s life raft had been this big…she could have saved herself and Leo.”
Right now the bed feels like a life raft. It’s for me and Max. We’re sheltered from the world for just a little while. I scoot closer and lean against him. “Don’t say anything. I just want to fall asleep with you.”
His eyes are darker than usual, and I can tell he’s looking at my lips, but he makes a joke. “That’s what all the girls say.”
“I know that’s a lie.” Max isn’t the guy you want to just fall asleep next to. “Wake me up in an hour,” I repeat as I let my eyes drift shut.
39If he wants a learning experience, I’m gonna let him know how he’s actually supposed to compliment a lady.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
Waking up is worse than coming out of a coma—and I should know. I’m in my bed fully clothed and the TV is still on. A screensaver is flashing between pictures of waterfalls and scenic grasslands and the Great Wall. Max isn’t in bed anymore, but there’s a big rumpled spot in the blanket where he was.
I look down at my phone. It’s Sunday. My own personal The Bachelor is flying back from Switzerland today, probably with my red rose in his teeth, and I just spent the night in his bed with his house sitter. I think. I press my nose to the sheets and detect a faint piney smell. I know it’s just deodorant but it’s weirdly intimate.
I’m still staring at the doomsday proclamation that it is Sunday, the day of the date that will determine the fate of my business, when Facebook notifies me that it’s Emily Carol’s birthday. I writehappy birthday!just in case she’s my best friend. While I stare at the happy birthday message, Emilystarts to respond and my heart rate goes wild. Emily knows me! But her response evaporates. It’s as if I’m truly alone in the universe, except for Max.
“Maaaax!” I call. “Where are you?” There’s no point prying myself out of bed unless I know he’s ready to distract me from myself, or “help me confront my problems,” as he’ll probably say.
“Whaaaaat?” he calls from the other room.
“I need assistance.”
“For what?”
