“Tabitha isn’t rude. She’s . . . impatient.”
I didn’t bother addressing the rest of her question. Scott, the other senior partner and Tabitha’s brother-in-law, did in fact smell like soup. Campbell’s tomato, to be exact.
“Anyway, she’s scheduled my one-on-one performance review between the two of us that afternoon, and ithasto go well.” I clenched my fists, enjoying the sharp sting of my freshly painted nails digging into my palms. “I will not let nepotism win.”
Leighton hadn’t been the only Wheatley making life-changing moves this past year. I had accepted an offer from an entertainment law firm in Beverly Hills back in January, and after ten months of late nights spent staring at spreadsheets until my vision blurred, needy senior partners and even needier clients—fraudsters and murderers had nothing on struggling actors, or even worse, screenwriters—I wasthisclose to nabbing the Bennett Studios account.
As in Brooks Bennett.TheBrooks Bennett.
The former teen heartthrob had launched a boutique production company a few years back and was now looking to lock down new representation before the end of the year. My firm’s partners, Wilson, Treger, and Faison—better known around West Los Angeles asWTF—had been “courting” Bennett Studios like the long lostBridgertonbrothers since mid-August, andwhenwe landed them as a client, the account would go to me or Scott’s son.
Fucking nepotism at its finest.
Geoffrey “formerly Jeffrey” Wilson. The arrogant douche nozzle had changed the spelling to make himself seem “more cosmopolitan,” his words, not mine. The only thing cosmopolitan about Geoffrey—orGe-offer-y, as I called him behind his back—was the pink drink he enjoyed during our biweekly company happy hours.
The Bennett account was as good as mine. Even now, I could practically taste it, and it tasted like salty ocean spray and sweet revenge. The retainer fee alone would be enough to pay my monthly rent, and my bungalow apartment in Santa Monica wasn’t cheap. It was rent-controlled, though, which was about as rare as snow in Los Angeles, so there was no way I would be moving out anytime soon.
Regardless, there was nowhere else I would rather be. The cozy one-bedroom unit was everything I had ever envisioned for myself, from the yellow buttercream paint throughout to the clawfoot tub and Tiffany-blue-tiled bathroom that looked like something straight out of a Doris Day movie.
Heeled boots clacking against the pavement drew my attention.
“Great news,” Nora called out to us, navigating her way through a sea of racers and nearly knocking a pilgrim in Nikes to the pavement. “Seriously, you’re going to love me.”
Between her fluffy blue bomber jacket and matching blue shag, she looked like the Cookie Monster personified.
Annnd now I want a cookie. Dang it.
My sugar addiction knew no bounds.
“We already love you,” Leighton told her.
“Well then, prepare worship at the altar of me.” As if conjured from the heavens above, Nora produced a drink tray full of to-go coffee cups. “I found coffee.”
Leighton lifted her arms toward the dark sky. We were still a good thirty or so minutes away from sunrise. “Hear ye, hear ye,” she called out to the heavens. “Bless this woman and her beans.”
She snatched a cup from the cardboard tray. Nora handed the other two to Killian and me before taking the last for herself.
I frowned at the name scrolled on the side of my cup. “Um, who is Hannah and why do I have her coffee?”
Killian’s brows furrowed. “And how did you find coffee on your way to the parking lot?”
“I didn’t,” Nora answered, smiling wickedly. “I stopped the first person I saw carrying coffee and offered her fifty bucks.”
“And that worked?” Killian asked.
“Not at first. But then she recognized me.” Nora had gotten her big break as one of the stars ofAndromeda 8, Hulu’s Emmy-nominated space opera. It wasn’t unusual for people to recognize her. “You know, people ask me for photos and autographs all the time, but this was my first ever custom voice message request.”
“And what kind of message did Hannah want you to send?” I asked before sipping from the cup clasped between my palms, smiling to myself when the swirl of sugar and cinnamon met my tongue.
Hannah has exquisite taste in holiday beverages.
“Let’s just say that her soon-to-be ex-boyfriend isn’t going to be too happy when he checks his voicemail and finds a break-up message from the actress on his favorite show.”
I nearly choked on my mouthful of liquid snickerdoodle. A break-up voicemail from a celebrity before seven a.m. on Thanksgiving? Diabolical.
I loved it.
Killian and I squeezed in a few more sips before passing our drinks back to Nora and Leighton. While they took off to find a spot along the race route, my future brother-in-law—because something told me that he would be putting a ring on my sister’s finger any day now—and I took our places at the starting line.
