A place that’s earned the nickname Fame-seekers Central for a reason. Not that celebrities are exactly known for blending in.
And no matter how much it turns my stomach, the reality remains. She is a celebrity.
I take a meditative breath and remind myself to look on the bright side. They know me. I’ve worked with them before and can pretty much do anything I want there.
The bad news is they pour their budget into imported stone and architectural indulgence, leaving security limping behind. Last year, they were named the city’s most photographed hotel.
They have their priorities. I have mine.
Hence the reason I’ve worked with them before.
Repeatedly.
I dial her number before I can talk myself out of it.
She answers on the first ring.
“If you’re calling to lecture me about my choice of hotel, I’m a little busy,” she says. “No, Snooki. Not the cleaver.”
A smile sneaks up on me before I can stop it.
“No lecture,” I say casually. Which is generous, considering I had one fully loaded and ready to fire. “I just wanted to thank you again for watching the kids.”
“They’ve been a dream,” she says. Then, louder, “Connor and Ollie, we are cutting off tequila shots at three.”
I laugh. “Are they even within earshot?”
“No. I stepped into the living room for a minute.” A beat. “They’re cleaning the kitchen.”
I nearly trip over my own feet. “I’m sorry, I must have I heard you wrong. Did you just say that my children’s little fingers didn’t melt off while doing chores? Because I was pretty certain they were deathly allergic.”
“Maybe they just needed the right encouragement.”
“By encouragement, do you mean bribes? Or thrashings?”
“Bribes.”
“Let me guess. Selfies with Princess Luna?”
“You know your children so well. I told them if they cleaned every inch, every dish, and the fridge, I’d even let them dress up.”
I laugh, already picturing it. “Oh, you have no idea what you’re in for.”
“Snooki will be a princess,” she says, utterly confident. “Ollie? A pirate?”
“Which pirate?” I quiz.
The conversation flows so effortlessly it catches me off guard. No careful word choice. No stepping on eggshells. Just… easy.
“What about Connor?” I ask, interrogating her.
“Oh, I have no idea,” she admits freely. “He could show up dressed for prom. Or as a soldier from one of his games I promised I’d play with him later.”
I nudge a pebble along the sidewalk, smiling to myself. “Yup. He’s your wild card. He also loves special-effects makeup, so don’t rule out a zombie apocalypse.”
“Please let it be zombies.”
It feels strangely good to talk to a woman without censoring myself. Without editing around the fact that I have kids.
