Pulling my attention away from her, I sneak in the back entrance as advised by the production company, grateful to not be recognized.
Because as of tonight, I’m not Jennifer Rogers—L.A.’s Hottest Hair Stylist. I’m ‘Unknown Guest at table forty four’, sitting way back in the corner of the room.
Laurel Jo, executive producer of the movie—my movie—asked me to keep an eye out for Mara Scott and Cole Green so the three of us could become acquainted before working closely together, and I agreed.
Mara is intimidatingly beautiful. She and I met briefly at an event a year ago when I styled the hair of one of her then co-stars. But Cole Green is new on the film scene, and because he’s new, I not only don’t know who he is, but I’m also forgetful.
Which means, it slipped my mind to do a quick internet search, and now I have no idea what he looks like or who to search for in the crowd tonight.
I would do a quick social media stalk, but the announcer just reminded everyone that the show is about to begin. Which means everyone needs to turn off their phones and find their seats.
But, it’s okay.
It’s fine.
Maybe he did his research and knows to find me.
And if not, I’m an extrovert. Day one on set will be a breeze. He and I will hit it off like we’re old friends who have known each other for years.
“It’s Jenna, right?” I hear a soft, high-pitched voice from over my shoulder. I thought I managed to avoid being spotted, but I guess not.
I force a smile on my face and turn to see Mara Scott in a lavish, tight-fitting, deep red ball gown.
I nod. “Hi, Mara, it’s so nice to see you again.” Smiling, she leans in for a hug. It’s brief, but long enough for my senses to fill with the smell of cherry blossoms and champagne, and it feels like I’m trapped in whatever spell she just cast on me. But the moment I can no longer breathe her in, the rush I just felt is all but gone.
“I’m looking forward to working with you in a few weeks. It helps that my leading man is hot.” She wiggles her brows with a smirk, and I awkwardly laugh in response. The announcer makes his last call for everyone to take their seats, and she gently squeezes my hand. “See you then.”
“See you.” I pull a deep, shaky breath, running my clammy hands down the front of my dress, praising past Jenna for listening to her best friend who suggested I wear black.
That wasn’t so hard, I tell myself as I fumble through my clutch to triple-check my table number. When I do, I decide then and there that I need a drink to get through this night while flying solo.
I figure now is the best time to go. Everyone is frantic and in a rush back to their tables, leaving the line at the bar almost non existent.
“What can I get you?” The bartender asks. His hair is a fresh, clean buzz cut, his jaw so sharp it could shatter glass, his eyebrows the nicest I’ve ever seen on a man without any obvious maintenance. “Options are endless, everything is on the house,” he says with a wink and I feel funny in the stomach.
Is it butterflies, or the need for my third nervous run in with the toilet? I’m not sure.
While part of me wants to believe he’s flirting, the other part—the logical one—tells me that his girlfriend probably follows my business account online and has seen the work that I’ve done: therefore, she’s told him all about who I am.
It’s the only explanation as to why someone as hot as him would be looking at someone like me in the way that he is.
Or maybe he’s just good at his job.
“I’ll take your most expensive vodka. Heavy on the ice, please,” I tell him, returning a smile. Only, mine’s accidentally forced, and I hate that I’m in my own head already when I’ve only just walked through the door.
Taking my tall—filled to the top with ice cubes and vodka halfway—glass, I attempt to make my way to my table, but I’m stopped in my tracks when I feel fingertips gently tap me on my shoulder. Releasing a steady breath, I force myself to turn and look in the direction of someone I’ve never met in my life.
“Hey, sugar.” He slurs. The night has only just begun, and I’m already dealing with arrogant, drunk assholes.
“Hi, sorry. I have to get back to my seat,” I say in an attempt to scurry toward my table, but he tugs at my wrist.
“What’s the rush?” he asks, loosening his grip, and I shake off the feeling that his hands left on my skin. “You came in alone. I saw you. I’ve been watching.” He winks, probably thinking that telling a girl you’ve been stalking her is the right way to go about getting laid. But I shiver visibly, making my discomfort clear.
This isn’t one of those dark romance books. This is my life, and the sooner I’m out of this situation, the better.
“I did,” I confirm. “But just because I’m alone, doesn’t mean—”
“There you are!” another man calls out from behind me, looping his arm around my waist. “Sorry I’m late, baby. Should we take our seats?” he asks me. I think I’ve accidentally fallen in love for the night with the man of my dreams.
