“Me too.” Before Harlow and Eryn had left Mackinac Island, the town was buzzing with rumors that local Cheyenne Clifton was filming in LA.
Having heard from reliable sources that Robert, who was not only Harlow’s ex-husband but also her current business manager, had taken Cheyenne under his wing and whisked her off to Hollywood to introduce her to several of the bigwigs, she figured they would cross paths eventually.
Robert had even gone as far as to brag about how he planned to turn Cheyenne into a household name, an even bigger star than Harlow. She had done some poking around, curious to find out if anything of substance had transpired.
Her ex, who had kept in regular contact, making sure all the t’s were crossed, i’s were dotted and that she was fulfilling the conditions and requirements of their lucrative contract, had suddenly gone quiet. Stone-cold silent, except for their contentious conversation.
Unanswered texts, delayed email replies, all her calls going directly to voicemail. Having been married to him for years, she knew this meant he had something up his sleeve and was determined to keep it on the downlow.
“Can’t you put some feelers out, to find out if Cheyenne is here in LA?” Eryn asked.
“The entertainment industry is a pretty small, tight-knit group of who’s who. If she’s here, someone would know it.”
“Ask Robert.”
Harlow wrinkled her nose. “It’s a thought. I’ll admit I’m curious.”
“Me too. I’m dying to know if it’s true. Cheyenne is the kind of person who would make up an elaborate story.”
“And tell it to anyone who would listen.”
“Yep. Miss Snooty Pants would remind all of us what peasants we are and how she’s on her way to superstardom.”
Harlow linked arms with Eryn and meandered to the door. “I’m meeting with Steven. He knows everything that’s going on in Tinseltown, the up-and-coming, down-and-out, and everyone in between. After we’re done, let’s hit the gym and then change into those fancy duds we purchased. It’ll be fun to hit a few hotspots and make a big splash before we hop on our jet tomorrow morning.”
Because of her Studio City apartment’s proximity to the studios, Harlow and Eryn reached the backlot and guarded gate within minutes.
Harlow zigged and zagged until entering a primo lot where every other spot was reserved for the bigwigs.
Eryn whistled loudly. “I’ve heard some of these names. Must be nice to have your own designated parking spot.”
“Only the best for the movers and shakers.” Harlow eased into an empty spot, one without a name. Grabbing her designer bag, she met Eryn on the sidewalk for the short trek to a towering box of a building.
Just inside the door a guard stopped them, asking for ID. After checking both and verifying they were on the list, he let them through.
While the exterior of the building was bland and boring, the interior was the exact opposite. Tall ceilings. Ornate décor with a French flair, marble flooring, expensive works of art on the wall and on display.
Harlow walked at a brisk pace to the end of the hallway only to find Eryn lagging behind, enthralled by the elaborate artwork. She patiently waited for her friend to catch up.
“This place is like a museum,” Eryn whispered. “No wonder security is tight.”
“I’ll agree it’s impressive, but not my style.” Harlow grasped the doorknob connecting the lobby area with the private chambers of Hollywood’s elite. The second corridor, narrower but no less extravagant, revealed offices on each side.
At the end sat an ultramodern desk that reminded Harlow of a gold ribbon. A young woman, in her early twenties if she had to guess, watched them approach. A flicker of recognition flitted across her face. “Can I help you?”
“I have a meeting with Steven Treb.”
The woman lowered her gaze and tapped her iPad. “Ms. Wynn?”
“Correct. Harlow Wynn.”
“I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Thank you.” Harlow strode over to the lounge area and took a seat next to Eryn. “There’s a snack bar and a beverage station with coffee and tea.” She pointed out where the complimentary snack area was located. “Like I said, I should only be an hour, an hour and a half tops.”
“Cool beans. Don’t worry about me,” Eryn said. “Coffee sounds good.”
Fast heels clicked on the marble floor. The receptionist appeared. “Mr. Treb is ready for you. I’ll show you to his office.”
