He locked the phone again to prove his point and then tapped out6969.
“It’s a classic for a reason, okay?”
“There,” he said as he held up Addison’s Instagram for me to see. “This makeup store in Burbank tagged Addison in a promo post for some kind of event she’s doing for her new perfume line tonight. Winnie probably won’t be there, but maybe Addison could answer some questions for you.”
He kept scrolling. “Oh shit, this juice bar tags her like twice a week. You could try there too.”
My heart stopped.
Right there in a post from last week was Addison sipping on a cup of red juice, along with a blurry Winnie. A cup full of dark green juice dangled from her fingertips and her hair covered most of her profile, but I knew the slope of her nose by heart.
“What’s this place called?” I mumbled as I clicked on the profile. “Got the Juice. It’s near Culver City.”
“Now, go clean that body,” Nolan commanded as he slapped me on the butt.
Nolan left for work before I got in the shower, so I turned on my “Pump Me Up” playlist, which started out with Bonnie Tyler’s “Holding Out for a Hero,” at least six Kelly Clarkson songs, “Pony” by Ginuwine, “Man! I Feel Like a Woman!” by Shania Twain, and a healthy amount of Destiny’s Child and Queen... and of course a little bit of INK.
We were pretty good back in the day, okay?
By the time I got into my rental car, I had thirty-five minutes to travel six miles, but Google Maps told me it was going to take fifty minutes. Shit.
I took a quick second to shoot off a text to the contact number one of the PAs sent over before reversing out of the steep driveway so quickly that my rented KIA SUV, which was too small to actually be an SUV, got some solid air.
As I did my best to politely haul ass across town, I waved and nodded to anyone who let me pass and it was mostly returned with a honk or the bird. I just wanted to scream, “I’M FROM THE MIDWEST!”
After I passed Fox Studios, I got stuck in a mini traffic jam along a palm tree–lined road dotted with little shops and—a juice bar!
Oh shit! Got the Juice! Right there in front of my face.
I checked the time on the dashboard and then the time on my phone—like the two might somehow be different. In theend, though, it didn’t matter. I was already swerving over into an open spot on the street that had a very complicated parking sign above it. But signs were for people who had time to read them!
There was no way she was here.
But what if she was? Everything about me and Winnie had been so impossibly unbelievable, so who was to say she wasn’t sitting in a trendy juice bar waiting for me?
I locked the car and dropped the keys in the front pocket of my apron. My apron! I nearly doubled back to take it off, but there was no time. TheShark Tankproducer had told me to show up in my Slice, Slice, Baby uniform, which was an apron, jeans, and white ringer T-shirt with the company logo—a cartoon slice of pizza with a blond pompadour.
I jogged down the block and swung open the door of Got the Juice.
Everyone in line and the whole staff turned to look at me, but not a single one of them was Winnie or even Addison.
“Uhhhh... keep up the good work, guys—I mean people. There are more than guys here. I can see that now. Not that I can just see anyone’s gender or anything, but I was just assuming and uhhhh...” I held up two thumbs. Maybe if I just shut my mouth, words would stop coming out. “I gotta run, but I’ll be back for juice. Or several! Several juices soon.”
“Kallum?” a soft voice asked from behind me. “What are you doing here?”
I spun around and there was Winnie. Her hair was swept into one of those messy buns with a few loose strands hanging downaround her neck and she wore sage-colored leggings with a big baggy sweatshirt.
“Winnie?”
Addison stopped short behind her. “Kallum Lieberman, it’s been at least a decade.” She looped an arm through Winnie’s. “Should I verbally eviscerate him? Say the word.”
Winnie sighed and shook her head. “You go ahead and go inside.”
Addison leaned toward me and then barked like a dog before going inside where the entire staff sang out her name.
“That woman is feral,” I said.
“If you’re going to compliment her, you should say it to her face.”
