She never makes a big deal out of these things, but they always land like love notes anyway. The fact that she came just to support me, no agenda, no networking, just…me? That means everything.
“Ugh. You’re so in love. Disgusting,” I tease, but there’s no malice in it. I actually adore Wyatt and Blair together. They’re the epitome of “meant to be.” After crushing on each other and hooking up in high school, a miscommunication tore them apart before they left for college. That’s when Imet Blair and encouraged her to get over him by getting under someone else (solid advice, right?).
When she heard that Sophia Ford was looking for new representation, she realized that Sophia Ford was actually Sophia Bradford, Wyatt’s younger sister. Paths crossed, old feelings rekindled, and now they’re the most beautifully in-love couple I know. I couldn’t be happier for my best friend, even if their perfect relationship makes me slightly nauseated.
“Safe travels and lunch next week, ok?” I give her one more quick hug.
“Definitely. Love you. Be safe!” She squeezes my hand before heading toward the exit.
As I navigate through the growing crowd, I spot Lucas again, surrounded by a pack of executives with slick hair and shark smiles. He’s in full PR mode, nodding along like he’s listening, with one hand in his pocket and the other gesturing just enough for him to seem thoughtful without committing to an opinion.
Our eyes meet briefly across the room. A zing of awareness shoots through me, annoyingly precise, like my body clocked him before my brain could remind it thatwe do not like this man. It’s not attraction, obviously. It’s just hyper-vigilance, like spotting a fire hazard—or a red flag with a nice jawline.
I look away first, but not because I’m flustered. I’m just smart enough to keep walking.
two
. . .
Lucas
She hasto be the most infuriating woman I’ve ever met.
I watch as Jess crosses the casino floor, the long waves of her hair catching the light like she’s in some damn shampoo commercial. But she’s not the girl in cutoff shorts anymore. Now she’s all sharp angles and sleek confidence in tailored black pants that hug her in all the right places, a sculpted black crop top under a structured blazer, and stilettos that make her legs look even longer than I remember. She moves with the kind of purpose that turns heads, every step a reminder that she knows exactly who she is and that she isn’t afraid to make sure the room knows it, too. That cool little smirk of hers? Still infuriating. Still captivating.
When she notices me watching, I hold her gaze deliberately, refusing to look away first. It’s a bad habit I’ve never bothered to break. It’s addicting, making sure she knows I see her.
Mission accomplished. She rolls those ocean-blue eyesand continues toward the bar. I smirk to myself before refocusing on the conversation beside me.
“I’m excited about the sports summit panel tomorrow. Rights for athletes are insane these days. Can you imagine being in college now and pulling in millions from sponsorship deals?” Dave Michaels, a mid-level exec from a rival studio, leans in with the excitement of someone who’s never actually played a sport.
“Lucas, you played college ball, right?” asks Trent Alvarez, some tech guy who’s been hovering around our conversation circle for the past twenty minutes.
“Yeah, baseball at USC.” I take a sip of my whiskey.
“What do you think about all this? Feel cheated?” Trent persists, clearly hoping for some juicy sound bite he can repeat later.
“I come from a time where you played for the love of the game,” I say, rubbing my thumb absently along the scar on my knuckle from a sliding catch gone wrong sophomore year. “But I understand the frustration of watching everyone but you profit from your likeness.”
“Hello, gentlemen. Mind if I steal Lucas for a minute?” Grant’s voice comes from behind me. When I turn, he nods toward the far side of the room, indicating that I should follow.
Grant Hall, my boss for the last five years and the closest thing this town has to a box office oracle. As the head of Wonderland Studios, he’s built a reputation on picking winners, dodging flops, and staying five steps ahead of every media storm, which is where I come in. He produces the magic. I keep the mess out of the headlines.
I trust Grant more than anyone in this business. He’s sharp and unshakable, and he plays the long game better than anyone I’ve ever seen. If he’s pulling me aside mid-mixer, something’s up.
I excuse myself and fall into step beside him. “What’s up?”
“Our lead actor inPink Slipjust crashed his car into a tree.”
My stomach drops. “Is he ok?”
“He’s fine, but our legal team, his agent, and his publicist are currently making a deal with the LAPD so they won’t arrest him for driving under the influence.”
“Fuck.” I run a hand through my hair, already mentally drafting press statements.
“I need you to get ahead of this. They should be calling you shortly, but I’m sure it’s just a matter of minutes before the press catches a whiff.”
“I’m on it.” My mind races through potential angles. Levi Peterson is our biggest star right now, andPink Slipjust wrapped shooting its third season. We can’t afford this kind of scandal right before the premiere.
