Moonshine tears into the kitchen like his life’s at risk, startling me as his frantic claws scratch against the tile. Once he hits the rug, his claws dig into its grippy surface while his body rolls on, wrapping up in the fabric like a pig in a blanket.
I throw a palm over my heart to calm the frantic thud. And though Moonshine caught me by surprise with his entrance, it’s the call with Marsha that has my heart acting up. I know exactly who I broke up with two years ago, nearly to the day, but there’s no way it’s him. Who did I date after that? No one long-term, that’s for sure.
“Who is it?” I’m aware as I wait for her reply that, last season, they didn’t tell the contestants which of their exes would be there.
“I’m glad you asked. Brace yourself, Brinley, because it’s exactly who you think it is.”
I doubt that.
“He called me himself, saying he’ll do anything for a second chance with you, which is why he proposed a special, celebrity edition.”
“Celebrity?” I nearly screech. “Itisn’t…”
“Itis.”
“He wouldnever.”
“Yet hedid.”
I stare at the phone, stuck in utter disbelief. “You’re telling me that Dawson Cain wants to go on Time Warp with me?”
“Precisely,” Marsha coos. “What do you say?”
What do I say? I have a million things I want to say. I try to decide which one I should start with, but then I realize I’d just be wasting my breath. What I want to say can be summed up with two letters in one tiny word—no.
CHAPTER3
Dawson
Twenty-foot ceilings, private chef kitchens, and a three-tiered outdoor promenade—those are just a few of the penthouse features I have no need for.
Just over two years ago, when I first moved into the place, I thought it was paradise, a regular heaven on earth. Now, the blend of hovering space and never-ending glass lacks all its luster.
I glance about the place, willing myself to recall the appreciation I once had for the floating marble staircase or glossy, lacquer cabinets. Heck, even the LA landscape, visible from nearly every seat in the house, leaves me empty.
I remember learning about absent space in a high school art class. Mr. Pratt said it mattered as much as the artwork itself. It can frame, enhance, or create illusions.
That’s just what it does here. A place so grand must mean my life is full. Complete. Overflowing with all I could want.
An illusion indeed.
I glance at my lifeless phone where it rests on the porcelain countertop. My heart thumps out an extra thud.Come on, Marsha, call me already. Say Brinley said yes.
My sister Callie accuses me of using my fame to get things I want. In this case, she’s right. Not just anybody could get producer Marsha Langston’s personal phone number. But if fame comes at a cost—and trust me, it does—I should take advantage of the perks too.
This particular perk could give me a second chance with Brinley Ray. I’m not talking about one of those let’s-catch-up-over-drinks-or-coffee types of second chances. If everything goes my way, I’ll get five full days to show her that I’ve changed. Sure, that time will be aired on some tacky reality TV show called Time Warp, a far cry from the silver screens I normally grace across the globe, but I’m willing to do just about anything. Besides, I’ve already madeoneTV appearance with the recent docuseries, may as well do another.
A text pops onto my phone screen a second before I hear the buzz. My heart shoots into a spasm despite the fact that I can see it’s not from Marsha at all. The text is from Perry, my PR guy who, you guessed it,stronglyadvises against my doing the show.
Perry:I hate to beat a dead horse, but it’s better than trying to revive a dead career. This, my friend—appearing on a scrappy reality show when you’re at the height of your career—is suicide. Trust me—leave reality TV to the wash-ups and wannabes and reunite the way the rest of civilized society does.
I roll my eyes and type back one simple word.
Dawson:No.
Perry:Then at least consider this. There will be no hair and makeup crew. No special lighting to make you look as good as you do on that big screen. You’re essentially godlike to at least half the country. Are you ready to give that up and look like Mr. Average, pallid and pockmarked?
Hmm. “Jerk.” Hewouldtake that angle. It speaks to most of his clients. Who am I kidding? It speaks toallof us, me included. I switch to my phone’s camera mode and straighten my arm to get a glimpse of myself. I guess I could use a little color, but pockmarked—because of that one tiny scar above my eyebrow?Psh. “Please,” I say as I swipe the screen to reply.
